Be Mine, Sinfully

Disclaimer: This book is sinfully spicy and downright filthy.

It contains explicit sexual content, strong language, and plenty of rough, reckless, and forbidden encounters.

If you’re not into dirty talk, steamy tension, and rule-breaking romance, turn back now.

Otherwise… enjoy the ride.

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Sienna's POV

The ballroom is a goddamn dream. All glittering chandeliers and crystal-clear champagne, the scent of roses thick in the air like an overplayed love song. Elegance drips from every inch of the place—the kind of event designed for society’s elite to show off their wealth, their power, their perfect little lives.

A Valentine’s Gala for Charity—that’s what the invitations had called it. A night of romance wrapped in expensive silk, tailored suits, and diamond-studded conversations.

But for me? It’s just another stage. Another role to play.

Daniel’s hand rests lightly on my lower back, the weight of it more like a possession than a lover’s touch. His grip is loose, casual, the same way he holds everything in his life—with ease, confidence, and a certainty that nothing will ever slip through his fingers.

Including me.

He stands beside me in his perfectly pressed tuxedo, the image of sophistication. The perfect man. My fiancé. And yet, I feel nothing. Not a single spark.

I sip my champagne, not because I want to, but because it gives me something to do while he speaks to a CEO I can’t be bothered to remember. Their conversation drones on—numbers, mergers, projections. The kind of talk that fuels Daniel, makes his eyes light up in a way I haven’t been able to do in years.

I checked out ten minutes ago.

Across the room, couples move gracefully across the dance floor, their laughter bubbling like the champagne in my glass. Women in expensive gowns lean into their partners, whispering flirtations, stealing kisses. The air is thick with love, desire, stolen moments in dimly lit corners.

I should be one of them.

I should be smiling up at Daniel, my fingers tracing the lapels of his jacket, whispering something playful in his ear. I should feel the urge to pull him close, to dance, to laugh, to want.

Instead, all I feel is cold.

I stare at my reflection in my untouched drink.

Red dress. Diamond bracelet. Flawless makeup. The perfect fiancée. A doll on display.

Daniel shifts beside me. “I’ll be right back.” His voice is smooth, low, but detached. He leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss against my temple—more for show than anything else. “I see someone I need to speak with.”

Of course he does.

I nod, not bothering with words.

And just like that, he’s gone, already moving toward another group, slipping into effortless conversation like I was never even standing there.

I exhale slowly, pressing my lips together. I need a break—just five fucking minutes where I don’t have to smile, where I don’t have to pretend.

I swirl the champagne in my glass, debating whether it’s strong enough to numb the emptiness clawing at my ribs. Probably not.

A deep chuckle drifts through the air, rich and sinful, sending a shiver down my spine before I even see the source.

Then I turn.

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

The Hallway

The hallway outside the ballroom is dimly lit, the golden glow from the sconces barely cutting through the shadows. The music and laughter from the gala filter through the closed doors, muffled and distant, like a world I don’t belong to.

I press my back against the wall and shut my eyes.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I need a moment. A second to clear my head, to shake the weight of expectation off my shoulders. I should be inside, smiling, holding Daniel’s arm, pretending like everything is picture-perfect.

But I’m not.

I’m here. In the quiet. Alone.

Or at least, I think I am.

Then a voice—deep, smooth, and dripping in amusement—sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“Well, well. Sneaking away already?”

My stomach drops. My heart stutters.

I don’t even have to look. I know that voice.

Grayson.

My eyes snap open, and there he is.

Leaning casually against the opposite wall, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily holding a whiskey glass. His dark hair is a mess—like he’s been running his fingers through it, restless and reckless. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, teasing just enough golden skin to make my mouth dry.

And the way he’s looking at me?

Like he knows. Like he sees the way my fingers twitch at my sides, the way my breath catches in my throat. Like he hears the sharp inhale I take just from being in his presence.

I force my lips into a smirk, masking the sudden heat curling low in my stomach.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, tilting my chin up. “Thought you hated these things.”

Grayson lifts the glass to his lips, smirking against the rim before taking a slow sip. His throat bobs, the movement inexplicably hypnotic.

“I do,” he admits, his voice like honey and sin. “But I figured watching you pretend to be happy all night might be worth the suffering.”

My jaw clenches.

Cocky. Infuriating. Unbearably right.

“Go to hell, Grayson.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dark, something teasing.

“Already there, sweetheart.” His gaze drags down my body, slow and deliberate, setting every nerve ending ablaze. When his eyes flick back up to mine, the heat in them is unmistakable. “And you? You’re dressed like sin. What a fucking waste.”

My pulse skips.

Heat licks at my skin, curling around my spine.

I should roll my eyes. I should scoff, tell him to go find someone else to torment. I should turn on my heel and storm back into that ballroom where I belong.

But I don’t.

I stay right where I am.

Because for all the reasons I shouldn’t want this? The biggest reason is standing right in front of me.

I do.

Grayson pushes off the wall, taking an unhurried step closer.

The air shifts. The hallway feels smaller. Hotter.

I swallow. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” His voice is a slow drag of smoke and temptation. Another step. “Because it’s wrong?”

I press my back harder against the wall, my body reacting before my brain can.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His hand lifts, slow, teasing. Fingertips barely brushing the fabric of my dress at my hip. The touch is featherlight, a ghost of contact, but it might as well be a fucking brand.

My breath catches.

Grayson leans in, his lips inches from my ear, his scent wrapping around me—whiskey, spice, and something entirely him.

“I don’t do things that are right, Sienna.” His voice is low, deliberate, laced with something lethal. “And neither do you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

He’s too close. My head spins.

“I’m engaged,” I whisper.

Grayson hums like the words don’t mean a damn thing. “Yeah. To my brother.”

The reminder should kill this moment. Should slap me back to reality.

Instead, I shudder.

Because the way he says it? Like it’s a joke. Like Daniel being between us is just an inconvenience, not a deal-breaker.

His fingers trace up my waist, slow, agonizing, barely skimming my skin through the fabric of my dress.

It’s wrong. So fucking wrong.

But when I meet his eyes, there’s something darker there. Something that makes my knees weak.

It’s not just attraction. It’s not just desire.

It’s history.

Memories I swore I buried.

And from the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly on my hip, I know he remembers them too.