Steele's Obsession

A Note Before You Begin

Steele’s Obsession is a dark romance crafted for mature readers. This story delves into intense, gritty, and emotionally complex themes that are not suitable for everyone.

The narrative contains graphic content, including:

· A morally grey, intensely possessive, and obsessive male lead.

· Explicit and vividly depicted intimate scenes.

· Realistic depictions of violence.

· Explorations of past trauma, toxic relationships, and emotional chaos.

· Strong language, power imbalances, and dominant behavior.

This is a work of fiction that portrays a tumultuous and consuming relationship. While all intimacy is consensual between the adult characters, their dynamic is fierce and unorthodox.

Alright, let's get one thing crystal clear before you dive into this world.

This is a book.

The characters you're about to meet—especially Mason—are deeply, fundamentally flawed. They are carved from trauma, sealed in obsession, and hardened by life. Their damage is a core part of who they are.

So, do not expect them to see the light in a single chapter.

Do not expect a heartfelt speech to suddenly erase a decade of fixation.

Do not anticipate that their demons will politely vanish because they've found each other. Growth here is a brutal, messy, and non-linear battle. Their flaws aren't cute quirks to be solved; they are the very engine of the plot.

This is a journey, not a quick fix. If you're looking for characters who make nothing but healthy, rational decisions, you have picked up the wrong book.

You've been warned. Now, manage your expectations accordingly.

Alright, riders. You've been briefed. You know this is a dark, intense, and unapologetically gritty story. The characters are flawed, their growth is messy, and their demons don't just disappear because love walks in.

So, check your expectations at the door. Don't expect pretty, polite, or easy.

Now, with all that said... lean in.

Embrace the chaos. Surrender to the obsession. Get lost in the filth and the fury and the fierce, broken way these characters love.

This is your official invitation to let go and just enjoy the wild, raw, and unforgiving ride.

Steel yourself. It's about to begin.

Mason

I’m walking home from school, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. My backpack’s heavy and my stomach growls, but I’m used to that. Mom and dad are working late again, probably won’t be home until dark. I just wanna get home, eat something, and maybe watch some fights on YouTube.

Then I hear them.

Footsteps behind me. Laughing.

Ben. Kly. Wayne.

Crap.

They’re not older than me, but they’re bigger. And mean. Real mean.

“Hey, loser,” Wayne says, stepping in front of me. “Where you goin’? Gonna cry to your mommy?”

I try to go around him, but Ben grabs my arm.

“Let me go,” I say, trying to pull away.

Kly laughs. “Aw, look at baby Mason. Thinks he’s tough.”

They push me. Hard. My backpack slips, and I almost fall.

“Leave me alone,” I say, fists tight.

But they don’t. Ben and Kly grab my arms, holding me still.

Wayne smiles real big, like he’s having fun. Then he punches me. Right in the stomach.

It hurts. Bad.

I try to fight back, kick, twist, anything. But it’s three against one. I can’t move.

Wayne hits me again. This time in the chest.

“Hey!” a voice shouts.

We all freeze.

I turn my head, and there she is.

Lillian.

Mom's best friend.

She’s standing there in heels and a tight black dress, her lips red like... like fire. Or candy. Or sin. I don’t know the word, but she looks like something out of a movie.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she says, walking toward us fast.

Ben lets go of me. So does Kly. Wayne steps back like he saw a ghost.

“You wanna hit someone?” Lillian says, pointing at Wayne. “Try me, you little punk.”

They run. Like cowards.

She kneels beside me, brushing dirt off my shirt. “You okay, kiddo?” she asks, ruffling my hair.

I nod. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My heart’s beating really fast.

She pulls me up, and I stand there, just... staring at her.

Her lipstick is so red. She smells good, like flowers and something sweet. My face feels hot. My palms are sweaty. I can’t stop looking at her.

She walks me home, and I keep sneaking glances. Every time she looks at me, I look away quick.

I don’t say much. I just walk next to her, trying not to trip over my own feet.

But I know something for sure.

I have fallen in love with her.

I don’t care if I’m just twelve. I can feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in how my legs are still shaking.

Lillian Monroe saved me.

