Emily’s POV
I never went out.
Not to galas. Not to parties. Not to the kind of events where women dripped in diamonds and men carried power like an aura.
But that night, everything shifted.
It began with the envelope. A heavy cream card pressed into my hand by my mother, her eyes glittering with hope.
“You never do anything for yourself, Emily. Take these tickets. Go out. Just once. Please.”
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to stay in my quiet, safe life. But her hope pressed harder than the envelope, and I could not say no.
So I let her dress me.
The black gown clung like temptation itself. Lipstick painted me into someone bolder. Heels turned me into a woman I barely recognised. The reflection in the mirror was not Emily, the safe daughter. She was someone else. Someone who might give in.
The ballroom shimmered when I arrived. Golden chandeliers spilt light over marble. Perfume, laughter, champagne. Women floated in silk. Men prowled in suits.
And then I saw him.
He stood apart, near the bar, tall and cut from shadow and sharpness. His hair showed the faintest grey at the temples, only making him more dangerous. His presence bent the air.
When his eyes lifted and found mine, the world tilted. Everything else disappeared.
I looked away, heart hammering. When I dared glance back, he was gone.
Until I felt him.
The shift in the air, the prickle at my neck. He moved through the crowd as if it parted for him. And then he was in front of me.
“You don’t belong here.” His voice was deep, textured, and commanding.
“My mother gave me the tickets,” I whispered.
His mouth curved. “She should have kept them.”
It should have stung. Instead, it burned inside me, tightening everything low in my belly.
He leaned close, his breath brushing my ear. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m not.” The lie cracked.
His hand brushed mine. Heat. Gravity. “Come.”
I followed. through the hall. Into a private room. Shadows and quiet. The lock clicked shut, sealing my fate.
I turned to speak, but his mouth was already on mine.
The kiss was fire and command, no hesitation, no permission asked. His lips crushed mine, his tongue slid past resistance, and his body pinned me to the wall. My moan broke free, desperate. His grip on my waist was firm, possessive, a man who knew exactly how to take.
I should have stopped him. I didn’t. My fingers pulled at his hair, dragging him closer. The taste of him filled me, wine and hunger.
“Say my name,” he murmured against my lips.
“I don’t know it.”
“Adrian. Say it.”
“Adrian,” I whispered, trembling.
His groan rumbled through me as his hand slid under my dress, fingers gliding up my thigh. Heat surged through me.
“Please,” I begged without knowing what I was asking for.
“You don’t beg well. But you will.”
He kissed me harder, then shoved my dress up. Cool air met my thighs before his palm cupped between them. His fingers pressed into my panties, stroking until wetness coated the fabric. I gasped, clutching at him, hips pushing into his hand.
“You’re soaked already,” he growled, voice thick with dark satisfaction.
He tore the thin fabric aside, exposing me. One long finger pushed inside, slow, deliberate. I cried out, clutching his suit as my body opened around him. Another finger followed, stretching me deeper, pumping until wet sounds filled the silence.
My knees buckled. He pinned me harder to the wall, holding me there while his thumb circled my clit in rough, claiming strokes.
“Adrian,” I moaned, falling apart against him.
“That’s right. Say it when you come for me.”
My body shattered, pulsing around his fingers, slick and shameless. I clung to him as the orgasm tore through me, my cries muffled by his mouth.
Before I could catch my breath, he turned me, pressing me to the wall, dress bunched at my waist. The sound of his zipper filled the air, and then the thick length of his cock pressed against me, hard and demanding.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.
I couldn’t. My silence was a surrender.
He thrust inside me in one deep stroke. I cried out as his cock filled me, stretching me wide, driving so deep I felt split open. His hand gripped my throat lightly, tilting my head back as he began to pound into me, each thrust rocking me against the wall.
The sounds were obscene. Wet, slapping, raw. My whimpers mixed with his groans as he used me, fucked me, claimed me.
“You’re mine tonight,” he growled against my ear.
“Yes,” I gasped, lost, ruined, begging for more.
He pulled me back, bent me over the couch, and took me again. His cock slammed into me from behind, his hand tangled in my hair, pulling until I arched for him. His pace was brutal, relentless, each stroke dragging a cry from my throat. My body clenched, trembling, another climax tearing through me until my legs shook.
He didn’t stop. Against the window, on the couch, he drove into me until I was raw, until pleasure blurred into pain and back again. His lips marked my skin, his hands left bruises, his cock owned every inch of me.
When he finally groaned, spilling deep inside, my body collapsed against him, sweaty, trembling, ruined.
By dawn, I lay draped against his chest, his arm heavy over my waist. His breathing was steady, calm, as though he had not destroyed me hours before.
I slipped out from under him, gathering my torn dress, shoes dangling from my fingers. At the door I paused, watching him sleep, dangerous even in peace.
I told myself it was only one night. One mistake. That I would never see him again.
But deep inside, beneath the lies, truth whispered.
One night would never be enough.