A very good girl

I know what that black thing is.

A gun.

In an instant, the faint tipsiness swirling in my veins vanishes. My eyes dart to him-Handsome Devil-just as he catches my stare and quickly tucks the weapon beneath his bed.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, his tone awkward, like he just spilled coffee and not revealed something dangerous.

I blink, unsure how to respond. Who apologizes for being seen with a firearm?

This man baffles me.

A yawn escapes me, and I rub at my face. My stomach twists in protest-hunger clawing at my insides. I haven't eaten anything since that miserable piece of toast and lemon tea in the morning. My knees tremble beneath me.

"Are you planning to stand there all night?" he asks, a teasing curl lifting the corner of his lips. "Come sit." He pats the space beside him on the bed.

I shake my head immediately. "No, I'll stay here."

His brows lift. "Why?"

"Because..." My chest heaves. "Because I don't trust a man like you."

He chuckles, low and amused, as if I just told him a secret. "I never asked you to."

"Yes, but I can't," I murmur, eyes flicking over the tattoos etched across his chest. "You look like trouble."

"Dangerous, you mean?" he smirks. "Sweetheart, I just saved your life."

"That doesn't make you harmless," I say before I could hold back my tongue.

He rises from the bed, and I instinctively press my back against the wall. Every step he takes toward me is unhurried, deliberate-his gaze steady, unreadable.

When he stops in front of me, the air thickens. He lifts his arms, placing both hands against the wall above my head, trapping me there without touching me.

His scent-coffee, cedarwood, and something darkly masculine-wraps around me like smoke.

God, he smells divine.

His breath brushes my ear when he speaks. "You're right," he whispers, voice husky. "I'm a bad man. And I'm about to do very bad things to you, little bird... if you let me."

He tilts my chin up with a single finger, his touch featherlight but commanding. My pulse leaps. His gaze traces the curve of my neck, then returns to meet my eyes.

"Stop," I breathe, though my voice trembles with uncertainty rather than fear. "Don't go further."

He stops.

"I'm not the kind of girl you can just touch the way that pleases you," I say, my voice shaking slightly, but I hold his gaze.

He leans back and chuckles, low and deep. "Really?"

"Yes," I shoot back, though my heartbeat drums against my ribs. I don't even know what this man is up to, or why his voice feels like silk against my skin.

"I'm a good girl," the words slip out before I can stop them.

His lips curve into a smirk that could melt ice. "Good girls don't go to clubs or wear this kind of dress, darling," he murmurs, his tone dripping with mockery and sin.

Wait-this gangster is seriously judging me?

"I was there because we were celebrating my bachelorette," I say quickly, defensive, like I need him to believe me for reasons I can't explain.

"Interesting." His smile deepens, and I catch it again-that wickedly perfect dimple cutting into his cheek. His left eye, the amber one, glows a little brighter under the dim light.

"Since it's your bachelorette night, why don't you have fun instead of punishing yourself by standing here?"

My brow arches. "I was having fun-with my best friend and my cousin. At least until the shootout."

He chuckles, low and husky. "That's not the kind of fun I'm talking about, sweetheart."

Before I can react, his hand slides to my waist. My back leaves the cold wall, and suddenly there's barely a breath between us.

My pulse jumps. "What kind of fun are you talking about?" I whisper, trembling with curiosity I don't want to admit.

His mismatched eyes travel down to my mouth. The blue isn't cold anymore; it softens, warms, burns with something unspoken.

And the way he looks at me... God. I feel like I'm his favorite dessert-something dark, forbidden, and meant to be devoured.

He stills, the tension in his arms softening. He strokes my arm. "I want to teach you what real fun is, little bird."

Shivers run down my spine. Not from fear. But from excitement. From curiosity.

"You should have a memorable night, something good enough to blur the memory of that shootout," he trails his fingers to my neck.

I feel his pulse against my neck. I've never been touched like this before. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand on my skin.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.

"I don't want to stop," I confess softly.

He smiles-slow, wicked, beautiful. "That's all I needed to hear."

When his lips brush my skin, I gasp. His kiss is gentle at first, a whisper of heat against my throat. My eyes flutter shut as his mouth moves lower, tasting me like something he's craved for far too long. Every breath I take seems to dissolve in the air between us.

My hands, unsure at first, lift to his bare chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat fierce beneath my palms. He catches my wrists and guides them to stay there, pressed against him, as if he wants me to feel what he's feeling-every wild thud, every restrained urge.