The kitchen light is too bright. It’s buzzing, a stupid, whiny sound that’s drilling into my brain. I’m staring at my science textbook, but the words stopped making sense about ten minutes ago.

Female Reproductive System.

My face is on fire. It’s just a diagram. It’s just lines and labels. But my heart is thumping weirdly in my chest, and I can’t look at it for more than two seconds without having to look away, like it’s the sun or something.

Why did it have to be this chapter tonight?

The key turns in the front door lock. I jump, my pencil skittering off the page. My first, stupid thought is Mom? But no. It’s the other key. The one she has.

Lillian walks in, a gust of cool night air following her. She’s changed out of her work dress into jeans and a soft-looking sweater, but she still has that same smell. Flowers and something else.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says, her voice a familiar comfort that somehow makes everything more awkward. “Your mom called me. Lasagna rescue mission.” She holds up a glass dish covered in foil.

I just nod, my throat too tight to form words. Kiddo. The word feels different now. It stings a little.

She moves around our kitchen like she owns it, which she kinda does. She and Mom have been friends forever. She was at my birthday parties when I was blowing out candles on a dinosaur cake. She’s seen me with spaghetti sauce all over my face. Now, just the way she opens the fridge door feels… intense.

She puts the lasagna away and turns, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her eyes land on my textbook. On the specific, horrifyingly detailed page.

“Oh, science homework?” she asks, walking over.

No. No, no, no. Any other chapter. Any other subject. Please.

“Uh. Yeah,” I mumble, staring hard at the label for ‘Fallopian Tube’ like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

She pulls out the chair next to me and sits. The chair creaks. I can feel the heat from her arm, just a few inches from mine. My whole body is hyper-aware of where she is.

“This can be a tricky unit,” she says, her voice calm and… professional. Of course. It’s just biology to her. It’s her job. She’s an OB/GYN, for god’s sake. This is probably like me looking at a picture of a rock.

“Yeah, a bit,” I choke out.

She points a finger, with its neat, unpainted nail, at the diagram. “See, the real trick is not to get overwhelmed by all the parts at once. Think of it like a system. Each part has a job to do.”

Her finger is so close to the paper. I follow its path, my heart hammering against my ribs. She’s explaining it, her voice steady and clear, but I’m not hearing the words. I’m just hearing her. I’m smelling her perfume. I’m noticing the tiny freckle on her wrist.

I’m a total creep. She’s being nice. She’s being Lillian. Mom’s best friend. The one who saved me from getting punched into next week. And I’m sitting here, my face burning, thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking.

She looks from the book to my face. “You getting any of this, Mason? You’re all red. You feeling okay?”

Her eyes are full of concern. Genuine, mom-friend concern. It makes me want to sink through the floor.

“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly. “It’s just… warm in here.”

She smiles, a soft, kind smile that probably fixes all her patients’ worries. It just makes my internal panic worse. “Okay. Well, the main thing to remember is that it’s all just biology. Nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s how life works.”

But it’s not just biology. Not right now. Not with her sitting here, her knee almost brushing against mine under the table, explaining ovaries to me while I’m trying to remember how to breathe.

I just nod, a stiff, jerky movement. “Yeah. Biology.”

She ruffles my hair. Exactly like she did on the sidewalk. Exactly like she’s done since I was six.

But it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing feels the same. And as she goes back to explaining the diagram, all I can think is that I am in so, so much trouble.

The words keep coming. "…and the endometrium is this special lining that thickens every month, just in case it's needed to support a pregnancy."

I'm not hearing it. Not really. The words are just sounds, like a teacher in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Wah-wah-wah-wah. My eyes are stuck on her. On the way her bottom lip moves when she forms a 'p' sound. On the tiny crease that appears between her eyebrows when she's thinking. On the single strand of hair that's fallen loose from her ponytail and curves along her cheek.

Why?

Why am I feeling this? It's a stupid, buzzing, fizzy feeling in my veins. It's like I chugged a whole two-liter of soda. My skin feels too tight for my body.

She's Lillian. She drives a Honda. She pays taxes. I heard Mom once say she had a whole fight with the IRS. She has a job. A real, grown-up job where she wears a white coat and tells people serious things. She has a mortgage. She complains about her garbage disposal.

And I'm… me. I have homework. I have a backpack with a broken zipper. My biggest concern this morning was if I had enough milk for my cereal.

