The address arrived on heavy cream cardstock the morning after the gala, two lines in that same sharp, masculine script: The Fairmont, penthouse three. Eleven o'clock. No signature. No pleasantries. Adrian Cross did not waste words, and Elena suspected he did not waste anything.

She spent the morning in a haze of restless energy, showering, drying her hair, lingering at her closet in a silk robe while her mind replayed the terrace scene in an endless loop. You are a woman who needs to be owned. Properly. Thoroughly. The words had burrowed into her like a splinter she could not remove, and every time she repeated them to herself, the ache between her legs intensified. She had slept poorly. She had touched herself twice, biting her pillow to muffle the sounds, and both times she had come to the memory of his gray eyes and the promise in his voice.