The room was dark, lit only by a low, amber wall light. Velvet curtains shut out the chaos of the club below. The faint thrum of bass echoed like a distant heartbeat.

He pushed open the private suite door with one hand, the other still holding her effortlessly. Her lashes fluttered as she clung to him, soaked, trembling—but not from fear.

He strode in and stopped at the foot of the king-sized bed. Without a word, he lowered her gently onto the soft sheets. The mattress dipped beneath her weight as he stepped back, his eyes trailing slowly down her body—those wide, tearful eyes, swollen lips, and the way her dress clung to her damp skin.

"You're beautiful, it makes me want to fuck the living daylight out of you." he murmured.

She swallowed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “You’re the first person to say that,” she whispered.

He moved closer.

His fingers brushed her cheek. Then down to her jaw. And lower—to the pulse trembling in her neck.

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said, voice low, “but I can help you forget. Just for tonight.”

Her breath caught as he leaned in, kissing her again—slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission, didn’t pretend it wasn’t going to unravel her.

Her hands tangled in his shirt, pulling, clutching, needing.

He followed her pace not ready to take it easy on her, he ripped her clothes off her body, the heat between them like fire on skin. She felt his body press against hers—solid, grounding, intoxicating. His fingers skimmed along her waist, up her ribs, exploring her like he had all the time in the world.

Their kisses turned breathless. Her legs tangled around his torso as she arched into him as he whispered into her ear, “You can tell me to stop, and I will.”

She looked up at him—into those dark eyes filled with something dangerous and unspoken.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don't stop even if I beg you to.”

His mouth claimed hers again, deeper now. Clothes slipped away, barriers falling one by one. Her pain spilled into his touch; his hands mapped her every inch like he wanted to memorize her skin.

She felt his hand palm her cold bare p*ssy and she shut her eyes tightly as he rammed two fingers into her at once. She released the breathe she has been holding, her mouth wide open as her c*nt swallowed his fingers.

He pumped harder- and faster, the squeaky sound her juices made against his fingers sounded like music to his ears.

"Fuck!! "

His fingers kept pumping into her, his eyes fixed on her face as she moaned breathlessly beneath him. He shoved his fingers out and she gasped as she felt something heavy leave her, but the disappointment was replaced with a scream immediately he slammed his d*ck into her without warning.

"You're so tight."He groaned, swapping their positions as he laid on the bed and she on top.

Her elbows fell on his side as she began to ride him, sliding was extremely difficult for her since she couldn't accommodate all of him.

He held her round ass firmly and slammed his full length upwards, fucking her mercilessly like it was a punishment. She fell against his chest, their sweats rubbing against each other, the sound of skin clapping filled the room.

"I'm - shit - I'm going to ..... !!"He groaned pumping faster into her.

She was too weak to respond and he did it. He spilled his seeds inside her and she moaned as she felt his hot c*m fill her up.

~~ NEXT MORNING ~~

A sharp throb cracked through her skull as Liora stirred, groaning as she sat up. The room spun. Her lashes fluttered open to dim lighting, the distant echo of bass thudding below.

Her hair stuck to her damp forehead, mascara smeared under her eyes. Her entire body ached like she had been hit by a truck—or more accurately, a man with a god-tier stamina and zero mercy.

Her gaze dropped to the sheets. Bare skin. No underwear. No clothes.

Her eyes widened in panic. “Oh my God…” she whispered hoarsely, yanking the blanket up to her chest. “Did I just—did I actually fuck a stranger?”

She scrambled toward the edge of the bed, only for her knees to buckle the moment her feet hit the floor. She collapsed against the mattress with a soft cry, clinging to the sheet. Her body betrayed her. Legs weak, thighs sore, lips swollen.

Flashes of last night flickered in her mind—his mouth, his hands, the way he took her like she was the only thing that could keep him sane. Like he needed her as much as she needed to forget.

And God, they hadn’t stopped.

They’d gone again... and again... until she’d blacked out in his arms.

Liora cursed under her breath, brushing a hand over her temple. “What kind of monster did I sleep with?”

She stood up again, this time slower. Her eyes scanned the floor, searching for her clothes—only to gasp when she saw them.

Her dress was ripped. Shredded down the seams like paper. The bra? Torn in two. Her panties? Gone. Possibly incinerated.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, holding up the scraps.

But then, something caught her eye.

A sleek black box sat neatly on the nearby stool—like it had been waiting for her.

Still naked and cautious, she stepped over to it, clutching the sheet around her. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.

Inside, folded delicately, was a brand new designer dress.

She tightened the sheet around her chest and turned to head toward the bathroom, her bare feet brushing against something hard on the floor.

She looked down.

A small red card lay just at the edge of the bed. Curious, she bent down and picked it up.

"Skyhigh Suites" was etched in silver letters on one side—sleek, expensive, cold.

She flipped it.

J.

That was it? No number. No name. Just J.

Her brows furrowed. Did he mistakenly drop it? Or… leave it?

Clutching the card, she hurried into the bathroom, mind spinning. She leaned against the cool tile for a second, trying to breathe, before stepping into the shower.

Warm water hit her skin, and she flinched. Her body was a map of bruises and bite marks—proof of how rough, how raw, last night had been.

She didn’t have time to dwell. She scrubbed herself clean, then stepped out, towel-dried in a rush, and pulled the new dress over her head. It fit her like a second skin—rich fabric that hugged her curves perfectly.

The box hadn’t come with a note. No name. No number. No trace of the man who wrecked her and vanished.

Clutching her bag and the red card, she left the club, the morning light stinging her eyes as the city greeted her with indifference.