This is wrong. It's so wrong it makes my stomach hurt. She's thirty. She's my mom's friend. She sees me as a kid. She should see me as a kid. I am a kid.

But when she turns her head and her eyes meet mine, that fizzy feeling explodes into a full-blown fireworks show behind my ribs. My throat goes dry.

"…so, basically, it's a pretty amazing system, when you think about it," she finishes, smiling at me. It's a warm, proud smile, like she's just explained how a cool magic trick works.

I force a nod. It feels like my neck is a rusty hinge. "Yeah. Amazing."

I look down at the textbook. The diagram is just a diagram again. Lines and labels. The magic, the terrifying, thrilling magic, wasn't in the book. It was in the person explaining it. And now she's leaning back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head with a little groan, talking about how she's been on her feet all day.

This is nothing like fifth grade. Nothing like Genevieve.

That was a dumb, simple crush. Genevieve had shiny hair and shared her fruit snacks with me once. I’d get a weird, happy nervousness when we were partners for the field trip to the planetarium. I thought about holding her hand. It was a cartoon feeling. Bright colors and simple shapes.

This isn't a cartoon. This is… too real. It’s like my whole body has been tuned to a new, secret radio frequency that only broadcasts her.

With Genevieve, it was a flutter in my stomach. This is a constant, heavy ache in my chest. It’s not happy-nervous. It’s a desperate, hopeless kind of nervous. It’s knowing that the person you’re staring at lives in a different world. A world of car payments and wine with dinner and serious conversations. My world is homework and hiding the fact that I still sometimes watch old cartoons.

She’s not just a girl in my class I think is pretty. She’s Lillian. She has a history. She has memories of my mom that don’t include me. She has a whole life I can’t even imagine, and I’m just a blip in it. The kid she brings lasagna to.

When I had a crush on Genevieve, I could imagine telling her. I could picture passing her a note. What would I even say to Lillian? There are no words.

This isn't a crush. It’s a catastrophe.

The science book is closed, thank god. But she hasn't gotten up. She just leans her elbows on the table, cradling her chin in her hands.

"So," she says, her voice shifting into a softer, teasing gear. "Enough about biology. How's school otherwise? Any... subjects you actually like?"

My brain is still full of static. "Uh. Lunch?" I say it as a joke, but it comes out flat and stupid.

She laughs, a real, warm sound that fills the kitchen. "A man with his priorities straight. I respect it." She takes a sip of the water she poured herself. Then her eyes twinkle. "What about girls? Anyone giving you butterflies, kiddo?"

Butterflies.

If she only knew.

I look down at my hands, at a faint pencil smudge on my thumb. I can't look at her. Not when she's using that tone. The one she's always used. The 'you're-growing-up-so-fast' tone. The 'Auntie Lillian is asking about your life' tone.

She regards me like a son.

The thought is a bucket of ice water. It's the truest, most horrible thing in the world right now. In her eyes, I'm Mason. Her best friend's boy. The kid she helped teach to ride a bike. The one she's patching up after a bully beatdown. I'm in the same category as the lasagna she brought over—something to be nourished and looked after.

And I'm sitting here, my heart a wild, traitorous thing, thinking things that would probably make her never look at me again.

I force a shrug, my shoulders so tight they're practically up to my ears. "Nah. Not really. Girls are... whatever."

She reaches out and ruffles my hair again. "You'll get there, buddy. Don't you worry."

The chair scrapes as she stands up. "Okay, kiddo, I'm headed out. Don't forget, lasagna at 350 for twenty minutes. Don't burn the house down."

It's a normal thing to say. A thing she's said a hundred times. But my brain has short-circuited. All I can process is the space she's occupying, the sound of her voice, the finality of her leaving.

She comes around the table. I stay frozen. Then she leans down.

For a split second, the world stops. Her scent envelops me completely—flowers and that warm, sweet something. I feel the soft brush of her hair against my temple. Then her lips press against my cheek.

A casual, aunt-like peck. A nothing.

But it isn't nothing.

Before I can even process the fire on my cheek, her hand comes down, messing up my hair. A rough, playful ruffle. The same one I've known my whole life.

"Be good, Mason."