"Do you trust me now?" he whispers against my neck.

"I don't know," I breathe. "But I don't want you to stop."

He draws back slightly, studying my face as though searching for hesitation. Finding none, he kisses me-slowly, deeply. It's not rushed; it's not desperate. It's the kind of kiss that leaves me trembling from the inside out, like I'm being unmade and remade in his arms.

He tastes of chocolate and coffee, dark and addictive.

The world blurs. The air conditioner hums somewhere in the background, but all I feel is his warmth, his breath, the rough edge of his voice when he moans.

Every motion, every sigh, feels like a confession.

When he finally pulls away, I can barely breathe. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling against my own.

"You should tell me to stop now," he says softly, though his tone carries a thread of longing.

But I can't. My voice is gone, lost to the storm he's set loose inside me.

I'm not afraid anymore. Not of him. Not of what I feel.

Because for the first time in a very long time, I don't feel empty-I feel alive.

~ IVANOV ~

I was in the middle of a small meeting with a client at the VIP when three women walked in, their presence slicing through the smoke-filled room like a knife.

They slid into the table on my left. My eyes caught them immediately, but it was the one in the middle-the red-haired beauty from the party-that froze me in my tracks. Druscilla Hayes.

My enemy's fiancée.

Fate really had a wicked sense of humor.

Believe me or not, I didn't follow her here. I came on my own, wrapped up in the grind with a client who had paid a fortune for me to help him hack Interpol's logs. But apparently, I didn't need to stalk tonight. She had delivered herself straight into my line of sight.

I couldn't hear a single word my client was saying. My gaze was glued to her-Druscilla, moving with a reckless grace, taking shots, swaying her body as though she owned the world. She had no idea. She had no idea how hot she looked. No idea someone was watching her with hunger that bordered on obsession.

I had heard the stories about her, about the Hayes family-strict, disciplined, holier-than-thou types. And here she was, in a place that went against everything she had been raised to believe in. It was thrilling.

No, more than thrilling. Electrifying.

My eyes roamed over her body. She looked stunning in that dress, but I could tell she was uncomfortable. A tight corset, maybe, or just the eyes of a room full of strangers. And yet, every move she made had me leaning closer, wanting more.

The brunette with her got up and walked to the stage, announcing something. And that's when I got a proper look at the blonde sitting next to her, laughing and smiling-the same blonde Isaac Kaene had been parading around.

So she was Druscilla's friend? I couldn't believe it.

Isaac. What a cheap, lying bastard. Two friends, a proposal to one, a secret fling with the other. He was a real piece of work.

I had planned to ruin Druscilla's relationship with him eventually, but until now, I'd done nothing. Tonight, though, the temptation to press that button was irresistible. He didn't deserve her. Not in the slightest.

I scrolled through my phone, ignoring my client completely, searching for every scrap of information on Druscilla Hayes.

Then I saw it. Tonight was her birthday.

"You haven't been listening to me?" Vincent frowned, his voice cutting through my haze.

I tore my gaze away from the screen to meet his. Vincent had been a client for five years-a politician with a cold face and an even colder heart, steeped in corruption and money laundering.

"Let's talk business tomorrow," I said casually, pulling out a cigarette.

"Come on, Ivan. That's bullshit," he protested, frustration etched into his sharp features.

I lit the cigarette, ignoring him.

"Tomorrow, Vincent."

He shook his head, scowling, and walked away, muttering under his breath. I didn't care. He'd be back. He always came back. Tonight, my attention belonged to one thing: Druscilla Hayes.

I called my assistant immediately.

"Pedro," I said, voice clipped. "Get a beautiful cake in five minutes and deliver it to this location."

"Yes, boss," Pedro replied without hesitation.

"One more thing," I added. "Open my drawer and put that surprise in the cake. I'll text you what to write on it."

"Understood. On it immediately," he said.

Five minutes later, my men delivered the cake. I watched from a distance as Druscilla's face lit up. That smile... hell, it made my chest tighten. Contagious, radiant, and entirely hers.

I bet she thought it was from Isaac.

They sang, cut the cake. Her smile faded. Slowly, the glow vanished, replaced by a frown when she saw my gift. Her hands trembled as she held the picture inside.

A little thrill twisted in my chest. She needed to know the truth. That cheating, worthless bastard didn't deserve her. I'd planted the seed; now I'd wait for it to grow.

