Will a blackout change everything

for these unlikely lovers?

She fell into his arms.

Now she’s falling for his trap.

It was a night filled with secrets, lies...and soul-stealing passion. And now the blackout that turned lowly executive assistant Nadia Jordan and start-up billionaire Grayson Chandler into insatiable lovers leads to a proposal Nadia can’t refuse. As she steps into Grayson’s privileged Chicago world, will his matchmaking mother and vengeful ex destroy her dreams? Or will her fake fiancé make those dreams a reality?

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR Naima Simone

USA TODAY bestselling author NAIMA SIMONE’s love of romance was first stirred by Mills & Boon books pilfered from her grandmother. Now she spends her days writing sizzling romances with a touch of humour and snark.

She is wife to her own real-life superhero and mother to two awesome kids. They live in perfect, domestically challenged bliss in the southern United States.

Also by Naima Simone

Blackout Billionaires miniseries

The Billionaire’s Bargain

Black Tie Billionaire

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Blame It on the Billionaire

Naima Simone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90414-2

BLAME IT ON THE BILLIONAIRE

© 2020 Naima Simone

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Gary. 143.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

One

Honor thy mother and father.

Grayson Chandler smothered a sigh. With all due respect to Moses, but if he’d been stuck listening to Grayson’s mother nag on and on and about his lack of duty, loyalty and wife, the prophet might’ve asked God to nail down the specifics on that commandment.

Swearing. Out.

Muzzling. Out.

Faking a coronary episode to avoid her complaining. Gray area.

For a moment, a flicker of guilt wavered in Grayson’s chest. But at the moment, he was caught in his mother’s crosshairs. Pit bulls with lockjaw had nothing on Cherise Chandler. She didn’t let go of something—whether it was a project, a subject or a grudge—until she was done with it.

Which didn’t bode well for him.

He was thirty years old and president of KayCee Corp, one of the most successful global tech start-up companies in the country and he hadn’t been a child to be controlled long before he left his parents’ house. For years, he’d answered only to himself, owed no one else explanations or justifications.

Yet none of that mattered when it came to the crystal blue gaze that could make him feel like the little boy who’d been busted hiding a stray dog under his bed for a week.

Hell.

Parental guilt trips were a bitch.

“Grayson, your stubbornness is becoming ridiculous,” his mother said, a note of irritation in her voice. She shifted closer and a small frown marred her brow. “You’ve proven your point with this little business venture of yours and Gideon Knight’s. But your father needs you now, your family needs you. It’s time to stop playing at CEO, step up and take your place at Chandler International. It’s your responsibility. Your duty.”

He clenched his jaw, trapping the vitriolic stream of words that scalded his throat. This little business venture. Time to stop playing. As if striking out on his own without the emotional or financial support of his Chicago old-money, well-connected family was the equivalent of a rousing game of Monopoly. With those few words, she’d dismissed years of his and Gideon’s hard work, relentless determination and resulting success.

He should’ve been used to this casual disregard. Of his accomplishments. Of him. As the second son, the “oops baby” of Daryl and Cherise Chandler, he’d been an afterthought from birth. But somehow, his skin had never grown that thick.

Another black mark in the “Why Grayson Isn’t Jason Chandler” Column. Right under rebellious. Selfish. And disloyal.

Didn’t matter that he’d had a hand in founding a tech platform that served major businesses and assisted them in tracking their shares with its unrivaled software. Didn’t matter that his business was one of the most successful start-ups to hit the financial scene in the last five years.

None of it mattered because it wasn’t Chandler International.

Dammit.

Grayson shoved his hands in his tuxedo pockets and glanced away from his mother’s scrutiny. Guilt and shame knotted his gut.

He was throwing a pity party, but at least he was alive.

Jason couldn’t say the same.

And because his mother had lost her son—her favorite son—Grayson imprisoned the sharp retort that weighed down his tongue.

“I take my position at and ownership of KayCee Corp as seriously as Dad does with Chandler. I also understand my obligation to our family. But as I’ve told both of you, my company is my legacy just as Chandler is Dad’s.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Grayson. It’s not the same—”

“Mother,” he interrupted, voice cold. “Now isn’t the place or time for this conversation.”