And then she's walking away. The front door opens. It closes with a soft, final thud.

I slowly, slowly raise my hand and touch the spot on my cheek where her lips were.

And I am completely, utterly ruined.

6 Years later

High School Graduation

My palms are sweating as I stand at the podium, eyes on the crowd but only half-seeing them. My speech is in front of me—neat, practiced, polished. I’ve read it a hundred times, but my voice still shakes a little as I begin.

"Today isn’t just an ending. It’s a beginning. For all of us."

I talk about hard work, about goals, about never giving up. The usual stuff. I say the right things. I smile in the right places. People clap. Some cheer.

When I finally step off the stage, my mom rushes toward me, eyes shining.

“Oh honey, I’m so proud of you,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “Valedictorian. Can you believe it?”

I hug her back, trying not to wrinkle the stupid gown.

My dad’s next. He pats my shoulder, firm and businesslike. “Well done. Now let’s get serious about your applications. Johns Hopkins isn’t going to wait around forever.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

Then I see her.

Lillian.

She’s walking toward me through the crowd, hair pulled up, lips painted that same sinful red. She’s wearing a fitted navy dress that hugs her curves like a second skin.

My heartbeat stutters.

She smiles as she reaches me. “Mason. Congratulations.”

“Thanks Lillian,” I say, my voice a little too low, too rough.

She pulls me into a hug, arms sliding around my shoulders like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But nothing feels normal.

My whole body goes on high alert. She smells like jasmine and warm vanilla and everything I’ve ever wanted. My arms wrap around her automatically—tight, like I never want to let go.

God, she’s soft. Warm. Real.

My trousers feel… tighter than they should. Heat curls low in my stomach. I swallow hard, barely breathing.

When she finally starts to pull back, I force myself to let go—reluctantly, slowly. My hands slide off her back like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her.

I adjust my pants quickly, praying no one notices.

She gives me that soft, proud smile. “I’m really proud of you, Mason.”

I look at her, trying not to stare at her mouth.

“Thanks,” I say again, quieter this time.

I don’t trust myself to say anything else.

She glances at her phone and frowns. “My shift starts in ten. I’m so sorry, kiddo—I’ve gotta run.”

Before I can say anything, she leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Celebrate big today.”

Then she’s gone—spinning around on those heels and walking off into the crowd, hair bouncing, hips swaying.

To her, it’s nothing. Just a sweet, friendly kiss. A goodbye.

But to me?

It’s everything.

My cheek burns where her lips touched. I stand there frozen, stunned, like an idiot with a hard-on and a heartbeat in my throat. That kiss—it’s gonna haunt me. Play on repeat in my brain for days. Maybe forever.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

And I don’t think I can pretend it’s innocent

The rest of the graduation is a blur of handshakes and hollow congratulations. I move through it like a ghost, my skin still buzzing where she touched me.

My parents want to go to dinner, some fancy steakhouse to celebrate. I make an excuse, something about a headache from the sun and needing to decompress. They’re disappointed, but they buy it.

I drive home, but I don’t go inside. I just sit in my car in the driveway, the engine ticking as it cools. The air is thick and warm. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, and all I can see is her. The way that navy dress clung to her hips. The specific, devastating curve of her smile.

Kiddo.

The word echoes in the silence of the car, and I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half groan. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. It’s the perfect, cruel joke. She sees the boy I was. She doesn’t see the man sitting here, his hands shaking with the need to touch her, his mind screaming with things he shouldn’t be thinking about his mother’s best friend.

I think about the feel of her back under my hands. The solid, real weight of her. It wasn’t a dream. It was a fact. My body remembers it with an accuracy that’s humiliating.

I get out of the car and go up to my room, stripping off the stupid gown and cap, throwing them in a corner. I catch my reflection in the mirror—tall, maybe a little lanky, but not a boy. Not anymore. I look at my face, searching for the man I feel like on the inside. All I see is the ghost of her lipstick on my cheek. I can still feel it.

I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn’t help. The heat is coming from inside. It’s in my blood.

I’m supposed to be thinking about my future. Johns Hopkins. Pre-med. My father’s proud, relentless plan for my life. But all I can think about is the past. A sidewalk six years ago. The smell of her perfume in a too-bright kitchen. The way she just unraveled me with a single, casual hug.

