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Chapter 2: That Night

The house thrummed with residual electricity that evening, the kind that prickles the skin before lightning splits the sky. Daniel could still feel Layla everywhere, her citrus-shampoo scent clinging stubbornly to the hollow of his throat despite the scalding shower, the phantom grip of her walls fluttering around him hours later, the memory of her tear-streaked face lifted to his as she'd begged him to ruin her completely. His body refused to let it go. Even now, freshly showered, dressed in soft charcoal lounge pants and nothing else, his cock lay heavy and half-hard against his thigh, twitching at the most minor shift of fabric, greedy for more.

The front door clicked open just as the last amber stripe of sunset bled across the living-room tiles.

Elena stepped inside like she owned the air itself.

Five-foot-eight of lithe, predatory grace: long legs poured into dark skinny jeans that hugged every curve, a cream silk blouse unbuttoned one button too low so the inner swell of her breasts rose and fell with each breath. Her dark hair tumbled in loose, sex-mussed waves that caught the dying light and threw it back in glossy ribbons. She lookedand fuck like sin wrapped in elegance: sharp cheekbones, full mouth painted a soft wine-red, and those eyes, dark, molten, always smoldering like she already knew every filthy thing you wanted to do to her. The resemblance to Dua Lipa wasn't subtle; it was deliberate, weaponized. When she smiled, slow and knowing, that husky British lilt curled around the room like smoke from an expensive cigarette.

"Missed me, darling?" she purred, kicking off her heels with a soft clack. Bare feet padded across the cool tiles toward him. The accent stroked down his spine and settled low in his balls.

Daniel didn't speak. Words felt suddenly inadequate.

He crossed the room in two long strides, cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and kissed her like a man trying to erase guilt with hunger. She gasped against his mouth, a startled little sound swallowed instantly as he angled deeper, tongue sliding against hers. She tasted of crisp Sauvignon Blanc from whatever late client dinner she'd just escaped, a bright acidity that only made him want to devour her more. Her fingers knotted in his hair; she arched into him, pressing those perfect breasts against his bare chest through the silk.

When he finally tore his mouth away to drag open-mouthed bites along the elegant column of her throat, she laughed low, breathless, delighted.

"Daniel... what's gotten into you tonight?"

"You," he growled against her pulse. "Always you."

He scooped her up without warning. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back. The heat of her core pressed against his abdomen through denim; he could already feel how wet she was, how ready. He carried her down the hall and kicked the master-bedroom door shut with his heel. The room smelled of clean linen, faint cedar from his cologne, and the lingering musk of his earlier shower.

He set her on her feet only long enough to rip the silk blouse over her head. Buttons popped; one skittered across the hardwood. Delicate black lace bra, barely-there to cup her high, firm breasts. Her nipples were already tight peaks straining against the fabric, dark rose against pale skin. She reached for his waistband with steady hands, but he was faster.

He shoved her jeans and black thong down her legs in one impatient yank. She stepped out of them, laughing again in that sultry, teasing sound, and then gasped when he lifted her, turned, and dropped her onto the center of the king bed. The sheets were still rumpled from the morning; now they would carry the scent of both of them.

Elena propped herself on her elbows, eyes glittering. "Then take me,

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