Married to the CEO by Morning

Blinding sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing directly into Elenor's retinas.

She groaned, a sharp, splitting pain radiating through her temples.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and forced herself into a sitting position.

The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft. She blinked against the light, her vision slowly clearing to reveal a sprawling, ultra-luxury hotel suite.

She looked down. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets pooled around her waist.

She wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing.

A cold sweat broke out over her entire body. Fragmented memories slammed into her fragile skull like a freight train.

The bar. The cedarwood scent. The backseat of the Maybach. The desperate, messy kisses.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs seizing. She yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

Red marks dotted her collarbones and shoulders, glaring physical evidence of how far she had crossed the line last night.

The sound of running water suddenly echoed from the master bathroom.

Elenor's heart vaulted into her throat, beating so hard it bruised her ribs.

She threw off the covers and scrambled off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor. She needed her clothes.

She found her silk dress discarded near the sofa, but the delicate fabric was torn straight down the side seam. A fragmented memory flashed-her own clumsy, drunken hands aggressively yanking at the stubborn zipper in the dark, the sickening sound of the delicate silk ripping under her desperate grip. It was unwearable.

Panic clawed at her throat. She snatched a crisp, white men's dress shirt draped over the back of a leather armchair and shoved her arms through the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely brushed the middle of her thighs, and the fabric was saturated with that same intoxicating cedarwood scent.

The water stopped.

The frosted glass door of the bathroom slid open.

Elenor froze, her back hitting the cold edge of the marble wet bar.

The man walked out. He had a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water traced the hard, defined lines of his abdominal muscles, disappearing into the terrycloth.

He didn't look hungover. He didn't look confused.

He lifted his dark eyes and pinned her to the spot. His gaze raked over her, taking in his shirt hanging off her small frame, with a brazen, unapologetic intensity.

"I-I'm so sorry," Elenor stammered, her vocal cords tight. "Last night was... I had too much to drink. It was a mistake."

He didn't say a word. He closed the distance between them with slow, predatory strides.

The physical dominance of his large frame suffocated her. Elenor pressed herself harder against the marble, wishing she could melt into it.

He stopped mere inches from her. He tilted his head slightly, his long fingers reaching up to brush aside a damp strand of dark hair resting on his neck.

Low on the side of his neck, just above his collarbone, was a violent, undeniable red bite mark.

Elenor gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

A vivid flash of memory hit her-her teeth sinking into that exact spot in the back of the car, acting like a wild, feral animal.

Heat exploded in her cheeks. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

"This mark," his voice was a low, dangerous gravel that vibrated in the quiet room, "is going to make my board meeting today extremely difficult."

"I can go buy concealer," Elenor blurted out, her hands shaking. "I can fix it."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. He turned his back to her, walked behind the bar, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it onto the marble right in front of her.

It was the Financial Times.

The bold headline screamed: PORTER HOLDINGS POISED FOR RECORD-BREAKING IPO.

Beneath the headline was a high-resolution photo of the man standing in front of her.

Elenor's eyes scanned the text, the letters swimming before her eyes.

Christian Porter.

The most ruthless, cold-blooded acquisition machine on Wall Street.

All the blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded.

She slowly lifted her head, meeting Christian's eyes. They were completely devoid of warmth, calculating and terrifyingly calm.