The rain fell in silver sheets against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, turning the city below into a blur of neon and shadow. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the faint, musky undertone of expensive leather—Daniel Mercer’s signature. He stood with his back to the room, one hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler, the other resting against the cool glass as he stared down at the sprawling metropolis beneath him. The city pulsed, indifferent to the storm, just as it had been indifferent to the wreckage he’d left in his wake.

His reflection in the window was sharp—tailored charcoal suit, jawline clean-shaven, dark hair slicked back with precision. But the man behind the image was anything but polished. The weight of the day’s negotiations still clung to him, the ghost of another deal closed, another soul crushed under the heel of his ambition. He exhaled slowly, the whiskey burning a path down his throat, and for a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to just… let go. To stop controlling every damn thing.

The knock at the door was soft, almost hesitant. Not the confident rap of an assistant or the brash intrusion of a rival. No, this was different. Daniel turned, his brow furrowing as he set the glass down on the sideboard. He hadn’t ordered room service. Hadn’t invited anyone up.

He crossed the room with the predatory grace of a man used to commanding space, his polished Oxfords silent against the dark hardwood. When he pulled the door open, the first thing that hit him was the scent—warm vanilla and something darker, like crushed petals and smoke. Then he saw her.

She stood there, draped in a coat the color of storm clouds, the fabric clinging to curves that made his fingers twitch with the urge to trace them. Her hair was a riot of auburn waves, damp from the rain, a few strands sticking to the delicate curve of her cheek. But it was her eyes that held him—deep, fathomless green, like the heart of a forest after a storm. They didn’t waver. Didn’t drop in submission or flicker with nerves. They looked at him, bold and unapologetic, as if she already knew every secret he’d ever buried.

“Mr. Mercer,” she said, her voice low, husky, the kind of sound that slid under skin and settled in bones. “I was told you might be interested in acquiring a piece of my work.”

Daniel’s gaze flicked over her—no portfolio, no business card, just a woman standing in his doorway like she belonged there. His cock stirred, traitorous and immediate, because fuck, it had been too long since anything had surprised him. “And what piece would that be?”

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. “Not a painting,” she murmured, stepping forward just enough that the heat of her body brushed against his. “Something far more… intimate.”

Daniel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The air between them crackled, charged with something electric, dangerous. He took the envelope, his fingers grazing hers, and the contact sent a jolt through him, sharp and unexpected. The paper was thick, expensive, the kind used for things meant to be kept. He broke the wax seal—black, like sin—and slid out a single photograph.

It was her.

Naked.

Not posed, not staged—caught in a moment of raw, unguarded vulnerability. She was sprawled across a rumpled bed, sheets tangled around her thighs, one hand resting between her breasts as if she’d just been touched and was still trembling from it. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes half-lidded and locked onto the camera with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. The photo was taken from a low angle, making her seem larger than life, a goddess carved from flesh and desire.

Daniel’s throat went dry. His pulse hammered in his ears, the blood rushing south with a urgency that made his head spin. He’d seen beautiful women before. Fucked them, even. But this—this was different. This was art. This was a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, who had walked into his life like a storm and handed him a match with the clear expectation that he’d strike it.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice rough.

“Lena Voss.” She stepped past him, her coat whispering against the floor as she moved into the suite like she owned it. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them in together. “And you, Daniel Mercer, are going to buy this from me.”

He turned, watching as she shed her coat with a slow, deliberate motion, revealing a dress that was little more than a slip of black silk, clinging to every dip and curve of her body. The fabric rode high on her thighs, the neckline dipping low enough to tease the swell of her breasts. She was all softness and sin, a contrast to the hard lines of his world.

“And if I don’t?” he challenged, though his body was already betraying him, his cock thick and heavy against the confines of his trousers.

Lena tilted her head, her gaze raking over him with the precision of a blade. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what it would’ve been like to own something no one else ever will.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. Because she was right. He did want it. Wanted her. Not just the photo—not just the promise of her body—but the way she looked at him, like she saw the rot beneath the polish and didn’t give a damn. Like she wanted to use it.

Daniel set the photo down on the sideboard, beside his abandoned whiskey. When he looked up, Lena was closer, close enough that he could see the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. He reached out, his fingers hovering just above her collarbone, not quite touching. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Voss.”