She parted her lips, but after a second snapped them closed. Oh yes. Only proper decorum and being potential fodder for gossip trumped getting in the last word.

“Cherise, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” a feminine voice intruded.

The pleasant, soft tone shouldn’t have scraped him raw, leaving an oily slide of disgust. He didn’t need to glance behind him to identify the woman. He’d be able to identify that dulcet tone, that light floral scent anywhere.

Identify it, then crucify it.

“Adalyn,” his mother crooned, a smile erasing her frown as she moved toward Adalyn Hayes with outstretched arms. “Don’t you look beautiful?”

Grayson shifted to the side, studying his mother as she warmly embraced his ex-girlfriend. The woman who’d almost become Mrs. Grayson Chandler.

The woman who’d stabbed him so deeply in the back he still had phantom pains from the scar a year and a half later.

She hadn’t changed at all. Still stunningly beautiful with oval-shaped green eyes, delicate features, pretty mouth and long sleek hair as dark as a raven’s wing—or as dark as her heart. A midnight blue gown that glittered as if stars had been sewn into it clung to her small breasts and willowy frame before flowing over slender hips to pool around her feet.

No, she hadn’t changed a bit. But he had.

That beauty no longer stirred desire inside him. Those embers had long turned to dust, incapable of being lit ever again.

“Grayson,” Adalyn purred, turning to him and linking her arm through his mother’s. “I didn’t know you would be attending the gala this year. It’s wonderful seeing you.”

“Hello, Adalyn.”

Damn if he’d lie just for the sake of pleasantries.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured as if his mother had disappeared and just the two of them existed in the crowded ballroom of the North Shore mansion. “We need to get together for dinner and catch up with one another.”

“I love that idea,” his mother chimed in, patting Adalyn’s hand. “We’ve missed you, too. I was planning a dinner party for next week. You and your parents are invited. I’ll call your mother to officially issue the invitation.”

The conversation sounded benign, but something seemed...off. Too jovial. Too neat.

Too false.

“Matchmaking, Mother?” he asked, infusing a boredom into his tone that didn’t reflect the cacophony of distaste and rage roiling inside him like a noxious cloud. “You don’t think this is a little beneath you?”

“Not when you insist on flitting from woman to woman, behaving like a male whore,” she snapped, and no, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words.

Manwhore. Playboy. Embarrassment. But again, that damn not-so-thick skin. The barbed insult pricked him like the cockleburs that would sting his fingers when he visited his grandmother’s horse farm as a child. Back then, he’d plucked them off and rubbed away the nip of pain. Now, with his ex a witness to his mother’s disdain, those nips drew blood.

Deliberately curling his lips into a mocking smirk, he bowed slightly at the waist. “Thank you, Mother. Now tell me what you really think because I sense you’re holding back.”

She scoffed, returning her attention to Adalyn who watched him with a gleam in her eyes. A gleam that heralded trouble. For him.

“You’re thirty years old and it’s time to put away such childish behavior. The future CEO of Chandler International needs a good woman by his side supporting him. The board will not endorse or accept a man whose name and picture ends up on those dirty little gossip websites as often as the business section.”

He stiffened. The smile he gave his mother was brittle, felt close to cracking right down the middle.

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t intend to be the future CEO of Chandler International. Which makes the board and my love life nonissues. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see several people I need to speak with.” Bending his head, he brushed a kiss over his mother’s cheek. “Mother. Adalyn.”

Without waiting for the diatribe about his rudeness, he pivoted and strode away from the two women, the noose that had slowly been tightening around his neck loosening with each step.

He should’ve seen this coming. His mother had been less than subtle about her wishes for him to settle down and marry. Especially in the last six months.

Since Jason had died.

The thought of his brother lanced him through the chest, a hot poker that hadn’t cooled in the time since his death. With a thirteen-year age difference and the knowledge that Jason was the favorite between them, they hadn’t been close. But Grayson had loved his older brother, respected him. And the tragic randomness of a brain aneurysm had only made Jason’s death harder to accept.

But Grayson hadn’t had time to grieve before his parents had started pressuring him to leave the business he’d created and return to the family company. The Chandlers were American royalty, and with the heir now gone, the spare had to step up and perform his duty. Which meant helming Chandler International and, according to his mother, committing himself to a woman from a respectable background.

