Chapter Three

I stayed on my knees, my gaze locked on his. The world had shrunk to just the two of us, the magnificent view of Vegas dissolving into a meaningless backdrop. The only sound I registered was the blood

pounding in my ears, anticipating.

Maddox didn’t rush. He maintained eye contact, his expression intense, a slow burn of desire mixed with absolute control. This wasn’t just physical; it was a show, a moment of claiming.

His hands went to the belt buckle of his expensive trousers. It was a subtle, soft click that sounded deafening in the silence of the penthouse. He undid the heavy leather, the action deliberate and unhurried, his eyes never leaving mine.

The trousers slid smoothly over his narrow hips. The quality of the fabric was evident even as it fell to the floor in a puddle of expensive tailoring. He stepped out of them, leaving him standing there in only his crisp white tailored shirt and a pair of dark, designer boxer briefs.

The light from the city cast long, deep shadows, highlighting the hard lines of his body—the defined muscles under the expensive cloth. My mouth went dry. Even in the briefs, he was breathtaking, a masterpiece of genetically unfair proportions.

But he wasn't done.

He reached down again, his fingers hooking under the waistband of his boxers. He pulled them down with the same unhurried pace, dragging them past his sculpted thighs and letting them join the suit trousers on the floor.

And then he was fully exposed, standing over me, illuminated by the city lights.

My breath hitched again. He was everything his expensive suit had promised—dominant, flawless, and undeniably large. The sight of him, hard and ready, was the final, devastating blow to my rapidly deteriorating sobriety.

I looked up at him, my drunken eyes wide and filled with a lust I hadn't known I was capable of. The chaotic girl from the club was gone; in her place was someone entirely focused on the promise of this beautiful, terrible man.

Maddox let out a low, satisfied sound—a sound that was pure male appreciation of the effect he was having.

“That’s it, Story,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire now, the control starting to fray at the edges. “Tell me what you’re going to do with it.”

The demand hung in the air, echoing the authority that had already put me on my knees. Tell me what you’re going to do with it.

I didn’t need the alcohol to tell me what I wanted. The answer was immediate, visceral, and exactly the kind of rough, reckless response he was looking for. The sight of him, arrogant and fully exposed, banished any lingering inhibitions.

My lips parted, not in speech, but in anticipation. I leaned forward slightly, pushing my dark hair back from my face.

“Suck it up,” I managed, the three words coming out as a husky, breathless vow. It wasn’t a question; it was a hungry statement of intent. I didn't wait for permission.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the thick, hot length of him, anchoring myself to the beautiful destruction I’d invited into my night.

A deep, chest-rattling sound escaped Maddox. It was a guttural mix of triumph and pleasure.

The air in the room seemed to crackle with sudden, intense urgency, shattering the slow, deliberate pace he had maintained.

He threw his head back for a moment, letting the desire wash over him. When his gaze snapped back down to me, the predatory amusement was replaced by raw, consuming need. His control was tenuous now, held only by the thin thread of my submission.

“Good girl,” he ground out, the words ripped from his throat. He reached down, his hands tangling in my hair, gripping just firmly enough to remind me who was in charge, but the pressure was a clear indication that the chapter of slow seduction was officially over.

The chapter of immediate, rough gratification had begun.

Maddox’s hands tightened in my hair, pulling my head back slightly, forcing me to meet his gaze as I took him in. The intense pleasure that washed over him wasn’t silent; it was a rough, broken sound, an extended moan of pure masculine surrender to the immediate, dark pleasure I was giving him. His body was tense, straining above me, the muscles in his arms and chest bunching.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few intense, dizzying minutes, Maddox’s breathing grew ragged.

He pulled his head back and wrenched his hands from my hair, taking a step back that was less about retreat and more about regaining a semblance of control.

“Stop,” he commanded, the word sharp, carrying the rasp of barely contained release. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly under the pristine white shirt.

I looked up, dazed, my own heart hammering a wild, erratic rhythm.

“Get up, Story,” he ordered, his voice still deep but laced with renewed dominance. “Now, strip. Seductively.”