Her breath hitched, just slightly, but her eyes never left his. “So are you, Mr. Mercer.”

The space between them disappeared. One second he was standing there, the next his hand was fisted in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth crashed down on hers. She gasped, but there was no resistance—only heat, only the slick slide of her tongue against his as she kissed him back with a ferocity that matched his own. Her hands gripped his lapels, nails digging in through the fabric, and when he groaned into her mouth, she laughed, a dark, breathless sound that sent another surge of lust straight to his cock.

Daniel spun her, pressing her back against the wall beside the door. The impact made her breath rush out, her chest heaving as he pinned her there with his body, his thigh forcing its way between hers. She was wet—he could feel it, the heat of her through the thin silk of her dress, the way her hips rolled against him instinctively, seeking friction. His hands found her thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he hiked the dress up, baring her to him.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough with need. Her panties were lace, black, already damp with arousal. He tore them aside with a sharp yank, the fabric giving way easily, and then his fingers were there, sliding through her folds, finding her clit already swollen and throbbing.

Lena cried out, her head falling back against the wall as her hips jerked against his touch. “Yes—just like that—”

He didn’t let up. Two fingers circled her clit, teasing, before plunging inside her in one rough stroke. She was dripping, her inner walls clenching around him as he fucked her with his fingers, his thumb pressing down on her clit in relentless circles. Her nails raked down his back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she rode his hand, her body trembling on the edge.

“You like that?” he snarled, his mouth against her ear. “You like being finger-fucked against the wall like a little slut?”

“Yes—god, yes—” Her voice was a broken whisper, her body coiling tight, and then she was coming, her pussy pulsing around his fingers as she shuddered, her cry muffled against his shoulder.

Daniel didn’t stop. He kept working her through it, drawing out every last tremor, until she was boneless and panting, her skin slick with sweat. Only then did he pull his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth. He licked them clean, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked on hers as he tasted her—sweet, musky, perfect.

Lena’s eyes darkened, her lips parting as she watched him. “Your turn,” she murmured, her hand dropping to the bulge in his trousers. She palmed him through the fabric, her touch firm, possessive. “Let me see what you’ve got, Mr. Mercer.”

Daniel caught her wrist, stilling her. For a moment, he just looked at her—this woman who had barged into his life, his space, his control, and turned it all inside out in the span of twenty minutes. He should’ve thrown her out. Should’ve called security. Should’ve done a hundred things other than what he was about to do.

But then she smiled, slow and knowing, and he realized—he didn’t want to.

With a growl, he released her, his hands going to his belt. The leather hissed as he pulled it free, the sound loud in the quiet of the suite. Lena’s fingers joined his, working the button of his trousers open, the zipper following with a sharp snick. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with precome. Lena’s breath hitched, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip as she wrapped her hand around him, her grip tight and sure.

“Fuck,” Daniel groaned, his head falling back as she stroked him, her thumb swiping over the sensitive crown. “Just like that—”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she sank to her knees in front of him, her hands sliding up his thighs as she leaned in, her breath hot against his skin. And then her mouth was on him, her lips parting as she took him in, slow and deep, her tongue swirling around the head before she swallowed him down to the root.

Daniel’s hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the auburn waves as she bobbed her head, taking him with a skill that had his vision whiting out at the edges. She hollowed her cheeks, her throat working around him, and when she pulled back, her lips wrapped tight around the crown, her tongue flicking against the underside, he snarled, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warned, his voice a rough growl.

Lena pulled off with a wet pop, her hand still working him as she looked up at him, her lips swollen, her eyes dark with hunger. “That’s the point.”

And then she took him back in, deeper this time, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently as she swallowed around him. Daniel’s control snapped. With a groan, he came, his release hitting the back of her throat as she took every last drop, her nails digging into his thighs as she milked him dry.

When she finally pulled away, licking her lips, he was trembling—trembling—something he hadn’t done in years. Lena rose to her feet, her dress still hiked up around her waist, her lips red and glistening. She reached for him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch almost… tender.

“Now,” she murmured, her voice a velvet purr, “about that photograph.”

Daniel stared at her, his chest heaving, his mind still reeling from the force of his orgasm. He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been done with her. But as he looked into those green eyes, all he felt was the burn of something far more dangerous than lust.

He wanted more.