The knot that had started to relax around his throat tightened again, and he jerked at his bow tie. God, the thought of being back under his father’s thumb, having to answer to Daryl Chandler and the board full of men just like him... Of having his independence stripped from him... Of having to live by the constricting rules that governed being a Chandler, one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest families...

He was already suffocating.

Fuck, he needed air.

Charging across the ballroom, he didn’t stop until he exited the cavernous space filled with the glitterati of Chicago. They were supposed to be his friends, his business contacts, his people.

And all he wanted was to escape.

Escape them all.

Two

The last place Nadia Jordan belonged was this gorgeous North Shore mansion that wouldn’t have been out of place in the French countryside. And as the security guard skimmed a glance over her dark brown hair that no doubt looked like she’d been dragging her fingers through it—because she had been—and down her leather jacket and faded jeans to her tennis shoes, he no doubt agreed.

But in her defense, it was a Saturday night, and she’d been on her way back home from one of her brother’s travel league baseball games when she’d received the emergency call from her supervisor that had brought her here. As the older sister and guardian to a teenage boy, her idea of an emergency included a hospital, an asthma attack or broken limbs. But obviously she and her boss, the vice president of operations with KayCee Corp, had very different ideas of what constituted a crisis. His involved a high society gala, a white tuxedo shirt and spilled shrimp cocktail.

When she’d received the call, she’d wanted to tell him she was off the clock. He could button up his jacket for the rest of the night. But being a rural transplant from Tatumville, Georgia—and yes, it was as small as it sounded—she’d been lucky to land the job in Chicago as secretary in one of the country’s hottest tech firms. And with a brother who was involved in every extracurricular activity his new high school had to offer, as well as his college tuition bills on the very near horizon, she literally couldn’t afford to say no to her supervisor’s sometimes wacky requests.

Being a secretary hadn’t been her dream job. Nursing held that honor. But leaving for school and entrusting her brother to her mother’s seriously lacking maternal care hadn’t been an option. Nadia had cared for Ezra since their mother had come home from the hospital with him, even though Nadia had only been seven. Sacrificing for him so he could have a stable home and a chance at a successful future hadn’t been a hardship. She would do anything to ensure he had the opportunities she hadn’t.

Which explained why she stood in the foyer of an ostentatious mansion, holding a garment bag with a clean dress shirt, waiting for a black-suited security guard to grant her entrance.

“Ma’am, your name isn’t on the guest list,” he informed her, scanning the screen of the tablet he held.

She fought not to roll her eyes. No shit, Sherlock. She belonged in a world with linoleum and mass-produced light fixtures. Definitely not this alternate universe with gold and marble tiles and mammoth crystal chandeliers. “I know. My supervisor, Mr. Terrance Webber, is the guest. I’m his secretary, and he asked me to bring an item by for him.” She held up the garment bag, silently explaining the “something.”

“He assured me he would leave a note with security so I could bring this to him. I shouldn’t be long at all.”

“A moment, please.”

“Sure.” She forced her lips into a smile, when she really wanted to lament the fact that she could be curled up on her living room couch, covered from chin to toe with an afghan, settling in for an evening of campy B horror movies.

Several moments passed as the guard spoke into a headpiece, and she tried not to gawk at the over-the-top evidence of wealth surrounding her. A gilded staircase that could’ve graced any classic Hollywood movie set curved to a second level. Paintings that appeared old, and therefore expensive, were mounted on the walls and a huge fireplace inlaid with more gold damn near covered a far wall.

So this was how the one percent lived.

Enlightening.

And intimidating as hell.

Finally, the guard ended his conversation and glanced down at her.

“Mr. Webber is currently in the first men’s room in the east wing. He instructed you to meet him there.” He turned and pointed toward the rear of the foyer and a corridor that branched off to the right. “If you’ll follow that hall to the end, make another right. The men’s restroom is the last door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Relief poured through her as she marched forward, ready to have her errand done so she could return to real life. Which didn’t include this uncomfortable tumbling in her stomach.

