The penthouse was all glass and shadows, the city lights stretching below them like scattered diamonds. Elena had known this was a bad idea the moment she accepted his invitation. But one look from those piercing gray eyes—dark with promise—and she’d followed him anyway.
Now, standing in the center of his loft, she felt his gaze like a physical touch.
“You’re nervous,” Marcus murmured, stepping closer. The deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t get nervous.”
His lips curved—a slow, knowing smirk that made her pulse jump. “Liar.”
Before she could retort, his fingers brushed the bare skin of her arm, tracing a path from her wrist to her shoulder. The touch was featherlight, maddening, and she nearly arched into it.
“You’ve been driving me insane all night,” he said, his voice rough. “That dress. The way you crossed your legs at dinner. The way you licked your wineglass—” His grip tightened. “Did you do it on purpose?”
Elena’s breath hitched. “Maybe.”
A growl rumbled in his chest. In one swift motion, he spun her around, pressing her back against the floor-to-ceiling window. The cool glass bit into her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body behind her.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. “So fucking perfect.” His hands slid around her waist, dragging up her ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through the thin silk of her dress.
She gasped.
Marcus chuckled, low and dark. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she breathed.
That was all he needed.
His mouth crashed down on hers, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim her. She moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He kissed her like a man starved—deep, relentless, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.
Then his hands were on her thighs, hiking up her dress, fingers skimming higher, higher—
“Marcus—”
“Say it again,” he demanded against her lips.
“Please.“
With a groan, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the nearest surface—a sleek, polished desk. Papers scattered as he set her down, his hands already pushing the straps of her dress down her shoulders.
His mouth followed, trailing fire along her collarbone, lower, until his teeth scraped over the lace of her bra. She arched into him, desperate for more.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled, his hands roaming, possessive. “Begging for me.”
She was begging. She’d never wanted anything more.
And when he finally gave her what she craved, when his touch turned wicked and his mouth turned sinful, Elena knew one thing for certain—
She’d never be the same again.