"This is yours?" I ask.
"Something like that."
I walk toward the windows, drawn by the view. Manhattan spreads out below us, a sea of lights and shadows and endless possibility. From up here, the city looks beautiful. Manageable. Not like the crushing weight it feels like when you're down in it, drowning.
"It's incredible," I murmur.
"Is it?" He's behind me now, close enough that I can feel his heat. "I barely notice it anymore."
I turn to face him. He's watching me with an intensity that should frighten me but doesn't. There's something predatory in his gaze, yes, but also something hungry. Like he's been starving and I'm the first real thing he's seen in years.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "If you want to leave, I'll call you a car. No questions asked."
"I don't want to leave."
"Then tell me what you do want."
The question should be simple. But it's not. Because what I want is complicated and messy and probably unhealthy. I want to forget. I want to feel something other than fear and exhaustion and the constant weight of responsibility. I want someone to make me feel like I'm not drowning, even if it's just for one night.
"I want to not think," I finally say. "Just for tonight. I want to stop thinking about everything."
Something flashes in his eyes—understanding, maybe, or recognition. "I can do that."
And then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's consuming. His mouth is hot and demanding, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. He kisses me like he owns me, like he has every right to take what he wants.
And I let him.
I kiss him back with everything I have. All my fear, all myfrustration, all my desperation. I pour it into this kiss with a stranger whose last name I don't even know.
He breaks away just long enough to say, "The dress. Take it off or I'll rip it off you."
"It's borrowed."
His eyebrow arches. "Then you'd better take it off."
My hands are shaking as I reach for the zipper. He watches me, those silver eyes tracking every movement. I manage to get the zipper down and let the dress pool at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and underwear—nude cotton and satin, a mismatched set I grabbed this morning without thinking.
Not sexy. Not special. Just functional.
"Fucking beautiful," he says, and somehow makes me believe it.
Then he's on me again, walking me backward until my back hits the cold glass of the window. I gasp at the temperature, at the sensation of the entire city spread out behind me, millions of people just below.
"Everyone can see you," he murmurs against my neck. "Every person down there could look up right now and see you pressed against this window."
"Adrian—"
"Does that scare you?"
"Yes."
"Good." His hand slides up my thigh, fingers trailing over sensitive skin. "You should be scared. You should be terrified. You just went home with a complete stranger."
"I know."
"And yet here you are." His fingers find the edge of my underwear. "Tell me you want this."
