Because I’ve felt this fire before, and this time, it burns on my terms.
His suite ison the top floor of the hotel. He opens the door, and I stop in my tracks.
It’s stunning.
Muted golds and velvets, the lights of the city spread out in a glittering panorama through an entire wall of glass. A bottle of champagne sits chilling in a silver bucket. The fireplace flickers, casting amber shadows against mirrored panels and sleek marble.
“Thisis…” I breathe. “Beautiful.”
Spencer comes up behind me. “Honestly? I was just thinking how beautiful you are. Truly, Rhea.”
It should sound like a line. A practiced, charming line.
But it doesn’t. It lands like something real.
When he kisses me—lightly at first, testing, coaxing—I respond without hesitation. When his hand cups the back of my head and pulls me deeper into him, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, I let myself go.
I let myself really be. Here. With him.
His hands move down my spine, firm but unhurried, and I feel his fingers settle on my lower back.
Then lower still.
One hand holds me there—confident, grounding—while the other finds its way to my breast, gentle at first, then more sure.
I moan softly, my body arching into his.
I reach for his bowtie, fumbling, as I realize I have no idea how this thing comes off. He laughs into the kiss, low and warm, and I feel him start to unfasten it with one hand while I slide mine beneath his jacket, then inside his shirt.
His body surprises me—lean, cut, and strong in a way that doesn’t show beneath the silk and starch. I start to press my palm flat against his chest, and he catches my hand in his, guiding me.
“Come with me.” He says, his voice just above a whisper.
He leads me into the bedroom—massive, plush, and dimly lit. The enormous bed is draped in soft gray linens, and an upholstered headboard stretched nearly to the ceiling.
A wall of mirrored panels reflectsfirelight and skin.
He turns me gently to face the mirror.
Then he stands behind me.
He brings his hands to my breasts, slowly, deliberately, and I let out a deep, guttural moan at the sight—his hands on me,my eyes watching as I let myself express my pleasure.
He finds the zipper of my dress and slides it down.
The strapless bodice drops quickly, pooling at my feet. I’m standing in nothing but my red lace panties—bare, breathless, but feeling somehow like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Not nervous. Not second-guessing. Just… here. In this moment. In my skin.
With a man who hasn’t asked me for anything, but sees everything anyway.
Still behind me, he skims his palms from my breasts to my stomach… then lower.
When his fingers slip between my thighs, I gasp—wet, wanting, open.
He slides two fingers over my heat, slow and sure, and I rock gently against his hand.
Then he turns me toward him.
