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He didn't move immediately. Just looked down at me, his gaze dark enough to devour me. "You sure? You're drunk off your ass and just got your heart broken. Even if I want you, I'm not doing this on a dirty garden bench at midnight for some cheap revenge fuck."

"I don't care where!"

Before I could lose my nerve, I grabbed his hand and pressed it hard against my waist.

His palm was scorching and rough. The moment it covered the soft flesh of my waist and hips, I felt every muscle in his body lock like stone.

"Now, Marcelo." I looked up at him, saying his name, wild fire burning in my eyes. "Either push me away or show me."

Dead silence.

Two seconds later, his fingers tightened ruthlessly at my waistline, knuckles flexing, fingertips sinking deep into my flesh hard enough to make me whimper.

"You just made a very dangerous decision, tesoro." He bent down, scalding breath hitting my earlobe, his voice dropping to a bone-chilling warning. "The second you nod, no matter how much you cry and beg in bed tonight, I won't stop. I'll grip that ass and fuck you so hard you won't be able to get out of bed by morning."

"I consent." I didn't hesitate. Even stood on my toes to kiss the rough stubble on his jaw.

Marcelo made a low, completely unhinged growl in his throat.

He cupped the back of my neck, took control, bent down, and crushed his mouth to mine, violently stealing all the air from my lungs. Blood and whiskey exploded between our lips and teeth. Not until we were both nearly suffocating did he force himself to brake, yanking back the distance.

He was breathing hard, the dark fire in his eyes almost setting the night ablaze. He quickly shrugged off his expensive suit jacket—still warm from his body—and wrapped it around my shoulders exposed to the cold wind, then gripped my wrist.

"We're moving." His voice was hoarse with command, giving me zero seconds to reconsider. "My car's outside."

Chapter 2

Marcelo

In the penthouse apartment high above Manhattan, the only sound was the soft hum of central air.

I tossed the Maserati keys into the tray by the entrance.

The girl in my arms had barely touched the marble counter when her drunk legs buckled. Her arm swept across that already-broken purse.

The bag hit the floor, spilling everything.

Those photos stared up at me again—crimson lace, lush curves, and those amber eyes trying so damn hard to look sexy while drowning in vulnerability.

"Fuck."

The curse scraped out of my throat as gasoline hit the fire already burning through my veins.

Screw the photos. The real thing was in my arms, a hundred times more tempting than those thin pieces of paper.

That cheap sparkle dress had already split at the side seam, bunched up around her hips, exposing thick, creamy thighs plump enough to drive any man insane. Alcohol had flushed her peach-soft face crimson, those amber eyes hazy and wet in the dim wall lights.

She'd walked into my territory completely defenseless, like a lamb gift-wrapped and delivered to my door.

The violence and predatory hunger I'd choked down all night finally shredded the last thread of patience. From the second she grabbed my hand in that filthy garden corner, only one thought had filled my head.

Pin her to this marble counter right here, rip that damn dress off, grip her hips from behind, and fuck her until she understood exactly what it cost to provoke a grown man.

Now the door was closed. In this space that belonged entirely to me, I didn't need to pretend anymore.

I grabbed the impossibly soft flesh at her waist, yanked my tie off with one hand and threw it on the floor, about to shove her down on the counter—

"Water..."