Nia

Lucas’s penthouse smelled like him the second I stepped inside—expensive cologne with a darker undertone that I could never name but could always recognize. It wrapped around me the way his arms used to, sharp and addictive. Four weeks without him had felt like starvation. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache for a man, and the moment his eyes locked on mine, the air between us turned into something combustible.

“Close the door,” he said, voice low and already ...