It was the kiss of a drowning man, trying to pull the air straight from her lungs.

His hand was tangled in her hair, holding her head in place.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving.

He stared at her lips, waiting for a reaction.

Though her lipstick was smeared at the corner of her mouth, her eyes were as clear and steady as a frozen lake.

She placed her hands flat against his chest and pushed herself up.

She stood up slowly, smoothing the front of her silk dress.

With a casual flick of her thumb, she wiped the smeared lipstick from her skin.

She picked up her Prada clutch from the edge of the table.

She looked around the room, offering a polite smile to the stunned men.

"I have an early seminar tomorrow. I need to get home. Have a good night, gentlemen."

A tremor ran through Ansel's leg muscles.

His body wanted to stand up, to follow her, to beg her to stay.

Digging his nails into his own palms, he forced himself to remain seated.

He looked at Jax, his face a mask of cold stone.

"Tell the valet to bring the car around for her."

Ellie did not look back at him.

She turned and walked out the door, her heels clicking softly until she disappeared down the hall.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

The air in the room instantly felt ten degrees colder.

Bryan let out a nervous, loud laugh.

"Wow. You really have her trained well, Ansel. She didn't even shed a tear."

Ansel did not look at him.

He reached up and slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt.

He needed air.

He picked up his half-empty glass of bourbon from the table.

Without a word, he flicked his wrist.

Ice and dark liquor arced through the air, splashing directly onto Bryan's custom leather shoes.

Bryan jumped back, letting out a high-pitched yelp.

"What the hell, man?" Bryan yelled, looking down at the mess.

Ansel stood up.

His six-foot-two frame towered over the table.

He did not say a single word.

He walked past Sterling and Jax, his boots hitting the floor with heavy, menacing thuds.

He walked out of the VIP room.

Bryan's face burned red with humiliation.

He wiped his shoes with a napkin and stormed out into the hallway after Ansel.

"You can't just do that and walk away!" Bryan shouted to Ansel's back.

The hallway was empty.

The dim wall sconces cast long shadows across the carpet.

Bryan took three fast steps, reaching his hand out to grab Ansel's shoulder.

Ansel spun around faster than Bryan could blink.

Ansel's hand shot out and grabbed the knot of Bryan's silk tie.

With a violent shove, he slammed Bryan backward, his knuckles scraping brutally against the rough molding of the wall. He didn't even flinch as the skin tore.

Bryan's back hit the wood-paneled wall with a sickening thud.

The breath was knocked out of Bryan's lungs.

His feet dangled an inch off the ground.

Ansel pressed his forearm directly against Bryan's windpipe.

Gone was the lazy, arrogant playboy mask.

In its place was pure, unhinged rage, turning his eyes black.

He leaned in until his nose was inches from Bryan's face.

"Even if she is just a convenience to me," Ansel whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.

"She is still mine."

Ansel pressed his forearm harder against the throat.

Bryan's face started to turn a dark shade of purple.

"If you ever speak to her again, or even look in her direction, I will personally see to it that your father's hedge fund is liquidated by Friday."

Bryan's eyes bulged with terror.

He clawed frantically at Ansel's arm, making a wet, choking sound in the back of his throat.

The VIP room door opened.

Sterling stepped out and froze, his eyes wide as he took in the violent scene.

Ansel felt Sterling's presence.

He looked at Bryan with absolute disgust and opened his hand.

Bryan collapsed onto the carpet like a broken doll, gasping loudly for air.

Ansel reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief.

He wiped his fingers with the handkerchief as if he had just touched raw sewage.

He dropped the dirty cloth directly onto Bryan's face.

Ansel adjusted the bottom of his suit jacket and walked toward the private elevator without looking back.

As the private elevator doors slid open into the underground parking garage, the cold concrete air hit Ansel's face.

A violent energy still hummed under his skin.

He walked toward the sleek black Maybach waiting near the exit.

The driver stood by the rear door, holding it open.

Ansel ducked his head and slid into the spacious backseat.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

The roar of a sports car driving past was instantly cut off.

The inside of the Maybach was dead silent.

On the far side of the car sat Ellie.

Her shoulder was pressed against the cold glass of the window.

She was staring out at the concrete pillars of the garage.

The chasm of empty leather between them made the knot in Ansel's chest pull tighter.

The car pulled smoothly out of the garage and merged onto the busy Manhattan streets.

Neon lights from the storefronts flashed across the dark leather interior.

Ansel could not stand the silence.

He reached his long arm across the empty space.

He aimed for her hand resting quietly on her knee.

But just as his fingertips brushed the air above her skin, she moved.

She casually lifted her hand and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Ansel's hand grabbed nothing but air.

His arm hovered awkwardly over the seat.

He slowly pulled his hand back, his jaw clenching hard.

He shifted his weight, sliding across the leather until he was sitting right next to her.

"Are you angry about what happened in the room?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Ellie turned her head.

She gave him a flawless, polite smile.

"Not at all. I understand the social rules of the Upper East Side."

She tilted her head slightly.

"But next time you need to put on a performance for your friends, you should give me the script in advance. I want to make sure I hit my marks."

The words hit Ansel like a physical blow to the chest.

Her cool, detached tone was a thousand times worse than a scream.

