The humid night air clung to my skin like a lover’s breath, heavy with the scent of jasmine and the distant tang of saltwater from the bay. I stood on the wrought-iron balcony of the old Creole mansion, the sultry New Orleans heat doing little to cool the fire already smoldering deep in my core. Below, the French Quarter pulsed with life— laughter, the wail of a saxophone, the clink of beads against cobblestone—but up here, it was just me and the man who’d been haunting my every filthy fantasy for weeks. Bastian Le Roux, with his obsidian eyes and a smirk sharp enough to cut through my defenses, leaned against the railing beside me, his tailored black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest dusted with dark hair.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Ryder,” he drawled, his Cajun accent wrapping around the words like velvet, each syllable dripping with accusation and raw, unfiltered want. His gaze raked over me, taking in the crimson slip dress that hugged my curves like a second skin, the hem riding dangerously high on my thighs. I felt the weight of his stare, heavy and possessive, as if he could already taste the salt of my skin.
I turned to face him, my stiletto heels clicking against the balcony’s ancient tiles, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. “And you’ve been stalking me, Bastian,” I shot back, my voice low, laced with a defiance I didn’t fully feel. My fingers tightened around the glass I held, the liquid trembling slightly. I wanted to hate him—the way he’d inserted himself into my life after that reckless night at the masquerade ball, the way he’d known exactly how to unravel me with a single touch. But my body betrayed me, a traitor to my better judgment, my nipples hardening against the thin silk of my dress as memories of his rough hands and punishing mouth flooded me.
He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound that vibrated through the muggy air, and took a slow step closer. The scent of him—sandalwood, smoke, and something primal—hit me like a truck dizzying and dangerous. “Stalking implies I don’t belong, Ryder,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of my chocolate hair behind my ear. His fingertips lingered, grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, and I fought the shiver that threatened to expose me. “But after the way you screamed my name last time—begging for more of my cock in that tight little pussy of yours—I think I’ve earned a permanent place between your thighs.”
The crude words ignited a wildfire in my veins, my cunt throbbing with a need I loathed to admit. I should’ve slapped him, walked away, but the memory of that night—his dick stretching me open, his tongue lashing my clit while a crowd of masked strangers watched from the shadows—kept me rooted. I’d never felt so exposed, so owned, and yet so fucking alive. Bastian thrived on power, on pushing boundaries, and I was his favorite edge to teeter on. My past, littered with safe choices and vanilla regrets, made me ripe for his corruption. But beneath the lust, a gnawing fear lingered—Bastian knew too much, secrets I’d buried about the life I’d fled, and one wrong move could unravel everything.
“Careful,” I warned, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze, my lips curling into a taunt. “Keep pushing, and I might just bite back.”