Bought The Billionaire For One Night

The cold air of the JFK parking garage bit into Chloe Carr's skin, but she didn't care. She clutched the small velvet box in her coat pocket, her fingers tracing the familiar shape of the watch inside. It was the week before their wedding. Brennen had been working so hard lately, and she wanted to surprise him.

She spotted his car parked in the far corner. The windows were tinted dark, almost black against the harsh fluorescent lights. A smile pulled at her lips. She quickened her pace, her rolling bag bumping over the uneven concrete. She wanted to see his face when she knocked on the window.

As she got closer, the car was rocking. A subtle, rhythmic motion. A sound drifted through the cracked window. A breathless gasp. A low moan.

Chloe stopped dead in her tracks. Her stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that made her taste the cheap airline coffee she had drank hours ago. Her fingers tightened around the velvet box until the hinges dug painfully into her palm.

She didn't want to look. Her feet were glued to the oil-stained concrete, but her hand reached out. She grabbed the door handle and yanked it open.

The overhead light clicked on, illuminating the interior like a stage. Brennen's pants were around his ankles. Kate Norton, her best friend, her maid of honor, was straddling him, her skirt hiked up to her waist. Kate's head snapped around, her eyes wide. She screamed, a high-pitched shriek that echoed in the concrete cavern. She scrambled, pulling her shirt down, her face a mask of panic.

Brennen looked up, his lips smeared with Kate's signature red lipstick. "Chloe!" He gasped, pushing Kate off him. "It's not what it looks like!"

The words hung in the cold air. Chloe's blood turned to ice water in her veins. She stared at them, at the tangled limbs, at the guilty shock on their faces. The world narrowed down to the red smear on his mouth.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She pulled the velvet box from her pocket and hurled it at his face. It hit him square on the nose with a satisfying crack. The watch spilled out, falling into the footwell next to Kate's discarded shoe.

Chloe turned and ran. She didn't look back, even when she heard Brennen shouting her name, even when she heard Kate crying. She threw her bags into the back of her own car and peeled out of the garage, the tires squealing against the concrete.

She drove blind, tears blurring the lights of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. She didn't go to her apartment. She couldn't stand the thought of her own bed. She found herself in Manhattan, pulling up to a velvet rope outside a building with no sign. Elysium.

Aisling had joked about this place once. "If you ever want to forget, go there. The men are like works of art. And they come with a price tag."

Chloe needed to forget. She needed to scrub the image of Brennen and Kate out of her head. She parked haphazardly and walked straight past the bouncer, who took one look at her tear-streaked face and let her through.

The club was a wall of sound and heat. Heavy bass thumped in her chest, and the air smelled of expensive cologne, vodka, and sweat. She marched to the bar. "Whiskey. Neat. The strongest you have."

The bartender slid the glass over. She threw it back. The liquid burned a trail down her throat, setting her stomach on fire. It wasn't enough. She ordered another. And another. The edges of the room began to soften. The pain in her chest dulled into a numb ache.

She spun around on her stool, scanning the crowd. She was looking for something. Someone. A distraction. A weapon.

Her gaze landed on the corner booth. A man sat alone. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than her yearly salary. The fabric was dark, the cut impeccable. He looked bored, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He was gorgeous, in a dangerous, untouchable way. He looked expensive.

Perfect.

Chloe grabbed her purse and stumbled over, the alcohol making her bold. She slid into the booth across from him and slapped her platinum credit card down on the polished table.

The man looked up. His eyes were a deep, unsettling brown, framed by thick lashes. He didn't look surprised. He looked amused.

"You," Chloe said, her words slurring slightly. "Tonight. I'm buying."

He raised an eyebrow. A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh? And what's your offer?"

Chloe fumbled in her bag, pulling out her checkbook. It was the trust fund money, the cushion she never touched. She scrawled a number on the crisp paper, her hand shaking. Fifty thousand dollars. She ripped it out and pushed it across the table, right next to her credit card.

"Is that enough?" she challenged, her chin lifted in defiance.

He picked up the check. He looked at the number, then back at her. His eyes lingered on her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. He didn't look offended. He looked intrigued.

"It's a start," he murmured. He folded the check and slipped it into his breast pocket, right next to a silk handkerchief. He stood up, towering over her. The smile was gone, replaced by something darker. Something commanding.

"Come with me," he said.

It wasn't a request. Chloe stood on unsteady legs. He placed a hand on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through her thin jacket. He guided her through the throng of people, past the VIP area, to a private elevator.

The elevator shot up to the top floor. The doors opened into a penthouse suite that was bigger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park. But Chloe barely saw it.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned and grabbed his tie, pulling him down. She kissed him, hard. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue and the mint on his breath. She kissed him with all the anger, the hurt, the desperation that had been building inside her since she opened that car door.

He responded instantly. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer comfort. He just took.

And for one night, Chloe let him.