Well, her life in Chicago didn’t include it. In Tatumville, she’d been intimate with this feeling—this sense of not belonging, of not being worthy. When you were the daughter of the town Jezebel, who was also a drunk, people tended to stuff you in the “won’t amount to much” box. But when Nadia and Ezra left her hometown and started over in Chicago, she’d vowed never to let anything, or anyone, make her feel that insignificant again.

The music drifted away until she could barely hear it as she traveled down the hall. Her cell phone buzzed in her jeans pocket, and she paused to fish it out. A grimace crossed her face as she read the text.

Terrance Webber: Where are you, Nadia? I need the shirt ASAP. They’re about to serve dinner.

Inhaling a deep breath, she held it for several seconds, then slowly released it. Being snippy with the boss was a definite no-no.

Nadia: I just arrived. I’ll be at the restroom in a minute.

She typed the reply and started walking, tucking the phone in her back pocket. The sooner she got this over with the bet—

“Oof.”

The air barreled out of her lungs as she slammed into the wall that had just sprung up in the middle of the corridor. She stumbled back several steps, and the garment bag tumbled from her fingers. Big, strong hands gripped her forearms, steadying her before she could follow Mr. Webber’s shirt to the floor.

“Thank you. I’m sorry about...that...”

Her words dried up on her tongue as she met a unique gaze. Heterochromia, it was called. She’d looked it up soon after starting her job. One vivid, sky blue eye, and one forest green. Startling and beautiful. And only one man she knew possessed it.

Grayson Chandler. President of KayCee Corp. Her employer.

And the man she’d been secretly lusting after for over a year.

Oh, God. Surely You couldn’t be so cruel.

But as Grayson cocked his head to the side and skimmed his gaze from her face, down her body and back up, she had to admit that yes, indeed, God might have a mean streak. Otherwise, why else would He allow her to come face-to-face with this beautiful man while she looked like something that had been dragged over home plate a couple of times?

He bent down and snagged the forgotten garment bag from the floor. Standing, he offered it to her, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Wow...that mouth. Full, sensual with a deep dip in the center of the top lip. Her fingers itched to trace it, to test the softness. She shivered, and from the narrowing of his eyes, she didn’t think he missed it.

“I’ve heard of Cinderella showing up late to the ball clothed in a beautiful gown. But not with her dress in tow.” He held the bag out to her, arching an eyebrow. “I think you need an upgrade in fairy godmothers.”

“Yes, well, Cinderella was high-maintenance,” she murmured, accepting the luggage.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him, and from the slight widening of his eyes and the surprise flashing through the blue-and-green depths, it seemed the crack of amusement caught him off guard. Join the club.

“And you’re not high-maintenance?” he asked, slipping his hands into his tuxedo pants.

The movement opened his black jacket, offering a glimpse of his pristine white shirt stretched across a broad, powerful chest and flat abdomen. Heat tangled in her belly, and she fought the urge to cover it with her hand. As if that futile gesture could contain it.

“You would be the first, then,” he said. Before she could respond to that loaded statement and the hint of bitterness in it, he continued. “I’ve never met the anti-Cinderella before, and I have to admit I’m curious. After you change, will you allow me to escort you to the ballroom?”

Mortification swelled inside her chest, scorching a path up her throat and pouring into her face. It figured that when she stepped into a fairy tale and met Prince Charming, instead of being the bejeweled, beautifully gowned princess, she was the poor scullery maid. Only thing missing was the ash on her face.

Clutching Mr. Webber’s shirt tighter, she hiked up her chin. She might be embarrassed, but damn if she’d show it. “Actually, I’m only here to drop off this shirt for my supervisor. He’s the guest, not me.”

He frowned. “It’s Saturday. Aren’t you off the clock?”

She shrugged. “Technically. But when the boss calls...”

“Are you getting paid overtime for this little errand?” he pressed.

She didn’t reply. They both knew the answer. And judging by the darkening of his eyes, from irritated to thunderous, he didn’t like it. Why did that send a thrill tripping down her spine? Especially when it was Grayson’s employee who had delivered the order for her to be here? She refused to analyze the first or share the second.

