The impact sent a shockwave through Garrison Terry's body.

His muscles locked instantly. His large hand shot out, his fingers clamping around Ava's wrist with the crushing force of a steel vice.

His blood was already burning. Ten minutes ago, he had downed the glass of Dom Pérignon his assistant, Jarett, had sent up. Now, a toxic, unnatural heat was clawing at his veins, making his skin feel too tight for his body.

Garrison narrowed his eyes, peering through the dim light filtering in from the city below.

He saw a woman. Messy hair, a cheap black dress stained with alcohol, and eyes that couldn't focus.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. A setup.

He immediately assumed she was a low-level escort hired by a corporate rival, or worse, another one of Jarett's misguided attempts to "humanize" him, just like the disastrous blind date he had arranged with that senator's daughter last Christmas. A pathetic gift.

Disgust rolled in his stomach. He shoved her wrist away as if her skin burned him. He turned toward the wall panel, his hand reaching for the emergency security button to have her dragged out by her hair.

Without his grip holding her up, Ava's legs gave out.

She slid down the wall, her body hitting the floor in a heap. A soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips.

That tiny sound hit Garrison's ears and acted like a match dropped into gasoline.

The drug in his system flared, sending a violent spike of adrenaline and lust straight to his groin. His hand froze an inch from the security button. His breathing turned ragged, the air scorching his throat.

"Why doesn't this lounge have a couch?" Ava mumbled to the carpet, her eyes closed. "My head hurts."

Garrison let out a harsh, breathless laugh. The sheer audacity of this woman.

He dropped his hand from the wall and took a step toward her. He towered over her, his massive frame casting a dark shadow over her small body.

He crouched down. His long, damp fingers gripped her chin, forcing her head up.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Ava's eyelashes fluttered. She struggled to focus. Through the haze of tequila, she saw a face carved from marble. Sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes, and wet hair clinging to his forehead.

Her drunk brain misfired completely. The lounge staff are really good-looking, she thought.

She giggled. A soft, breathless sound. She lifted her hand and poked his cheek with her index finger. "You're very warm."

Garrison's vision tinted red. The last thread of his legendary self-control snapped.

The drug eradicated his logic. He didn't see a corporate spy anymore. He saw a willing, soft body in his private space.

He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her to her feet in one violent motion.

Ava gasped as her feet left the ground. She lost her balance entirely and crashed against his chest.

The thin, wet silk of her dress was nothing against the radiating heat of his bare skin. Garrison felt her curves press into him, and a feral groan ripped from his throat.

"Get out," Garrison gritted out, his voice shaking with the effort it took not to devour her right there. "Leave now, or I won't let you."

Ava didn't hear the warning. The alcohol had completely shut down her survival instincts. She just felt cold, and he was a furnace.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline. "I'm so hot," she complained, her face burying into the crook of his neck. She tugged uselessly at the collar of her dress.

Her soft lips brushed against his pulse point.

That was it. The dam broke.

Garrison slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

Before she could process what was happening, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a hostile takeover.

Ava's eyes flew wide open in shock. She tasted tequila, mint, and pure, unfiltered male aggression. His lips were punishing, demanding, parting her mouth with ruthless efficiency.

Her hands fluttered against his chest, a weak attempt to push him away. But the drug-fueled intensity of his kiss was overwhelming. The oxygen was sucked from her lungs. Her knees buckled.

Garrison didn't let her fall. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly across the room.

He threw her onto the center of the massive King-size bed.

Ava bounced against the mattress, her hair splayed wildly across the white pillows. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed with intoxication and a sudden, terrifying heat.

Garrison stood at the edge of the bed. He reached down and ripped away the only towel wrapped around his waist.

He crawled over her, his massive frame caging her in completely.

The lights of Manhattan blinked silently outside the window, completely oblivious to the disastrous, drug-fueled collision happening in the dark.

The morning sun was a brutal, blinding weapon.

It sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, stabbing directly into Ava's eyelids.

She let out a dry, painful groan and tried to roll over. Her body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt bruised, stretched, and sore, as if she had been repeatedly thrown against a concrete wall.

She forced her eyes open. Her vision swam for a second before focusing on the ceiling.

It wasn't the water-stained plaster of her cheap apartment. It was a hand-painted, vaulted ceiling dripping with luxury.

Ava stopped breathing. Her heart gave a violent, painful lurch in her chest.

The memories of last night hit her like a freight train. The tequila. The dark room. The burning heat. The ruthless, bruising kisses.

She slowly, rigidly turned her head to the side.

A man was sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach, the white sheet pooled around his waist. His broad, muscular back was covered in a network of angry red scratch marks.

Her scratch marks.

Ava slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. Bile rose in her throat.

Her mind raced frantically. She remembered her friend mentioning a rumor about The Elysium hotel. The underground concierge service. Elite male escorts for the ultra-rich.

She looked at the absurdly lavish room. She looked at the man's flawless, sculpted physique.

The conclusion slammed into her brain with horrifying clarity. She had slept with a high-end gigolo.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She had to get out of here. Now.

Moving with agonizing slowness, she gripped the edge of the sheet. She lifted it, trying to slide off the mattress without making a sound. Her bare toes just barely brushed the thick carpet.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"

The voice came from right behind her. It was deep, raspy, and completely devoid of sleep.

Ava jumped so hard she nearly fell off the bed. She whipped around, yanking the sheet up to her chin, her knuckles turning white.

