Page 83 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

I narrow my eyes. “Allintenseandsmolderingafter a corporate takedown. Do youknowwhat that does to a woman?”

He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Oh, I know,” he murmurs. A slow, deep warmth curls in my stomach, spreading outward like wildfire. Damn him. I shift, tilting my head up slightly. “You do realize this is the first time inweeksthat we don’t have a crisis hanging over our heads?”

Grayson nods, his blue eyes locked onto mine. “And?”

“And,” I whisper, closing the distance between us, “I think we should celebrate.”

His lips twitch, but there is somethingdarkerin his gaze now, something that sends a thrill down my spine. “Are you suggesting a party, Evans?”

I smirk. “Not exactly.”

And then hekisses me. Not soft. Not slow. Full intensity, full heat, full everything.

The kind of kiss thatundoesa person, that makes every thought disappear into static, that leaves onlythis moment. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, and Imeltinto him. Every ounce of tension from the past weeks, every battle, every sleepless night, it all dissolves between us. Nothing else matters. NotPerfectly Matched. Not Eleanor. Justthis. Justus. His mouth moves down my neck, rough and hungry, like he’s starved for me. I gasp when his teeth scrape over my collarbone, my fingers fisting in his shirt before I yank it up and over his head. He watches me the whole time, blue eyes dark and burning.

“You’re sure?” he asks, his voice rough, his breath hot against my skin.

“More than sure,” I whisper.

He groans and lifts me in one swift motion, carrying me to the bed like I weigh nothing. His mouth is on me again before I hit the mattress, kissing, licking, biting, like he’s memorizing every inch. My clothes disappear piece by piece, and then he’s naked too, all heat and muscle and tension wound tight. He spreads my legs and settles between them, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh. I reach down and wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his jaw clench, his breath stutter.

“Fuck, Margot,” he growls.

I guide him to the entrance of my pussy, and his eyes meet mine one last time. Then he thrusts into me, deep, hard, like he’s been waiting for this forever. My back arches off the bed, a strangled sound escaping my throat as he fills me completely. He sets a rhythm that’s relentless, powerful, the kind of fucking that takes over everything, mind, body, soul. Every thrust drives the breath from my lungs, every moan he rips from me just pushes him harder.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants, gripping my hips, pulling me into every brutal stroke. “Like you were made for me.”

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you dare stop, Grayson.”

He flips me onto my stomach and pulls me up onto my knees. I cry out as he thrusts into me again, deeper this time, hitting a spot that makes my entire body quake. His hand slides around my throat, not squeezing, just holding me in place, like he needs to claim every part of me.

“Say it,” he growls, lips against my ear. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I breathe, barely able to form the words as the pressure builds inside me, hot and unbearable. “I’m…fuck…I’m yours.”

My orgasm hits like lightning, fast and wild and blinding. I collapse forward, shaking, clenching around him as he thrusts once, twice more and spills into me with a deep, broken moan. We collapse together in a tangle of limbs and heat, his chest pressed to my back, our breathing ragged and in sync and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can finally breathe.

Across the city,in a very different setting, another storm is brewing. Cassian Laurent and Isabela Monroe are locked in what appears to be a conversation but is, in reality, a battle of wills. The two of them are seated in an exclusive, dimly lit cocktail lounge, one of the most ridiculously lavish places Cassian could have chosen for a post-victory drink.

The lounge,The Black Orchid, is an opulent blend of old-world luxury and modern indulgence, dripping in Gatsby-esque decadence. The walls are lined with deep emerald velvet, theceiling adorned with a golden chandelier that casts a warm, intimate glow over the polished marble floors. The booths are secluded, framed by heavy curtains, offering a sense of exclusivity that appeals to the elite. The scent of aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with hints of jasmine from the signature cocktails being carried across the room on polished silver trays. A jazz band plays softly in the background, the melody weaving through the atmosphere, slow, sultry, and undeniably seductive.

Cassian looks like he belongs here. He’s dressed in a sleek midnight-blue suit, tailored so precisely it looks like it was sewn onto his frame. His white shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive, but not careless, and his cufflinks, black onyx set in gold, glint under the chandelier’s warm light. He lounges back in the booth like a man who never doubts he’s in control.

Across from him, Isabela Monroe is a vision in deep burgundy satin. Her dress clings to her curves with effortless elegance, the plunging neckline daring, the high slit even more so. Her dark hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder, lips painted a bold, dangerous red. She looks like temptation incarnate and she knows it. Her heels are lethal. Her stare, even more so.

“Let me guess,” Isabela says, swirling her drink lazily. “You picked this place because nothing says ‘humble winner’ like drinking a thousand-dollar cocktail under a chandelier the size of a small car?”

Cassian lifts a brow, amused. “You wound me. I thought you'd appreciate a little opulence.”

“Oh, I appreciate it,” she says, leaning in just enough to make it dangerous. “I just know exactly what kind of man books a table atThe Black Orchid.”

“And what kind is that?” he asks, voice low, lips curving around the rim of his glass.

“The kind who’s trying to impress,” she purrs. “Or distract.”

He smiles, slow and wicked. “Why not both?”

Isabela laughs, the sound warm and just a little exasperated. “God, you’re insufferable.”

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