She has no idea of the chaos she leaves in her wake. To her, I’m just Mason. A nice kid. Her best friend’s son.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my graduation diploma sitting unopened on my desk. The neat, predictable path of my life is laid out in front of me, clear and safe.

But I don’t want safe.

I want the woman with the red lips and the devastating hugs. I want the one who smells like jasmine and sin.

And for the first time, staring down the barrel of the rest of my life, a dangerous, thrilling thought solidifies in my mind.

I’m done being the kid.

I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. But I’m going to make her see me. Really see me. Not as a boy she needs to look after, but as a man who’s in love with her.

It’s a terrifying thought. It’s probably a stupid one. But it’s the only one that feels true.

Mason

6 years later

I walk up to the counter, my mind still stuck on the day’s mess. Shit’s been heavy lately. I don’t care. Not tonight. I need something to cut through all the tension in my muscles, the knot in my gut.

“Matteo, bourbon. Straight. No questions.”

“Right away, boss,” Matteo says, his voice calm as he pours me a glass.I don’t hesitate. Down it in one go, feeling the burn slide down my throat like liquid fire. Perfect.

I slam the empty glass down, already reaching for another one. Tonight, I’m not playing nice. I’m not dealing with anyone’s shit. After a few more shots, I’m ready to head back. Screw it, I’ll leave Vegas behind me for a few hours and shut my brain off.

But then I hear her.

"Just bring the damn alcohol, Matteo. It’s my money."

Matteo’s hesitant. “You have had enough to drink. I can call you a cab—”

“I said give me the damn alcohol,” she slurs, voice sharp with irritation. “I want to talk to your manager, or your boss or anyone that will deal with it.”

I freeze. I don’t need to hear anymore. I know that voice. My heart jumps in my chest. It can’t be—

I turn around slowly, and there she is.

Lillian Monroe.

Fucking Lillian.

In the flesh. Drunk as shit. In Vegas. Of all places.

I push through the crowd and walk right up to the bar. Matteo looks up at me, but before I can say anything, I wave him off. "Ya lo tengo." ( I’ve got it.)

I step closer to her, trying to keep my shit together. I haven’t seen her in years. Hell, the last time I saw her, I was 18.

She turns, her eyes a little glazed as she looks me up and down.

“Who are you?” she asks, and it hits me like a punch to the gut.

She doesn’t even recognize me.

It stings, more than I expect. But it’s fine. I’m used to it.

I smile, though it feels strange. “No one,” I tell her. "Just someone who’s gonna make sure you get home safe."

“Give me alcohol,” she insists, swaying slightly. She’s not kidding.

I lean in a bit, trying to read her through the haze of her drunkenness. “How about I take you back to your hotel room instead?”

She blinks at me like I’m insane, but I’m not backing down. “Where are you staying?”

“The Venetian,” she mutters, fumbling for her purse.

I smirk, leaning in closer. “That’s across the street.”

I reach for her purse, but she jerks back. “I can handle it,” she snaps.

I give her a look, one I know she can’t argue with. “There’s more shots at the hotel. You want to keep drinking?”

She doesn’t fight me for long. She gives in, stumbling after me, her heels clicking against the floor with each step. She follows me, and I can’t help the grin that forms. She’s drunk, but she’s still Lillian Monroe.

We’re halfway across the lobby when she stumbles again, almost colliding with a table. Her hand grips my arm, and I feel her body press against me. God, she’s a mess. I steady her, my grip firm around her waist.

“Where’s your room?” I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the fact that she’s making everything more complicated than it should be.

She blinks at me, confusion flickering in her eyes. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

I don’t even hesitate. I reach into her purse, searching for a keycard. After a moment, I find it—Room 134.

“Got it,” I mutter, pulling her with me toward the elevator.

She leans into me, her body unbalanced as she tries to steady herself. I don’t mind the weight. In fact, I can’t help but enjoy the way she fits against me, like a temptation I’ve been craving for too long.

The elevator doors open, and I step inside with her. She leans into the corner of the elevator, her eyes lidded with intoxication.

And then, she stumbles.