Her eyes glistened, a tremble in her lips, as though tears might fall any second.

But then chaos erupted. Shots rang out. People screamed and scattered, diving for cover.

I looked around, instinct kicking in. The shooters weren't mine. They were small-time gangs with old grudges.

I rose, gun pinned to my belt. My eyes searched for her. She wasn't on the stage anymore. My heart skipped. I needed her safe.

I found her crouched under a table, phone in hand, fear written all over her face. Not dumb, that one. But not safe either.

I lifted her into my arms. The look of terror in her eyes only tightened my grip. Out we went, shielded by my body, moving through the chaos.

Outside, Isaac had arrived-but not for her. For the blonde. Perfect.

My mind raced. My safe nest. That's where she belonged.

So here we were, in my suite. I couldn't take my eyes off her. My hands itched to explore every inch of her body. I was supposed to be the predator, seducing her, showing her what a man like me could do. But it wasn't me controlling this anymore.

"Touch me," she whispered, her voice fragile and raw. Like an angel in need.

Her eyes begged.

I obeyed. My fingers traced over her thigh, feeling the delicate lace beneath my touch.

"Oh God..." she moaned.

I didn't stop. I pushed further, sliding a finger inside her. She was drenched, every movement begging for more.

Her shiver was delicious. "Oh... yes... uhm... you..."

I smiled, amused and aroused. Her face, the way she melted under my touch, was intoxicating.

I thumbed her clit, keeping a steady rhythm. Her moans grew, filling the room with the sound of want and surrender.

Just as she teetered on the edge, I pulled back. Her eyes opened, fluttering, wide and desperate.

"What?" she asked, voice shaking.

"What do you want, Doll?" I murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispered, voice trembling.

"Unfortunately, Doll... this is all I can do... unless you want me to fuck you," I said, letting a smirk tug at my lips.

"Fuck me... please," she whimpered.

I slid her lace panties down and tucked them into my pocket. She wrapped her legs around me as I carried her to my king-sized bed.

I lowered her gently, pressing my weight against her, her legs splayed, inviting me. My cock hardened at the sight, the wet heat that called to me.

I wanted her. All of her. I wanted to mark her, consume her, erase Isaac from her life entirely.

"Damn, you look so... delicious," I groaned. My voice low, hoarse with need.

She blushed, looked away shyly. I lowered myself, teasing, not going further.

"What?" she lifted her gaze, needy. "Fuck me already."

"I want to fuck you when you're sober," I said, voice rough with want, the tension between us crackling like electricity.

~ DRUSCILLA ~

I cannot believe I am here.

Laid out on another man's bed, my body open in ways it has never been before, my mind scattered, my senses wrecked beyond repair.

His fingers feel like sin given shape. Every touch sends sparks racing through me, sharp and sweet all at once. My body reacts before my conscience can catch up, arching, trembling, betraying me in ways I did not know were possible.

The sounds slipping from my lips do not even sound like they belong to me. Soft, broken, needy. I barely recognize myself.

God.

Mum must never see me like this. Never know that her well raised daughter is stretched out on a stranger's bed, breathing like this, feeling like this.

Shame burns hot in my chest, but it is tangled tightly with something far more dangerous.

How can I be engaged to one man and wrapped up in another?

A stranger.

A terrifying one.

A man with a dangerously handsome face and eyes that feel like they are stripping me bare, peeling through flesh and bone until they touch something raw and exposed inside me.

He does not even have to try. My body reacts to him as if it has been waiting all its life.

What kind of man does that?

The sensation builds until it is almost unbearable. My thoughts blur. My head spins. I have never felt so aware of myself, of every nerve, every breath, every desperate want.

I had no idea I could feel this way. No idea my body could respond like this. I thought innocence was protection. I thought restraint was strength.

What in the world is this man?

His fingers alone undo me, scramble my senses until even the weight of the diamond on my finger disappears from my awareness. That ring, that promise, that life waiting for me somewhere far away.

What if he goes further?

The thought slams into me so hard I almost gasp.

If he does, then I will...

Oh God.

I catch myself, the shame crashing down all at once.

Oh, Druscilla.

You are shameless.

Dirty.

I scold myself silently, my chest rising and falling too fast.

And yet.

I want him.

I want him so badly it frightens me.

He is heat where my life has always been cold. Fire where everything has been planned, measured, expected. With him, nothing feels controlled. Nothing feels safe.

