Chapter Two

“Deal,” I whispered, the word tasting like fire and regret and a whole lot of exhilarating recklessness.

Maddox didn't waste a second. He stood up, towering over me, and extended a hand—the very hand he’d introduced himself with minutes ago. I took it, and the contact sent a ridiculously cliché jolt up my arm.

He pulled me out of the booth and, without a word, guided me through the pulsing crowd. I glanced toward the dance floor where Lowri was attempting some kind of drunk choreography with a feathered boa. She was shouting, laughing, and generally embodying the spirit of beautiful chaos. She wouldn't notice I was gone. Not for hours. And I certainly wasn't going to try to explain my sudden departure with a handsome stranger to the certified chaos queen.

Just one night.

Maddox was a skilled navigator, moving us seamlessly past bottle service tables and drunken revelers. We slipped out the back entrance into the cooler, quieter Las Vegas night. The air was still thick with the smell of exhaust and expensive perfume, but it felt like a different world away from the club’s pounding bass.

A car was waiting at the curb. It wasn't just a car; it was a sleek, luxurious machine, deep metallic red, looking less like transportation and more like an extension of his own expensive suit. A guy in a sharp black uniform stood beside the open rear door.

“Elias will take care of us,” Maddox murmured, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, guiding me forward.

I slid onto the plush leather seat, sinking into the kind of comfort that screamed ‘I have never worried about an overdraft fee.’ Maddox followed, closing the door with a soft, expensive thud that sealed us into our own private world.

The driver, Elias, was professional and silent. The car pulled away from the curb so smoothly I barely felt the transition.

“Where are we going?” I asked, turning to face Maddox, trying to read the plot of this new, rapidly unfolding story in his eyes. He was leaning back, relaxed, watching me with that same predatory amusement.

“My place,” he said simply. “It’s penthouse-level, soundproof, and has a spectacular view of the city. More importantly, no pink neon and no screaming sorority girls.”

The alcohol in my system was a warm, insistent hum, drowning out the little voice of self-preservation that usually screamed for caution. Right now, the only voice I heard was the one telling me: This is your night, Story. Embrace the recklessness.

“Soundproof, huh?” I mused, a slow, entirely wicked grin spreading across my face. “Is that an amenity or a necessity, Maddox?”

He reached across the space between us and traced the curve of my jaw with his thumb. His touch was electric, demanding my attention.

“With you, Story,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low, dangerous register, “it’s a necessity.”

He didn't need to say anything else. I knew exactly what chapter we were in now. It was the one where I stopped talking, stopped thinking, and just held on for the wildest ride of my life.

The red car glided through the vibrant, neon-soaked streets of Vegas for what felt like thirty minutes, but could have been five—my sense of time was entirely compromised.

Finally, Elias pulled up to a massive, modern skyscraper that seemed to scrape the stars. It was all glass and sharp angles, looking far too important to be a simple residential building.

Maddox opened his door before Elias could even move, then rounded the car to pull me out with a fluid, confident motion.

We didn't wait for a lift in the lobby; we took a private elevator, gilded and silent, shooting up to the very top floor. When the doors opened, I gasped, forgetting for a moment I was supposed to be the cool, chaotic girl.

“Woah,” I muttered, genuinely stunned.

His apartment—no, his penthouse—was less an apartment and more a modern art exhibit that someone extremely wealthy happened to live in.

The space was immense, decorated in cool tones of charcoal and silver. One entire wall was made of glass, giving us a dizzying, spectacular view of the entire Las Vegas strip, twinkling and sprawled out like a treasure map beneath us.

Maddox didn't even look at it. He was focused only on me.

“It’s incredible,” I admitted, walking toward the glass wall as if drawn by a magnet. I could see Lowri’s ridiculously expensive club from here, a tiny, glowing jewel in the distance.

Maddox stepped up beside me, pulling the suit jacket off his shoulders with an economy of movement that was entirely too sexy. He draped it over a minimalist leather chair.

“It’s a bit small, honestly,” he said, his tone utterly casual, as if discussing the minor inconvenience of a poorly placed throw pillow. “The one in New York has a better art collection.”

The smallest? My alcohol-fuzzed brain tried to process this. Who was this guy? A Marvel villain named Maddox who owned multiple penthouse-level, view-of-the-city, 'small' apartments?

But the thought, sharp and nagging, was quickly washed away by the insistent tide of tequila and the sight of Maddox standing there, looking like a magazine cover in his tailored shirt. I was here for one thing, and one thing only: a glorious, reckless night that had no ties to my miserable rent or my terrible ex.

“Well,” I said, turning back to him, forcing a smirk that was half-confidence, half-wasted. I pushed the heels I was still carrying into a corner. “Good thing we’re not here to talk about real estate, then.”

He smiled, a slow, deep smile that finally reached his eyes—and it was utterly disarming. He closed the distance between us in two long strides.

“Exactly, Story,” he murmured, cupping my cheek with one warm hand. “Forget the view. Forget the rent. Forget New York. Tonight, there’s only this chapter.”

His thumb brushed my lower lip, and I leaned into the touch, forgetting everything but the current moment.

The pressure of his thumb on my lower lip was a silent command. I opened my mouth slightly, a drunken, instinctive response to the heat and closeness.

Maddox didn't hesitate. He slowly, deliberately, slid his thumb just past my lip, testing the pliancy of my mouth.

My breath hitched. The simple, invasive gesture made my vision tunnel, focusing entirely on the dark, intoxicating gaze of the man in front of me. I leaned into his touch, my body suddenly humming with a need that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with him.

His eyes, dark and assessing, held mine as he spoke, his voice dropping to a breathy whisper that scraped across my already frayed nerves.

“Tell me, Story,” he asked, his thumb moving slightly in my mouth, creating a soft, O-shaped curve with my lips, “how do you want this chapter written? Soft and sweet? Or rough and ready? Do you want to play at the novice level, or are we going straight for the rough, BDSM experience?”

The words hit me like a splash of cold water, momentarily clearing the haze, only to have the raw desire rush in to fill the vacuum.

He was asking for a hard line, a definition of boundaries, even in this no-strings chaos. And the answer, fueled by reckless tequila and the dizzying height of the Vegas night, was instantaneous.

I swallowed, tasting the faintest hint of his expensive cologne on his skin. I reached up and wrapped my fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand closer, deeper into my mouth for a brief, electric second before releasing him.

I looked at him, my eyes wide and heavy with lust and drunken abandon. “Rough,” I breathed, the word a promise and a challenge. “BDSM level. No soft corners tonight, Maddox.”

His lips curled into a true, utterly predatory smile—the kind that made him look like he belonged in a dark alley at midnight, not a luxurious penthouse. It was the face of a man who heard 'rough' and immediately started calculating the breaking point.

“Good girl,” he purred, the approval in his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through me. He took a sharp step back, his eyes blazing, and gestured toward the expensive marble floor with a single, uncompromising sweep of his hand.

“On your knees, then, Story.”

The simple command, delivered with absolute authority, was a physical shock. Every rebellious nerve ending I had should have made me laugh, stand taller, and tell him to go to hell. But this wasn't about defiance.

This was about giving in. This was about the freedom of letting someone else take the wheel, if only for one night.

I didn't argue. I didn't question. My knees, unsteady from the liquor, buckled, and I dropped onto the cold, smooth marble. I looked up at him—tall, dominant, and utterly commanding in his tailored shirt—ready to see what hell this beautiful devil was about to unleash.