Yahzaan sat behind the black marble desk in his private office on the 72nd floor, the city sprawling beneath him like a glittering fucking toy set. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Silence except for the low hum of the AC and the occasional tick of his watch.
Black coffee in a bone-white cup. No sugar. No cream. The way he always took it.
He lifted it to his lips. Took a sip.
Today it tasted like shit. Worse than shit. Like someone had pissed in the beans and then boiled them in regret.
He took another sip anyway. Swallowed. Grimaced.
He hadn’t gone to her apartment to propose marriage.
Fuck that.
He’d gone to shut her up.
Simple plan: walk in, remind her who he was, make it crystal clear what happened if one word about that night in the club ever left her lips. A threat wrapped in velvet....maybe cash, maybe a quiet warning about how easy it was to make problems disappear in this city. Reputation intact. Loose end tied off. Done.
That was the script.
Then she stepped out of the bedroom.
White robe. Thin cotton. Belt barely holding it together. Hair wet, clinging to her neck and shoulders in dark ropes. Bare legs...long, smooth, still glistening from the shower. Bare feet padding across her cheap rug like she owned the damn place.
One look and every rehearsed word evaporated.
He forgot the threat.
Forgot the plan.
Forgot how to fucking breathe for a second.
She froze when she saw him. Eyes wide. Fear flashing across her face like lightning. And that fear...God help him...that fear made it worse. Made her look smaller, softer, more breakable. Made the robe seem even thinner, like it was mocking him with how little it actually covered.
His mouth went dry.
Then the robe shifted...just a fraction as she took a step back. The belt loosened. Fabric parted enough for him to see skin. The inner curve of one breast. The dip of her waist. The shadowed line between her thighs.
Naked underneath.
Completely fucking naked underneath.
Something snapped inside his chest.
His brain short-circuited.
Every reason, threat, cleanup, reputation, evaporated.
All he could think was Mine.
He decided right then.
Not reason. Not caution. Just raw, animal want.
He was going to take her.
Touch her.
Fuck her.
On every available surface.
Couch. Kitchen counter. Floor. Shower. Bed. Against the wall. Until she couldn’t walk straight. Until her voice broke saying his name. Until every inch of her carried his marks and his scent and the memory of him inside her.
He was across the room before he registered moving. Hand over her mouth. Body pinning hers to the couch. Her robe falling open like it had been waiting for him. Her tears hot against his palm. Her body trembling under his weight. And him...hard as steel, grinding against her like a teenager who’d never touched a woman before.
He hadn’t planned any of it.
He hadn’t planned the words that came out of his mouth either.
Marry me.
Two days.
The ultimatum had spilled out like venom because once he’d felt her under him...once he’d smelled her skin, tasted the salt of her fear...he knew one time wouldn’t be enough. He knew he’d come back. Again. And again. Until she was ruined for anyone else.
Marriage was the only way to keep it clean on paper.
But clean on paper didn’t change the truth burning in his gut right now.
He wanted to break her.
He wanted to own her.
He wanted to hear her sob his name while he fucked her until she couldn’t stand.
And the scariest part?
He didn’t give a damn anymore if she said yes or no.
Either way, she was his.
Two days.
He’d wait.
But the second those forty-eight hours were up, he was coming back for her.
And this time he wouldn’t stop at threats.
Or proposals.
He’d take what he’d already decided belonged to him.
Let her pray.
Let her cry.
It wouldn’t change a fucking thing.
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End of the chapter🤍
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