The hotel room door slammed shut behind them, and Dominic's mouth was on mine before I could catch my breath. His hands tangled in my carefully styled hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp against his lips. I'd never done this before—never gone home with a man I'd just met, never let someone touch me with this kind of hungry desperation. "Tell me you want this," he growled against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His fingers found the zipper of my conservative dress, the one I'd worn to the gallery opening, the one that screamed "respectable professional." "I want this," I whispered, and saying it out loud felt like shedding a skin I'd worn too long. He stripped the dress from my shoulders roughly, and I helped him, wiggling free of the fabric until it pooled at my feet. His eyes raked over me—plain white bra, matching underwear, nothing special—but the way he looked at me made me feel like I was wearing the most expensive lingerie in the world. "You've been hiding all night," he murmured, his thumb tracing my collarbone. "Playing the part. The good girl who came to support her friend's art show. But I saw you, Mara. I saw the way you looked at my paintings." My breath hitched. He was right. I'd stood in front of his largest piece—a chaotic explosion of red and black, violent and beautiful—for twenty minutes. My friend Sarah had tugged my arm twice, trying to introduce me to other people, but I couldn't look away. The painting was titled "Unleashed." "They made me uncomfortable," I admitted. "Liar." His hand slid down my spine, fingers splaying across the small of my back. "They made you feel something you've been running from your whole life." I should have been offended. Should have slapped him and walked out. Instead, I kissed him harder, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He laughed against my mouth—a dark, knowing sound—and helped me, shrugging out of the fabric. His chest was a canvas of ink. Swirling designs that looked like smoke and fire, abstract and mesmerizing. I traced one line with my finger, following it from his collarbone down to his ribs. "How old are you?" I asked suddenly, realizing I knew nothing about this man. "Thirty-four. You?" "Twenty-six." "And you've never done this before." It wasn't a question. "How do you know?" He cupped my face in both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. They were almost black in the dim hotel lighting. "Because you're shaking. Because you keep second-guessing yourself. Because every time I touch you, you look surprised that it feels good." Tears pricked at my eyes, and I blinked them back furiously. I didn't cry. Good girls didn't cry, especially not during— "Hey." His voice softened. "We can stop. Right now. I'll call you a cab, and you can go home to your safe little life." "I don't want safe," I said, and meant it. Something shifted in his expression. He backed me toward the bed slowly, deliberately, until my legs hit the mattress and I sat down hard. He knelt in front of me, his hands on my knees, pushing them apart. "Then tell me what you do want." My mind went blank. What did I want? I'd spent twenty-six years doing what everyone else wanted. Perfect grades for my parents. The right career for my father's approval. The appropriate boyfriend—Thomas, who I'd dated for three years and who kissed me like he was afraid I'd break. We'd broken up two months ago. He said I was "emotionally distant." I hadn't cried. "I don't know," I whispered. Dominic's hands slid up my thighs, stopping just before they reached the edge of my underwear. "Then we'll figure it out together. But Mara? When you're with me, you don't lie. Not to me, and not to yourself. Understood?" I nodded. "Say it." "I understand." He smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that made my stomach flip. "Good girl." The words should have felt patronizing. Instead, they sent heat flooding through me. He stood, pulling me up with him, and kissed me again. This time slower, deeper, his tongue exploring my mouth like he had all the time in the world. His hands unhooked my bra with practiced ease, and I let it fall, let him look at me. "Beautiful," he murmured, and I believed him. We tumbled onto the bed together, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Every touch felt electric, every kiss like permission to be someone I'd never allowed myself to be. When it was over—when we lay tangled in hotel sheets, my body humming with unfamiliar satisfaction—he traced lazy patterns on my shoulder. "What are you thinking?" he asked. The truth tumbled out before I could stop it. "That my mother would disown me if she knew I was here." He laughed. "Good. She sounds terrible." "She's not terrible. She's just... particular. About how things should be done. How I should be." "And how should you be?" I thought about my mother's weekly phone calls. The questions about whether I'd met anyone "suitable" yet. The disappointed sighs when I told her I was happy with my job at the nonprofit instead of pursuing law school. "Married by now. To someone appropriate. Working somewhere impressive. Definitely not in a hotel room with a stranger." "I'm Dominic Kane," he said. "Now I'm not a stranger." "That's not how it works." "Isn't it?" He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "You know my name. You know I'm an artist. You know I can make you come so hard you forget your own name. What else matters?" My cheeks burned. "You're impossible." "And you're running." He brushed hair from my face. "What are you so afraid of, Mara?" That this feels too good. That I might not want to go back to being the person I was before tonight. That you see parts of me I've spent my whole life hiding. "Everything," I whispered. He kissed my forehead gently. "Then stay. Just for tonight. Be afraid tomorrow." So I stayed.