The city never slept. It breathed, pulsed, and glowed like a beast in heat. From the 88th floor of Blackwood Empire Tower, Xander Blackwood stared down at it, whiskey in hand, the skyline sprawling beneath his feet like conquered territory.
He had money. Power. Fear. Everything—except peace.
Peace was an illusion. Just like loyalty.
"Your 9 p.m. appointment is here," his assistant's voice crackled through the intercom.
"I didn't schedule anything."
"She said you'd want to see her."
Xander's brow twitched. Bold. Very bold. And dangerous.
"Send her in."
He turned just as the door opened.
Red. That was his first impression.
A woman stepped in, and everything else blurred.
Crimson silk clung to her hourglass figure, cut deep enough to show the swell of perfect breasts and high enough to reveal endless legs. Midnight hair flowed like a waterfall down her back. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, and when her eyes met his—deep, electric, unreadable—Xander forgot to breathe for just a moment.
"Aurora," she said before he could ask. Her voice was velvet. Alluring. Smooth as sin. "I won't take long."
"You already have," he replied, watching her walk like the room belonged to her. "I don't do uninvited guests."
"And yet," she said, setting a photo on his glass desk, "I'm here."
Xander glanced at the image.
It was him. Asleep. Shirtless. Vulnerable. Something no one had seen him as in years.
His jaw clenched. "Where did you get this?"
She just smiled. "You let me in."
"No one gets into my penthouse without permission."
She leaned closer, lips just inches from his ear. "You whispered my name in your sleep."
A sharp jolt ran down his spine.
He didn't know if it was rage—or desire.
"Are you blackmailing me?"
"No," she whispered, her breath hot on his neck. "I'm tempting you."
Temptation. That word slithered down his spine like molten honey.
Xander moved before he even realized it, gripping her wrist and spinning her around to face him. Their bodies collided. Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull back.
Instead, she looked up at him with a slow, sultry grin.
"You don't like being toyed with," she murmured. "But you like the game."
"I play to win," he said.
"Then take your prize," she whispered.
And that was it.
His mouth crashed onto hers, claiming, punishing, exploring. Her lips were warm and parted, her tongue meeting his with a hunger that shocked even him.
She moaned—soft, guttural—and it drove him mad. His hands explored the curve of her hips, gripping her ass and pulling her closer. Her scent clouded his head—sweet, dark, dangerous. Vanilla and something else. Lust.
He shoved the contents of his desk aside and lifted her onto the glass surface. Her legs wrapped around him with a natural grace, and when he ran a hand up her thigh, he froze.
No panties.
His eyes darkened. "You wore this dress for me."
"I wore it for the man who'd tear it off."
He growled, pushing the silky fabric higher. Her skin was soft, hot, flushed. Her thighs trembled slightly as he spread them.
"You don't even know me," he muttered, trailing his mouth down her neck.
"Yet you're about to be inside me."
It shouldn't have turned him on more—but it did.
His belt hit the floor. His pants followed. She reached for him, nails raking across his skin. He groaned when she took him in hand, her grip confident and teasing.
"God, you're big," she whispered.
"Beg for it."
Her lips curled. "Fuck me, Xander."
That was all it took.
He surged forward, entering her in one powerful thrust. She gasped, back arching, fingers clawing at his shoulders. He began to move—hard, rough, relentless.
The glass desk shook with every thrust. Her moans filled the office, echoing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her body met his in perfect rhythm, hips bucking, nails drawing blood.
"Look at me," he demanded.
She did—and in her eyes, he saw something wild. Not just lust. Something... deeper. Like she knew him. Like she owned him.
He came undone with a growl, her name spilling from his lips like a prayer. She followed seconds later, body trembling, legs clamping around him as she shattered.
Panting, they stayed like that—sweat-slicked, tangled, breathless.
Then she pushed him back slightly and slid off the desk with slow, sensual grace.
"What are you really here for?" he asked, voice hoarse.
She turned at the door, red dress clinging to her thighs, her smile mysterious.
"I told you," she said. "You called me."
And then she was gone.
Leaving only the scent of sin and the question that would haunt him for weeks:
Who the hell is she?