Page 11 of The Contract

And God help me—the suite is breathtaking.

Luxury incarnate.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering skyline of New York, the city stretching endlessly beneath us. The interior is sleek and modern but warm—polished marble floors, a sunkenliving room with deep, plush furniture, an open fireplace casting flickering shadows against the walls.

A place built for power. For men who own the world and have nothing left to prove.

I barely have a chance to take it all in before his hand presses against the small of my back.

Warm. Commanding. Just enough pressure to remind me I’m his to guide.

“This way, Trouble.”

There is a slight smile in his tone, clearly enjoying this.

I let him lead me deeper inside—past the opulent living space, past the imported-whiskey collection on display at the private bar, past the heavy curtains swaying slightly from the night breeze slipping through a barely cracked window.

We reach the bedroom, and it’s just as decadent. Dark. Masculine. Low lighting spills across crisp, expensive sheets—the kind soft enough to make you forget you’re sleeping alone.

But neither of us will be alone tonight.

No more conversation. No more games.

We both know what we want.

Each other.

His fingertips trail up my arm—featherlight—like he’s memorizing the shape of me before he takes me apart.

I shiver, but it’s not from cold.

It’s the way his breath ghosts against my temple. The way his body radiates heat behind me.

I close my eyes as his lips brush against my shoulder—barely a kiss. More of a test.

“You’re mine for the night.”

His mouth moves higher, skimming up the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, until his lips are just beneath my ear.

I exhale—a shaky breath that betrays me.

He smirks against my skin, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his hands smoothing over my stomach, pulling me flush against his chest.

The scent of whiskey, cedarwood, and something distinctly him envelops me.

“Unless you’d like to leave, Trouble,” he murmurs, his voice low, a deep vibration against my back. “Now’s your chance.”

A part of me knows I should. I should walk away now, slip out of this opulent suite, and return to my carefully controlled world. The one where I call the shots. Where I decide who gets to touch me and under what terms.

That world is safe. Predictable.

This?

This is unknown.

He’s unknown.

Men like him—sharp, unreadable, too damn powerful—always come with consequences. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of detachment, never letting anyone get too close.

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