A Hotter Revenge For The Luna.

Chapter 2

Raina's POV

The luxury leather seat is warm, and the driver tears into the dark like a beast, tires hissing on wet asphalt while rain hammers the roof. I wrap my hands around my chest so my breasts press forward against my silk fabric, and I'm still shivering, still faking it because the car is warm—or maybe Vance just sitting next to me is already burning me alive.

I'm sitting next to a sworn enemy, and I'm about to make myself his favorite kind of poison just so my revenge can fall in place.

"It's freezing," I whisper, voice shaky and small—the way a person whispers when they are too scared to speak.

Vance doesn't glance over. His eyes stay steady on the road like he's just saving me from dying from the cold and nothing more. He doesn't say a single word.

My skirt rides up just high enough that the motion feels like a mistake, and I shift closer, letting my thighs press against the denim over his tight like I just needed heat. His denim-clad thighs are touching my bare laps, pale, smooth, and impossible to miss, then I slide my hands down to cover my exposed skin like I'm trying to warm my legs.

The gesture is very polite, but it pins my legs against his still.

Vance notices. His eyes drop for a heartbeat, then peel away.

"Here." He pulls his long coat free. "Put this on."

I hesitate a little, like I'm too cold to even reach it. Then he spreads it over me instantly, in one quiet motion.

The coat is heavy and warm from his body. And, of course, it smells like him. I turn my face into the coat, breathing him in. Soon, it becomes his own skin.

"Turn the heat up, please," he tells his driver.

The driver gives a low grunt in reply.

A second later, the vents hiss alive. Hot air surges around us. That's okay, but that's not enough. Still, I turn my face to him, clutch both sides of the coat like a shy little pup and murmur, "Thank you," with a smile.

He doesn't answer at all. He just keeps staring out at the windshield again.

Warmth is a gift I've never been given before. My mother is always ill, always shut away. She never heals after Vance, and eventually it kills her. It's me giving her warmth even when I'm only a child. That's why I'm here—in Vance's world—to make him see things for himself.

A few seconds later, the car slows, and we roll to a stop at a massive house. The gate slides open. The driver cuts the engine, and the doors open smoothly. Two of his security guards are flanking the car already. They are built like hawks and clad in all black.

Vance climbs out first, and I follow. The cold night air hits me first, and I get a clear view of the house.

The house is all marble, mirrored planes, and luxury.

He leads me inside, but the guards don't follow.

The air is warm inside, along with warm lights perched all over the place.

He's behind me, so I slip out of the coat quickly, letting him watch as I peel off.

"There's a guest suit—"

"No one's ever been this kind to me," I whisper, voice small. My coat slides from my shoulder and pools on the ground like liquid, and I step over it. Barefoot. Beneath my silk fabric, my breasts are full and heavy, and my n*s are already taut against it.

I press myself softly against him, and my cheeks bloom crimson. I feel it—his breath catches hard, a pulse hammers at the back of his throat, and he inhales shakily through his nose.

"I don't even know what to call you." My voice is small, flirty.

"Vance," he says, voice gravelly, as his gaze drags down my body. "Just call me Vance."

"Vance," I say after him, hiding the icy glint in my eyes.

His gaze comes back up, and he meets my eyes. "You are drenched. Let me get you warm," he says as if he's bored of standing in that spot and wants to move into the room quickly.

"I can warm up by the fire. Once I'm done, I'd disappear, I promise."

He doesn't buy that. "Tell me about your family. Who should I call for you?"

The question pierces like steel. Tears flood so fast before I stop them. I say nothing, just sobbing.

Vance's face softens instantly. "Hey, kid!—uhm—never mind," he says quickly.

Kid? Good! I might be a kid to him, but I'm 18, and this is just the perfect time.

"Stay here tonight." His thumb brushes a tear from my eyes slowly. "I'll listen when you are ready to talk." He takes my hand carefully. "C'mon." And leads me down the hallway to a dimly lit guestroom. I follow, shaking.

Now I need to do something quickly. If I miss this opportunity, Vance may have me leave his house by tomorrow.

The moment the door opens and we step inside, I reach the hem of my fabric and peel it off. Breasts spilling free, flushed, full, and cold from the weather. Next, I hear the door pulling shut. Vance is already gone. He doesn't see me naked. Maybe he catches a glimpse of what I'm trying to do and leaves before he falls.

I stand naked with a grimace on my face. I'm here anyway. Another try comes tomorrow, and it won't be long. I promise tomorrow must be heated.

Vance must bend.

Morning

The chime pulls me from sleep. It is soft, almost musical—nothing like the sound of an alarm I'm used to.

I wake. I'm still wearing only lace panties. My skin smells faintly of Vance's perfume, and my silk dress is lying abandoned on the ground where I dropped it last night.

I scramble out of bed, hair scattered, and rush into the bathroom, slam the shower to cozy heat, and step under it. I tip my hair back, and water slams over it, heavy down my spine, my finger-colored hair, and the rest of my body. Then I scrub delicately and rinse before stepping out.

The door opens without a knock, and my breath catches before I can stop it. My towel moves instinctively over my body.

"Good morning, Miss. Vance asked me to bring you something comfortable," a plump woman in her mid-forties says, eyes lowered. Her black dress is well ironed, and her apron is neatly placed over her waist. Her gray hair is in a low bun.

She lays an ivory pajama set on the bed. "Breakfast is ready as well."

"Thank you," I murmur, barely above a whisper.

She gives me a smile, then turns and heads out.

I do not hesitate. I slip into them. Vance might be at the dining table already. I have to do this right.

I slip barefoot on the heated marble through the silent house.

Downstairs smells of coffee and mild cologne—exactly how his coat smells. Evidence that Vance is around.

He's alone, sitting at the edge of the pool. Coffee beside him, sun low on his skin. Bare legs tucked into the pool, half-buttoned shirt clings damply on his chest, burgundy swim shorts resting comfortably on his waist. He sits there like he owns the world. And it's so devastating. He looks insanely hot just by sitting there and sipping coffee to himself.

He doesn't see me yet.

I pad towards him, stopping a few paces away. "Good morning," I say, voice so meek I doubt I said it. "I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay."

"You are up early," he says, too gentle, ignoring whatever I just finished saying. I know he's not gentle. He's exactly a bad, freaky, dominating man who steals every heart he comes across and dumps it like it's nothing later.

He looks up and meets my gaze. The sunlight catches him at a perfect angle, turning his gray eyes silver.

Then I tip one shoulder, and the fabric loosens while I stand elegantly with one leg tipped higher, hands tucked behind me. "I should probably go now."

He sets the glass down, tilts his head, then studies me for a long time. "What's your name, kid?"

I hesitate just long enough to make the silence stretch. "Raina," I whisper softly.

"Stay, Raina."

My heart slams against my ribs. Did he just ask me to stay?

Game on!.