He ground his back teeth together.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward his chest.

Ellie did not thrash or fight.

She simply raised her free hand and placed her palm flat against his shoulder.

She kept exactly three inches of space between their bodies.

"The driver is right there, Ansel," she said softly. "Please maintain a safe distance while the car is moving."

Ansel glanced at the thick, black privacy partition separating them from the front seat.

"The partition is up. He cannot see or hear anything."

Ellie did not lower her hand.

She kept her arm locked, maintaining the physical wall between them.

Her eyes were clear, showing absolutely no desire to close the gap.

Ansel let out a frustrated breath.

He let go of her wrist and fell back against his side of the seat.

He reached up and yanked his tie loose, pulling the silk away from his throat.

As he moved, the scent of his cologne filled the small space.

It was Tom Ford Oud Wood, heavy and rich.

But underneath the expensive wood scent, Ellie's nose caught something else.

The sharp, metallic scent of copper. Blood.

She knew from the raw skin on his knuckles that he had hit someone.

Ellie's eyebrows pulled together for a fraction of a second.

She turned her face back toward the window.

The steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge blurred past the glass.

Her brain started to calculate exactly how this relationship had spiraled so far out of control.

That scent, the Oud Wood, was a hook in her brain.

It dragged her thoughts backward, away from the cold car.

It pulled her back to three months ago.

Back to the summer heat.

Back to the day she was just an outsider visiting her aunt.

In her mind, the phantom smell of salt water and expensive sunscreen replaced the stench of blood.

Ellie closed her eyes, letting the memory of the tennis court take over.

Three months ago. The August sun beat down on the Hamptons, the air thick with the smell of sea salt and coconut tanning oil.

Ellie wore a simple white linen sundress.

She sat on a wooden bench at the far edge of the Meadow Club's outdoor patio.

A thick macroeconomics textbook rested in her lap.

She kept her head down, deliberately ignoring the loud, wealthy crowd gathered on the main lawn.

A charity tennis exhibition match had just finished.

The crowd erupted into polite, overly enthusiastic clapping.

In the center of the clay court stood Ansel.

He wore a crisp white tennis polo and shorts.

Sweat dripped down his sharp cheekbones and soaked the collar of his shirt.

He was surrounded by a circle of young heiresses and junior investment bankers.

The boredom on his face was palpable.

Ansel tossed his expensive racket to a teenage ball boy.

A blonde girl in a designer dress held out a cold towel to him.

He ignored her completely and walked off the court, heading toward the quiet edge of the patio.

He walked up the stone steps.

His blue eyes scanned the empty tables until they locked onto the girl sitting alone in the corner.

Ellie was highlighting a paragraph in her book.

She did not notice the sudden drop in noise as Ansel walked away from his fans.

Ansel stopped right in front of her bench.

He shifted his stance, intentionally blocking the sunlight that was hitting her pages.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over her textbook.

Ellie frowned.

She followed the line of the long, muscular legs standing in front of her.

She looked all the way up until she met a pair of amused, ocean-blue eyes.

Ansel shoved one hand into his pocket.

"Reading economics in the Hamptons is a tragic waste of a summer day," he said, his voice dripping with lazy arrogance.

Ellie did not blush or stutter.

She calmly closed the heavy textbook.

"Far more productive," she replied, "than strutting around a tennis court like a peacock looking for a mate."

The barb pierced straight through his inflated ego.

He blinked, genuinely surprised.

Then, a low, genuine laugh rumbled in his chest.

Instead of walking away, he sat down heavily on the bench right next to her.

His broad shoulder brushed against hers, invading her personal space.

Ansel glanced at the plain leather watch on her wrist.

His eyes calculated her net worth in a single second.

"Which family brought you here as their plus-one?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

Ellie felt a hot flash of anger in her chest.

She sat up perfectly straight, refusing to shrink away from him.

"My aunt is Marion Bancroft. And it seems your manners are not as impressive as your backhand."

Ansel's eyes darkened.

The lazy amusement vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a predator spotting a challenge.

He stood up suddenly.

He walked over to a nearby table and picked up a spare tennis racket.

He pointed the frame of the racket toward the empty clay court.

"If you can last one single game against me, I will apologize for my manners."

He paused, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

"But if you lose, you owe me one unconditional favor."

Ellie looked past him.

A glance toward the clubhouse doors revealed her Aunt Marion, standing awkwardly while two older women whispered and pointed.

Ellie's stomach tightened.

She stood up and grabbed the racket from his hand.

She walked past him, heading straight for the baseline.

The crowd quickly noticed the commotion and gathered around the fences.

Ansel served the first ball easily, barely using any power.

He expected her to miss.

Ellie stepped into the swing and hit a brutal, perfectly angled forehand straight down the line.

The ball kicked up a cloud of chalk dust as it landed perfectly on the line.

Ansel's smile dropped.

His body tensed, and the real game began.

For ten minutes, they traded vicious, heavy shots.

Ansel's power was overwhelming, pushing Ellie further and further behind the baseline.

His chest heaved as he leaped into the air for a final overhead smash.

The ball slammed into the clay, inches from Ellie's feet, and bounced over the fence.

Ansel landed on his feet.

He looked through the net at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He flashed a victorious, predatory smile.

He had won his favor.