Contract Marriage To The Coldhearted Tycoon

The steel door clanged shut behind them, sealing off the club's bass like a tombstone. The alley was narrow, slick with rain and filth, a single flickering neon tube painting everything in bruised pink. November wind sliced through Adaline's thin uniform, but the man's body against hers burned like a furnace.

Kory stumbled, his shoulder scraping brick, and he turned—too fast—his weight pitching her backward. Her spine met the rough wall, and his chest crushed hers, driving the air from her lungs. He was all hard angles, fevered skin, and ragged breath that ghosted across her collarbone.

"Stand up," she gasped, palms flat against his pectorals. She could feel his heart hammering, a wild drum against her fingertips. He didn't move. His thighs pinned hers, and through the layers of fabric, she felt every tremor—and something else, something insistent and molten that made her stomach flip.

"My heart rate—one-forty," he slurred, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His lips brushed her bare skin, unintentionally, and she shivered. "When you touched my wrist—dropped to one-twenty. Don't let go."

"Delusional," she muttered, but she grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his bicep, and hauled him forward. His weight was a crushing anchor, but she dragged him toward the street.

A black Lincoln materialized at the curb, chauffeur leaping out. She shoved Kory into the backseat, climbed in after him, and barked, "Nearest luxury hotel." The driver hesitated, saw his boss clinging to her like a lifeline, and drove.

The car surged. Kory slid across the leather, his head landing in her lap. His hot breath seared through her uniform, branding her thigh. He groaned, fingers tearing at his tie, popping buttons. She caught his wrists—and he entwined his fingers with hers, hard, as if she were the only stable thing in a spinning world. Electricity arced from that contact, straight to her core, making her breath hitch.

At the hotel, she threw a crumpled bill at the driver and hauled Kory through the revolving doors. The lobby blazed with crystal and gold; he buried his face in her neck, his mouth open against her pulse, and she felt his tongue—accidental or not—swipe her skin. Her knees nearly buckled.

The receptionist sneered until Kory tossed his black card. Panic replaced disdain. A gold keycard materialized. Private elevator.

Inside the mirrored box, he spun her, slamming her against the cold glass. His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs tracing her cheekbones, and then his mouth was on hers—scotch, mint, and raw hunger. She gasped into him, and he swallowed it. The grief from Chandler's betrayal roared up, and she kissed him back with savage abandon, biting his lower lip until he groaned.

The elevator chimed. They stumbled into the penthouse, doors slamming behind them. He kicked them shut. She dropped her purse. He lifted her—effortless, possessive—and carried her to the bed. The mattress swallowed her. He ripped his shirt open; buttons scattered like shrapnel.

She'd expected a soft academic. Instead, she saw a canvas of lean muscle and old scars, his chest heaving, his abdomen taut. For an instant, Chandler's mocking face flashed: Did you really think he'd marry a nobody? She crushed the memory, reached up, and yanked Kory down by his collar.

He came down like a storm. His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His hands were everywhere—pushing up her uniform, dragging it over her head, his palms searing her ribs, her stomach, the dip of her waist. She arched into him, her nails raking his back, and he growled against her skin.

He was relentless, driven by whatever had been poured into his drink. Every kiss was a brand, every touch a claim. His hips ground against hers, the friction electric, and she felt him—hard and demanding through the thin barrier of their remaining clothes. She tugged at his belt, his trousers, and he kicked them free.

Then he was over her, naked and burning, his dark eyes dilated to black pools. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his other hand sliding down her stomach, lower, finding the heat of her. She gasped, bucking, but he held her fast. His fingers worked her with clinical precision—until she shattered, crying out, her vision whiting.

He didn't stop. He positioned himself, the broad head of him pressing against her slick entrance, and he pushed in—slow at first, then with one brutal, unyielding thrust that stole her breath. She was full, stretched, impossibly filled. He paused, his forehead against hers, his breath ragged.

"Okay?" he rasped, and the single word, so unexpected, cracked something open in her chest.

She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He began to move—a rhythm that was primal, punishing, each stroke driving her into the mattress. The headboard thumped the wall. She clung to his shoulders, her cries swallowed by his mouth. He shifted angle, and stars erupted behind her eyes. She came again, spasming around him, and he followed, burying his face in her neck, a guttural groan torn from his throat as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing waves.

They collapsed, slick with sweat, breathing in unison. He rolled off her, but his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against his chest. His heart thundered against her back. She fell asleep to the rhythm of it, the taste of him still on her lips.