The room was a crucible of unspoken promises, thick with the scent of polished leather and the faint tang of nervous sweat. Cherry stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse suite, her wild crimson hair cascading over the bare curve of her shoulder, catching the amber glow of the city skyline beyond. Her crimson silk dress clung to her like a second skin, the deep plunge of the neckline revealing the swell of her breasts, her posture a deliberate taunt—spine arched, hips tilted just so. She was a predator in couture, her emerald eyes glinting with a hunger she barely bothered to conceal.
Across the room, leaning against the mahogany desk with a tumbler dangling from his calloused fingers, was Gabriel Voss. His rugged jaw was shadowed with a day’s stubble, his charcoal suit tailored to the broad shoulders and lean hips of a man who’d built his construction empire with his own hands. At thirty-eight, Gabriel carried the weight of old scars—literal and otherwise—evident in the faint white line across his left eyebrow and the hardness in his stormy gray eyes. He was a man of raw power, unpolished and unapologetic, the kind who could command a room with a glance or break a bedframe with his bare fury.
“You’re staring,” she purred, her voice a velvet blade as she turned to face him, her crimson lips curling into a smirk.
Gabriel’s grip on the glass tightened, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath rolled-up sleeves. “And you’re playing a game you might not win, darling,” he drawled, his voice rough as gravel, laced with a southern drawl that promised sin. He set the tumbler down with deliberate care, each movement measured, predatory, as he crossed the room. His boots thudded softly against the polished floor, the sound a slow drumbeat that matched the pulse hammering at Cherry’s throat.
She didn’t flinch as he stopped inches from her, his heat radiating through the thin barrier of her dress. The scent of him—woodsmoke, and raw masculinity—filled her lungs, intoxicating her more than anything ever could. “I always win,” she whispered, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze, her breath teasing the hard line of his jaw. But beneath her bravado, a flicker of uncertainty stirred. Gabriel wasn’t like the men she usually dominated—eager, malleable suits who trembled under her commands. He was a storm waiting to unleash, and she craved the wreckage.
His hand shot out, rough fingers catching her wrist, the pressure just shy of painful as he pinned it against the cool glass of the window. “Careful, Cherry,” he growled, his other hand sliding to her hip, digging into the silk as if branding her through the fabric. “Push me too far, and I won’t stop until you’re begging.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle over her pulse point, each stroke a promise of unraveling.
Her breath hitched, heat pooling low in her belly, her pussy already throbbing with a need she hated to admit. She leaned into him, her breasts brushing his chest, the friction sending sparks through her nipples. “Begging isn’t in my vocabulary,” she shot back, her free hand trailing down his torso, fingers skimming the hard ridges of his abdomen before hooking into his belt. She tugged, just enough to feel the rigid outline of his cock straining against his trousers. Fuck, he was huge, and the thought of that dick splitting her open sent a shiver down her spine.
Gabriel’s eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flashing as he released her wrist, only to tangle his fingers in her hair, yanking her head back with a sharp tug. The sting shot straight to her pussy, a wet ache blooming as he leaned down, his lips hovering a breath from hers. “We’ll see about that,” he rasped, before crushing his mouth to hers in a kiss that was more war than seduction. His tongue invaded, tasting of whiskey and raw hunger, while his teeth nipped at her lower lip, drawing a moan she couldn’t suppress.
She clawed at his shoulders, nails biting into flesh through his shirt, as he backed her against the window, the cold glass a sharp contrast to the inferno of his body. His hand slid beneath her dress, rough palms skimming the smooth expanse of her thigh before finding the lace edge of her thong. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—he tore the fabric with a savage rip, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. Cherry gasped, her hips bucking as his fingers delved between her folds, finding her slick and ready. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled against her throat, two thick digits plunging into her cunt without warning, stretching her with a burn that bordered on exquisite pain.
“Fuck you,” she hissed, though her voice trembled, her walls clenching around his fingers as he pumped them deep, curling to hit that spot that made her knees buckle. Her hands fumbled with his belt, desperate to unleash the beast straining beneath, but he caught her wrists again, pinning them above her head against the glass with one iron grip. The city lights glittered below, and the thrill of being exposed—anyone could look up, see her unraveling—sent a wicked jolt through her core.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” Gabriel taunted, his thumb circling her clit with brutal precision, each stroke edging her closer to a precipice she wasn’t ready to fall over. “You don’t get my cock until I’ve got you screaming.” His voice was a dark promise, his breath hot against her ear as he nipped the lobe, hard enough to sting. She writhed against him, her tits heaving, the silk of her dress scraping against her hardened nipples with every ragged breath.