“What’s your supervisor’s name?” he asked. No, demanded. The hard, flat tone brooked no refusal. Again, that trickle of excitement, only this time it sizzled, arousal hardening her nipples, clenching her belly...pooling heavy between her legs.

She didn’t do controlling men. Not after the childhood she’d experienced and all the things she’d witnessed between her mother and her “boyfriends.” In many ways, Grayson reminded her of those men. Rich. Handsome. Pillars of the community. Respectable. Untouchable. Except for furtive meetings with her mother in the alleys behind bars or in the back seats of expensive cars.

Yes, he bore more than enough resemblance to those hypocrites that she should shy away from him. But from the first, Nadia had been drawn to his lovely mismatched eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, nose and jaw. The carnal perfection and temptation of his mouth. The tall, elegant frame with wide shoulders and chest, a tapered waist and long, powerful legs.

But unlike those men who’d ignored her mother on Main Street but couldn’t get enough of her on back streets, Grayson seemed to possess a core of integrity. The few times they’d run into each other since she’d started working at KayCee Corp, he’d been nothing but respectful, his gaze not dipping to linger on her generous breasts or her equally generous ass. He’d never uttered sly innuendo or propositioned her. It’d been...refreshing. And had only deepened her schoolgirl crush.

Yet none of that justified her reaction to that implacable, disobey-and-bear-the-consequences tone. Or explained why she imagined him clasping her chin in his big hand, holding her still for a hard, hungry kiss while cuffing her arms above her head.

Arousal rippled through her, and she clenched her thighs.

“Cinderella,” he said, stepping closer, while she stared up at him like prey caught in the unblinking stare of a predator on the hunt. “His name.”

“W-why?” she stammered. Oh, for God’s sake. She tipped her head up, drawing her shoulders back. “Why do you want to know?”

Why do you care?

“So I can have a very civil conversation with him about taking advantage of his employees and not compensating them for their time. To discuss how not to abuse one’s position of power over another, including expecting them to be at one’s beck and call.”

“There’re a lot of ‘one’s’ up in there,” she grumbled. Shaking her head, she ignored the curl at the corner of his mouth, and the warmth it caused to slide through her veins. Like liquid sunshine. And all because she’d made him smile. Somewhat. Good Lord, woman. Get it together. “I can’t do that. One, I need my job, and two, it’s no big deal.” Even though it kind of was.

“Oh, but it is,” he purred, mirroring her thoughts. “And you don’t have to worry about your job, Cinderella. Whoever he is wouldn’t dare to fire you.”

The arrogance and satisfaction in his assurance shouldn’t have been sexy, but damn, it so was. Even the fact that he didn’t remember her, though they’d met a handful of times, couldn’t diminish the desire he stirred in her. Did it sting? Oh yes, and more than a little. But she worked for his company, not for him directly. And if life had taught her anything, it was to be realistic. Men who were constantly photographed with sophisticated, slender, gorgeous socialites, actresses and models wouldn’t notice a small-town, curvy, unassuming secretary.

So yes, him not recognizing her made sense. Still hurt, though. Every woman—even Cinderella—longed to be memorable. Especially to the man who starred in her every dark, sweaty, erotic dream.

“I appreciate your concern, but my lips are sealed, and I really need to—”

“What would it take to unseal them?” he murmured, and she stiffened, shock winging through her as his gaze dropped to her mouth. And stayed there.

Nervous, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, and something flashed in his eyes. On another man, she would’ve labeled it lust. But not him. Never him.

“Tell me what I need to do. What you need me to give you,” he added.

Her apparently filthy mind supplied answer after answer, and none of them had to do with clean shirts, bosses’ names or uncompensated time.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t—”

The hallway plunged into darkness.

“What the fuck?” Grayson snapped.

Yes. What the fuck indeed.

Three

“Any word yet?”

Grayson glanced down at the woman sitting on the floor of the hallway. The light from his cell phone revealed her back pressed to the wall, her long, entirely-too-gorgeous legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Jesus, what this woman did for denim...