I’m quicker than her, grabbing her before she hits the floor. I pull her against me, holding her steady, and for a moment, we’re locked in this awkward, intimate embrace.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ohh, a gentleman,” she murmurs, her hands trailing down my chest as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I suck in a breath, feeling the heat of her touch shoot straight through me. But I pull back—hard—keeping her at arm's length.

“Don’t touch me like that,” I growl, my voice rougher than I intended.

She pouts, her lips parting as she looks at me with those damn heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh, come on. I know you want it.”

The words land like a spark in my chest, lighting a fire I can’t ignore. She’s drunk, she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but that doesn’t stop the ache that’s building inside me.

“Stop it,” I say, my voice a little too harsh. “You’ve had enough.”

But she doesn’t listen. She tilts her head, her breath warm against my neck as she leans closer. She’s testing me, pushing me, and I know it. But I can’t do this. Not like this.

The elevator stops at her floor, and I take a deep breath, my pulse pounding. Time to get her to that room, get her into bed, and get the hell out before I lose control.

But I can’t make any promises.

Not with her this close. Not with her voice like silk, and the smell of her perfume intoxicating me more than any alcohol ever could.

We reach the door, and I’m still holding onto her, watching her every move. She’s wobbling, her movements sloppy, but there’s something... dangerous about the way she’s swaying.

I punch in the keycode, open the door, and let her stumble inside. I follow her in, shutting it quietly behind me.

She sways a little as she steps in, then kicks off her heels like she owns the damn place.

“Alright,” I mutter, closing the door behind us. “Let’s get you into bed and—”

Then she pulls her dress over her head.

Just like that. One smooth motion.

Fuck.

The tight black fabric hits the floor, pooling around her feet, and I freeze like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer.

She’s standing in the middle of the room in nothing but lace. Black lace. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick smudged, and she’s grinning like she has no idea what she’s doing to me.

“Lillian,” I say, voice strained, “put your dress back on.”

She takes a step toward me.

No.

Another step.

No, no, no.

She stops right in front of me, swaying slightly, eyes bright with mischief and tequila.

“I’m feeling reckless tonight,” she says, voice husky, wicked.

And then she sings it—

“When you’re ready come and get it… na na na na…”

I stare at her like she’s insane, like this isn’t happening. But it is. It’s happening, and my body is on fire and my brain is short-circuiting.

I should walk away.

I have to walk away.

But God help me…

I don’t move.

I somehow manage to get her to the bed. She’s laughing, swaying, drunk out of her mind. My pulse is a fucking thunderstorm as I pull the covers back.

“Alright, bed. Sleep. Now,” I tell her.

She flops down, but before I can back away, her fingers curl around my shirt.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“Lillian…” I brace myself, trying to gently untangle her grip, but she’s stronger than she looks when she wants something.

And right now—

She wants me.

She tugs, hard. I stumble forward, one knee landing on the edge of the bed. Her hands are already sliding up my chest, trying to pull me in.

“Lillian, you’re drunk,” I grit, grabbing her wrists. “This isn’t how I want—”

Her mouth crashes into mine.

And I freeze.

Soft. So goddamn soft. Just like I always imagined.

My breath catches as her lips move against mine, slow and lazy and teasing. I should pull away. I need to.

But I don’t.

She uses the moment—slipping her hands down, grabbing mine, and planting them right on her body. Full, warm, bare.

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

All the rules, the logic, the years of restraint—

Gone.

Just like that.

And I let her pull me down.

Lillian

My head is splitting.

I groan, lifting it off the pillow like it weighs a ton. My mouth tastes like cotton. I sit up slowly—too fast—and everything tilts.

What the hell...

I blink against the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Then I freeze.

I’m naked.

I clutch the sheets to my chest and look around. This… this isn’t the penthouse suite. My clothes are in a heap on the floor next to a pair of jeans and a leather jacket.

Definitely not Alex’s.

He wears pressed suits, always buttoned up and crisp. This… this is someone else.

Oh God.

I slide out of bed, every step making me wince. My body aches—sore in places I don’t even want to think about right now. A jolt of panic hits me straight in the gut.

The shower’s running.

Oh god. Oh god.

I stare at the bathroom door. There’s a shadow moving behind the fogged glass. A man. My heart is thudding so loud I think it might give me away.