The new command sent a fresh spike of adrenaline and anticipation through my system. I pushed myself to my feet, swaying slightly, the alcohol finally catching up to the desire. My body was already in full meltdown mode: my skin felt hot, my thighs were trembling and sticky, a silent testament to how wet my pussy was, and my nipples were standing hard against the thin fabric of my dress.

I didn't need to be told twice.

This was the part where I fully embraced the role of the chaos queen, the star of this private, Vegas show. I began peeling off the cocktail dress, slowly, like one of those high-budget porn stars on PornHub I’d only ever watched ironically.

I let the fabric slide over my hips, taking an exaggerated amount of time, using the movement to showcase my body to the man who was watching with hawk-like focus.

The dress dropped to the marble floor. I was left in a set of lace lingerie—black, simple, and now completely insufficient to cover the heat emanating from my skin. My hands went to the straps, easing them down my shoulders, the lace a delicate contrast to the rough desire in the room.

Maddox watched every deliberate move, his eyes tracking the line of my body, the sight of my aroused nipples, the wetness staining the silk between my thighs. His face was a mask of pure, possessive lust.

He didn't move. He didn't interrupt. He simply watched until I was entirely naked, standing before him in the brilliant, unforgiving light of the city view.

His breath hissed out. He took another step toward me, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to grab me. He finally let a small, dark laugh escape.

“You’re a filthy little piece of ass, Story,” he muttered, his voice a low, nasty growl that made my knees lock and a thrilling shiver run down my spine. The words were meant to degrade, and yet, in this moment, they felt like the highest form of praise.

The growl of his words, "You’re a filthy little piece of ass, Story," hit me with the force of a physical push. I shivered, not from cold, but from the raw, intoxicating power of his voice.

“The bed,” he commanded, gesturing towards the immense, low-slung platform dominating the bedroom area. “Lie down.”

I obeyed instantly, moving with a fluid, exaggerated sway that was entirely for his benefit. I climbed onto the bed, the silk sheets cool and crisp beneath my skin, and settled onto my back. I watched Maddox, my eyes devouring the sight of him.

He was focused, his own desire reaching a fever pitch. He reached up and tore the buttons of his crisp white shirt open, the sound loud in the opulent quiet. The shirt was discarded without a second thought, joining the heap of expensive clothes on the floor.

And then I saw them. God, those abs. Each muscle was perfectly sculpted, running down his torso like carved marble, a testament to serious dedication and probably a full-time personal trainer. A flicker of genuine sadness, sharp and strangely sober, pierced through the alcohol haze.

I won’t remember how beautiful those abs were tomorrow. This was the curse of the one-night stand—the memory was going to be a hazy montage of feeling, not detail.

Maddox finally moved, advancing on the bed like a predator closing in. He climbed onto the mattress, shifting his weight over me, not touching, just hovering. He was fully naked now, all golden skin and hard muscle.

He moved slowly, deliberately, lowering his head until he was close to my chest. He inhaled deeply, his breath hot against my aroused skin. He didn't kiss me. Instead, he started sniffing, moving his head across my body like a bloodhound on a scent trail.

From my collarbone to the swell of my breast, he inhaled, his mouth slightly parted. He moved lower, tracing the curve of my waist, the flat of my stomach, until his nose was nestled between my thighs. His breath was warm, humid, and intoxicatingly focused on the exact center of my desire.

He lifted his head, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“You’re crying for me already, aren’t you, Story?” he murmured, the comment nasty and entirely true. “Drowning in it.”

The public humiliation of the comment only fueled the lust.

He reached down, his finger dark against the pale, wet skin of my inner thigh. He paused, looking at me, his eyes full of that tempting, playful devilry. Then, very slowly, he inserted a single finger into my soaked core.

I gasped, my back arching off the silk. It was a dizzying rush of sensation—too much, too fast.

But before I could even settle into the pleasure, he pulled his finger out, looking at the slick, clear wetness clinging to his skin. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasting it, his eyes never leaving mine.

It was exactly the kind of cruel, tempting game a parent plays with a child, offering a treat only to take it away and consume it themselves. The denied pleasure made the need inside me scream.

“Impatience doesn’t suit you, little Story,” he whispered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You have to learn to beg.”