My back presses into the mattress, and the feeling of his bed beneath me sends another wave of sensation through my body. The sheets smell faintly of him. Clean. Dark. Masculine.

He compliments my pink fold, and heat rushes straight to my face. My cheeks burn, and I know he sees it. I know he enjoys it.

I close my eyes, bracing myself, expecting him to finally cross that invisible line.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes, and then he speaks.

"I can't."

I blink, confusion snapping through me. "What do you mean?" I ask, a crease forming between my brows.

"You're quite drunk," he says calmly, his voice far too steady for the storm he has stirred inside me.

I stare at him.

Someone please pinch me.

What does a man like this know about restraint? About softness?

"What is this about?" I snap, drawing my legs together instinctively, shielding myself. Heat flares, sharp and angry now. Did he really touch me like that, awaken something reckless and wild in me, only to stop now?

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

"It's part of my principle," he says casually, like he isn't standing in the middle of my undoing. "I don't sleep with drunk women. Besides, I want you sober enough to remember everything. I want you to remember every moment. Every sound you make."

The words hit me harder than any touch.

Heat crawls up my neck, my face burning again.

"I'm not drunk," I mutter stubbornly.

He smiles, slow and knowing. "You wouldn't have let me touch you the way I did if you weren't. You wouldn't be in my bed if alcohol wasn't blurring your judgment."

He steps back and gestures to my hand.

"You're engaged."

Obviously.

I roll my eyes, but the reminder lands heavier than I expect.

Why am I only remembering now?

Shame wraps around me like a thick garment, heavy and suffocating. This moment, this weakness, tells me something I am not ready to face.

I am not a good girl.

I have been pretending. Dressing myself in virtue while something darker lurks underneath. A wolf in borrowed wool.

And tonight, I did not even bother with the disguise.

I smooth my skirt down and turn onto my side, putting my back to him.

He folds his arms, watching me like I am some kind of performance. Like an actress on stage, baring parts of herself she did not know were visible.

"You don't have to feel..." he begins.

"I want to go home," I cut in, climbing off the bed.

"It's late," he says.

"I don't care."

"You can stay till morning."

He moves away and removes his trousers, standing there in nothing but a dark brief. My eyes betray me, roaming before my mind can stop them. His legs are strong, sculpted, powerful.

Wait.

Is he changing his mind?

Does he want to continue?

"It's not what you're thinking," he says with a smirk that tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking. "I'm going to shower. Do you want to eat something?"

Embarrassment floods me, thick and suffocating.

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "God, I hate you."

He grins, that infuriating dimple appearing. "You're hungry. But you can't eat me."

"Proud idiot," I mutter.

"Stop being so hard on yourself, doll," he says as he punches numbers into the intercom, ordering pasta, grilled chicken, and apple juice.

My stomach tightens.

Those are my favorites.

I lick my lips without thinking, anticipation making my mouth water.

Thankfully, his back is turned.

When he faces me again, I straighten instantly.

"Room service will be here soon."

I lift my chin, stubborn and defensive.

He studies me for a moment. Something flickers in his eyes. Guilt. Sadness. Something I refuse to care about.

I cross my arms and plant my feet.

Eventually, he turns and walks into the glass bathroom.

I step back and bump into the bed just as he slips out of the last piece of clothing and turns on the shower.

My breath catches.

Holy shit.

I have never seen a man like that before.

His cock was long, hard and thick.

I closed my eyes, my tongue slowly swiped on my lips as I imagined that thing going inside me. In and out.

I swallow hard, clasping my hands together and squeezing my eyes shut.

"Hail Mary, mother of Jesus Christ, please pray for me," I whisper. "I have sinned against God. I have sinned with my eyes. Please don't send me to hell. Amen."

When I open my eyes, I deliberately face the door. The temptation is too strong.

A knock sounds ten minutes later.

Room service.

I jump up like a child on Christmas morning and open the door.

The trolley rolls in, the scent filling the room instantly.

"Your dinner, ma," the attendant says kindly.

"Thank you."

I close the door quickly after he leaves. I've seen too many movies. Too many stories where the wrong person walks in at the wrong time and shoot the lady with the wrong man.

Focus on your food, Druscilla.

I eat hungrily, savoring every bite.

By the time I finish, he steps out of the bathroom, dressed in a robe, his hair damp. He notices the empty plate and smiles.

He sits, opens his laptop, focused now on something else entirely.

I watch his broad back until the room grows quiet and sleep pulls me under.