I look at the jeans again. The jacket. My heels. My dress.

I snatch them up fast and throw everything on with shaky hands. My breath catches in my throat as I look one last time toward the bathroom.

Whoever it is… it’s better I don't see their face.

I grab my heels and run. Barefoot. No looking back.

When I reach the door, I glance at the number.

134.

Definitely not the penthouse suite.

It's the room I booked for us before Alex upgraded it. He said he needed something more “executive.” He hated that first room.

I press the elevator button a hundred times even though once would do.

By the time I get upstairs, I’m sweating and still shaking. I push open the door to the penthouse suite.

Empty.

The bed is made. Neat. Just like I left it yesterday morning.

Alex didn’t come back last night.

Good.

He doesn’t need to know I spent the night in a stranger’s arms.

Even if I can’t remember any of it.

I drop onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling. My stomach twists with guilt.

I cheated on him.

And I don’t even know with who.

I bury my face in my hands and sit there, trying to breathe, trying to remember.

Nothing.

Flashes, maybe—music, lights, the burn of tequila. A voice? A face? No.

My chest tightens. What did I do?

Alex will never forgive me. Hell, I don’t think I'll even forgive myself. This wasn’t just a stupid mistake—it was a betrayal. Even if he’s cold. Even if he works all the time. Even if I feel like an accessory in his life more than a woman.

I still loved him.

Didn’t I?

I shake my head and stand, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini bar. My reflection in the mirror by the wall stops me.

My makeup’s smudged. My lipstick is gone. My hair is a mess.

I press the cold bottle to my forehead, trying to quiet the pounding. My hands are still trembling as I whisper to the empty room, “What the hell did I do?”

I walk to the window and look out at Vegas.

Somewhere in that city, a man knows what happened last night. Knows everything I can’t remember. What did I say to him?

A knot forms in my stomach.

I need to get dressed. I need to shower. I need to pretend like none of this happened.

Because if I let it be real—if I admit I wanted something different, if I admit I wasn’t just drunk, I was unhappy—then everything falls apart.

I can’t deal with that right now.

I take a breath, straighten my spine, and go to my suitcase.

Mason

I step out of the bathroom, towel around my waist, water dripping down my back—and the room is empty.

“Lillian?” I call out, even though I know. The silence tells me everything.

I move to the bed and sit down, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. It fucking hurts. Not just my head. My chest. My whole damn soul.

She left without a word. Just like that.

She probably doesn’t even remember. Doesn’t know it was me. I was just some faceless guy she got drunk with and forgot. That stings worse than any punch I’ve ever taken.

Because last night… was everything.

Her skin. Her voice. Her lips whispering my name—not Mason, but something soft, sweet. She doesn’t even know she said it.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a dream I’ve had every damn night since I was twelve.

And now it’s real. She happened. We happened.

And I want more.

Not just her body. I want her love. Her attention. Her laughter. Her affection.

For twelve years, I’ve lived in silence. Twelve years of watching her smile at other men. Laugh at my mom’s jokes. Hug me like I’m a kid.

I’m not a kid.

Not anymore.

I’ve loved her for twelve goddamn years.

And I’m done waiting.

She shouldn’t have let last night happen. Even drunk, even reckless, she opened a door. One I’ve been pounding on forever.

And now that it’s open, I’m not stepping back.

If she won’t give me her heart, I’ll take it piece by piece.

Seduce her. Tease her. Ruin her for anyone else.

Because she’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

I lean back on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers, but all I see is her.

The way her legs trembled under my hands. The way her back arched off the mattress. The way she screamed. Over and over. Her voice so raw, so desperate, it’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.

She moaned like I was the only thing that had ever made her feel like that. Like I was the first, the last, the only.

And I was.

I know it.

I made her feel that.

No one else.

She might’ve been drunk, but her body didn’t lie. Her gasps, her begging, the way she clung to me like I was oxygen. That wasn’t just some mistake.

That was real.

And if she thinks she can run from it, from me, she’s wrong. Because I’m not just some memory she can bury under guilt and forget.

I’m right here.

And I’m not going anywhere.

She lit the fire.

Now she can burn in it with me.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

Thank you for jumping into this dark,messy world with me. Buckle up, and let me know what you think!