Garrison Terry was awake. He sat up slowly, the sheet falling away to reveal his heavily muscled chest. His dark eyes were razor-sharp, pinning her to the spot with terrifying intensity.

He looked at her, his mind already calculating. He was waiting for the blackmail demand. He was waiting for her to name her price for keeping quiet about sleeping with the CEO of Terry Group.

Ava's chest heaved. The shame was eating her alive, but she refused to cower. She needed to handle this like a transaction.

"Last night... was an accident," Ava blurted out, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm. "But I'm not someone who takes advantage. I pay my debts."

Garrison's brow furrowed. He stared at her, the gears in his head freezing for a fraction of a second.

Ava swallowed hard, avoiding his piercing gaze. "How much are you for one night?"

The silence in the room became absolute. It was so quiet Ava could hear the blood rushing in her own ears.

Garrison stared at her. He genuinely thought he had misheard her.

"Excuse me?" he said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a dark, dangerous undertone.

Ava thought he was trying to negotiate. She bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. She reached over the edge of the bed, digging into her ruined purse on the floor until she found her phone.

She tapped the screen and held it up.

"I'm asking for your service fee," Ava said, her voice rising in panic. "I can just Venmo you right now. Let's just settle this."

Garrison looked at the bright screen of her phone. The Venmo transfer page was open.

The realization hit him. She thought he was a whore.

The CEO of the Terry Group, a man who moved billions of dollars before breakfast, was being offered a Venmo payment for sexual services.

A dark, humorless laugh ripped from his throat. The sound made the hairs on Ava's arms stand up.

Garrison threw the covers off completely. He didn't care that he was naked. He stepped off the bed, his tall frame radiating pure, unfiltered menace.

He took a slow step toward her. Then another.

Ava's breath hitched. The sheer physical presence of the man was suffocating. She scrambled backward on the mattress, her heart hammering against her ribs until her spine hit the solid wood of the headboard.

She was trapped.

Garrison planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek.

"Are you absolutely sure," Garrison whispered, his voice dripping with lethal ice, "that your bank account can handle my price, sweetheart?"

Ava's fingers cramped around her phone. Her stomach felt like it was in freefall.

She forced herself to look into his eyes. They were pitch black, swirling with a rage she didn't understand.

"I checked the market rate," Ava lied, her voice shaking. "For top-tier escorts like you, it's five thousand dollars maximum for a night."

Garrison's jaw ticked. The words top-tier escort echoed in his head, fueling a fire in his chest that threatened to burn the whole room down.

He pushed off the bed abruptly. He grabbed a pair of suit trousers from a chair, pulled them on, and sat down in a massive leather armchair in the corner of the room. He crossed one long leg over the other, looking like a king preparing to execute a peasant.

"Five thousand?" Garrison sneered, his thumb moving to slowly rotate the heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger. "Is that how poorly you rate my performance?"

Ava swallowed the lump of terror in her throat. "Then... how much do you want?"

Garrison looked at her. He saw her trembling hands. He saw the cheap fabric of her ruined dress on the floor. He decided to crush her completely.

"Half a million," he stated, his voice flat and dead serious.

Ava's eyes bulged out of her head. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp.

"Half a million?!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Are you insane? Why don't you just go rob a bank on Wall Street!"

Garrison's lips curled into a cruel, mocking smile. "My time is worth far more than a bank on Wall Street."

Ava's hands started to shake violently. This man wasn't just a gigolo; he was a deranged extortionist.

"I can't give you that!" she yelled, the desperation clawing at her throat. "I don't even have five thousand dollars in my account right now!"

Garrison's thumb stopped rotating the ring. His eyes narrowed.

"You ordered a premium service at The Elysium with no money?" he mocked, his tone dripping with condescension.

"I didn't order you!" Ava cried out. Tears of frustration burned the back of her eyes. She scrambled to the edge of the bed, leaning over to dig frantically through her spilled bag. "I told you, it was an accident! I thought this was a regular rest lounge!"

Garrison watched her panic. His expression remained stone-cold. "An accident? You reeked of alcohol, used a master keycard to breach my door, and threw yourself at me. You call that an accident?"

Ava froze. Her hands hovered over her bag. She had no memory of a keycard. She had no memory of how she got into this room.

Her fingers found her worn, peeling leather wallet. She yanked it out and ripped it open.

She pulled out two plastic cards. One was a credit card her stepmother had maxed out months ago. The other was a basic debit card from a small, failing local bank in Queens.

She stared at the cards, the crushing weight of her poverty suffocating her. She couldn't even afford the fake five-thousand-dollar market rate she had made up.

With trembling hands, Ava slapped the cheap debit card onto the mahogany nightstand. The plastic made a pathetic smack sound.

"There is exactly one thousand eight hundred dollars on this card," Ava said, her voice cracking, but her chin tilted up in a desperate display of defiance. "I will pay the rest in installments. I swear to God, I won't run away."

Garrison stared at the piece of plastic on his nightstand.

He, the man who routinely destroyed multi-national corporations for sport, was being offered an installment plan of eighteen hundred dollars.

The absurdity of the situation hit him so hard he almost laughed. But as he looked at the cheap card, a crack formed in his logic. If she was a corporate spy or a high-end gold digger, whoever hired her wouldn't send her in with a maxed-out debit card from Queens.

He stood up from the chair. He walked back to the bed, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

"Do you honestly expect me to accept this insult?" he asked quietly.