CHAPTER 2
1345 Words
Priscilla's Pov
I left the club laughing. Not because it was funny — but because my legs had stopped obeying me. Because the world spun just a little too fast.
The sidewalk tilted. Just for a second. I nearly fell.
But he was there. His arm slid around my waist. Firm. Present. Like a belt made of silence.
“Are you alright?” His voice was close. Closer than anything else.
I looked up at him. And laughed again. “I’ve never felt better.”
It was a lie. But it was true. Right then — between the dizziness and his hand — I was somewhere else.
He looked at me. Long enough to unsettle. Then he smiled. That slow smile, almost dangerous.
And said, “Then come.”
The car was waiting. Not parked. Posed. A Bugatti. Deep black. Curves like claws. An engine silent as a threat.
I stopped. “Is it yours?”
He didn’t answer. Just opened the passenger door. Like an invitation. Like a dare.
I got in. No thought. No breath.
Inside: leather and carbon. The scent of speed. Of power. Of control.
He joined me. Started the engine without a sound. And the city began to slide behind us.
I turned to him. “What do you do for a living? Hitman? Arabian prince?”
He smiled. “I help people forget.”
I looked at him. “And me? What do you want me to forget?”
He accelerated. Just enough to make my heart skip.
“What you were before tonight.”
And there, in that impossible car, with that impossible man, I closed my eyes.
And left Priscilla behind.
The car surged into the night, fluid and silent, like a beast trained never to flinch. He drove with one hand, the other resting on his thigh. But his eyes kept returning to me. Again. And again.
Not distracted. Intentional.
I held his gaze. Then I smiled — slow, provocative. The kind of smile that unravels restraint.
He saw it. He understood. And he smiled back. Not a promise. A threat.
I leaned toward him. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Every movement measured. Offered. Claimed.
My hand slid across his abdomen. Heat pulsed beneath the shirt. Muscle. Stillness. A tension waiting to snap.
“You’re solid,” I murmured. “Like a weapon someone forgot to hide.”
He turned his head. His eyes burned. But his voice stayed calm. Almost amused.
Then he accelerated. Just enough to press me into the seat. Just enough to make my pulse stutter.
My hand stayed on him. His left hand left the wheel for a second, brushed my knee, then returned.
And there, in that impossible car, with that impossible man, I understood: This wasn’t a game. It was a collision in motion.
The road stretched ahead — smooth, black, endless. He drove like he’d done it a thousand times. But his eyes kept coming back to
me. Too often. Too long.
I knew it. I wanted it.
So I smiled again. Slower. Sharper. The kind that says: I know what you want. And I’ll decide when.
His hand slid higher. Under my dress. Brushing my skin like a question. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. But a sigh escaped me. Light.
Uncontrolled.
He noticed. He savored it.
His fingers stopped at the edge of reason. Then he turned his head toward me. Still driving. Still steady.
“Does this bother you?” His voice was lower. Rougher.
I looked at him. My smile widened. More dangerous. More deliberate.
“No. On the contrary,” I paused. Then whispered — almost a moan: “You could go higher.”
He didn’t answer. But his gaze darkened. And his hand obeyed.
I felt the heat of his fingers against bare skin. And this time, I didn’t hold back. A quiet moan slipped from my lips. Not from pain.
Not surprise. Just… surrender.
He smiled. Slowly. Like he’d just won a war I didn’t know I was fighting.
“You like adrenaline?”
I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Then murmured, “I like not knowing if I’m in danger… or being reborn.”
And there, in that impossible car, with this man who had promised me nothing, I knew: I was no longer running.
I was falling.
He parked the car in front of a house that wasn’t a house. It was a statement. Glass and stone. Tall. Sculpted. Lit like a painting.
I stepped out without a word. The ground beneath my heels was too smooth. Too perfect. Even the air felt designed.
He opened the door. Not with a key. With a gesture. And everything lit up.
Inside: marble, metal, silence. No clutter. No life. Just… control.
A floating staircase. Works of art. A fireplace that gave no heat. And that scent again — woody, intrusive. Like him.
I walked without looking. I didn’t see the paintings, or the perfect lines of the furniture. I felt them. But I didn’t care.
I was already elsewhere.
He closed the door behind us. The sound was soft. But final.
I turned. He was there. Still. Watching me. Waiting for something I wouldn’t say.
So I said nothing.
I took off my shoes. Slowly. Left them on the marble. Like an offering. Or a pause.
He approached. Not fast. Not slow. Just with that certainty that asked for nothing.
“Do you want a tour?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I want to forget.”
He lifted me into his arms. Effortless. As if I weighed nothing. As if I already belonged to him.
His scent wrapped around me. Stronger. More intoxicating. It slipped into my hair, my skin, my thoughts.
I closed my eyes. Just for a second. And let go.
He climbed the stairs without releasing me. Each step echoed like a promise. Like a rise toward the inevitable.
The bedroom appeared. Vast. Minimal. Too perfect to be real.
But I didn’t look at anything.
I looked at him.
And I kissed him.
Not gently. Not timidly.
Like a starving wolf.
My lips slid across his skin. His chest. His stomach. Every shiver fed me. I whispered things. Words without logic. Fragments of myself. Secrets I never spoke aloud.
“You burn…” I breathed. “As if you were made to consume me.”
He stopped me. Not abruptly. Not violently. Just… his hand on my wrist. Light. But firm
.
I looked up. His gaze had changed. Less fire. More gravity.
“Are you aware of what’s happening?” His voice didn’t tremble. But it carried something else. Concern. Restraint. A door left open.
I held his gaze. Then I smiled. Not to seduce. To answer.
“I know that tomorrow I’ll return to my usual life.” My voice was clear. Certain. But every word vibrated like a taut string.
“But not right now.”
I leaned in. My breath brushed his cheek. My fingers found his skin again.
“Right now, I want you to consume me. Burn me. Desire me.”
He didn’t answer. But his eyes darkened. And his hand released my wrist.
Then I knew: He understood.
And tonight, he wouldn’t save me.
He would follow me into the fire.
He pulled me against him. And this time, he held nothing back.
Our mouths collided — hunger against hunger. Vertigo against vertigo.
His hands found my skin. Precise. Burning. As if he were reading me in braille.
My dress slipped from my shoulders. I don’t remember how. Only his mouth on my collarbone. My nails in his back. Our breaths — searching, colliding, merging.
He carried me to the bed. Not like a conquest. Like an offering.
I arched beneath him. My legs wrapped around his waist. My words became whispers. Then sighs. Then silence.
And when he entered me
Not brutal. Not hesitant
I thought of nothing. Not my mother. Not Brenda. Not tomorrow.
Only that heat. That burn. That fire he had promised.
- Writer