Dragging his attention away from the siren’s call of her thighs, he returned it to the cell in his hand. “Citywide blackout,” he replied, his voice rougher, more abrasive than usual. Unexpected, and inconvenient, lust clawed at him. “I wasn’t able to get any calls out, but I managed a couple of texts. According to my friend, the police are advising everyone to stay where they are. Which won’t be a problem for us. It seems the tech guru who owns this mansion installed a state-of-the-art security system that has now malfunctioned, locking us all inside.” Grayson shook his head. He’d met the man earlier. The guy epitomized the definition of “book sense but no common sense.” As the grandiose house and the money spent on it testified. “So until the blackout is over, and power is restored, we’re trapped here.”

Quickly, he typed out a text to his parents, but it didn’t go through. Damn. But at least he knew they were safe somewhere in this building.

“Shoot,” she muttered, thrusting her hand through her thick brown hair.

No, not brown. That was a woefully inadequate description for the beautiful blending of auburn and shades of copper and chestnut.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future,” he drawled, lowering to the floor and setting his cell phone between them, so the flashlight app created a small, dim circle of light. Drawing his legs up and propping his wrists on his knees, he glanced at her. “Look on the bright side. I could be your supervisor.”

He chewed up the word supervisor, angry still at the thought of the nameless, faceless man. What spoiled, selfish asshole made his employee traipse all the way out to the Gold Coast to bring him a shirt on the weekend? She still hadn’t revealed his identity, but he intended to find out. And when he did, Grayson would enjoy throwing around his last name to put the fear of God in the man. No, the fear of a Chandler.

“Good point,” she agreed absently. But then a smile lit her face, and a peculiar and unwelcome catch snagged in his chest. Forget the light from his phone, the beauty of that smile could illuminate the entire building. Hell, the Chicago skyline. “Oh, thank God. He’s safe.”

“Who’s safe?” he asked, because screw it, he was curious about her. Any woman who showed up to the DuSable City Gala in a leather jacket and skinny jeans was way more interesting than one in a gown and jewels.

At first, he didn’t think she’d answer, but after a moment, she said, “My brother. I left him at his baseball game, but he’s at a friend’s house instead of on the road.”

“Did you try reaching your parents? Just in case he wasn’t able to contact them?” Almost as soon as the words exited his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Emotions flickered across her face, there and gone before he could decipher them. Well, except for one. Pain.

“It’s just my brother Ezra and me,” she said, tone flat.

He recognized that particular note. Too well.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, curling his fingers into his palms until the short nails bit into the flesh. It was either that or erase the distance between them and cup her too-lovely face. “I know the pain of losing someone, too.”

Her eyes, as dark as espresso, softened. She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry for your loss.” If he hadn’t been studying her so closely he might’ve missed the slight shift of her hand from her lap. As if she, too, considered touching him, but decided not to at the last moment. “My parents aren’t dead. They’re just not...here. I’m my brother’s guardian, and we moved to Chicago a little over a year ago. It’s just us.”

More questions piled into his head, his curiosity about this beautiful woman insatiable. That in itself should’ve alarmed him. The last woman to elicit even a tenth of this magnetic pull had left his heart and pride battered and bruised.

Still, she’d satisfied a small piece of his curiosity. That honeyed drawl. Definitely not a clipped, flatter Chicago tone. She hadn’t mentioned where she’d moved from, but he’d bet his favorite bottle of Glenlivet that she’d lived somewhere hot and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The slightly exaggerated vowels and soft consonants flowed over his skin like a heated caress. He had the insane urge to strip naked and let it touch every inch of him.

He shook his head as if he could somehow dislodge the thought. Yet...he couldn’t stop his gaze from roaming over her features. When he’d first bumped into her, he’d focused on steadying her and keeping her from falling backward. But when she’d lifted her head, he’d been struck dumb for the first time in his life.

Years ago, he’d started boxing as a way to release aggression and get some exercise. He clearly remembered the first time he’d had his bell rung by a sparring opponent. The other guy’s fist had plowed into Grayson’s stomach, blasting the air from his lungs, leaving his legs rubbery and his head spinning. When he’d peered into this woman’s dark brown eyes and beautiful face, he’d been back kneeling on that mat again.

Long-lashed eyes that turned up at the corners. Regal cheekbones to match the almost patrician slope of her nose with its flared nostrils. Below, her wide, full, utterly perfect mouth had him fighting the urge to press his thumb to it. Just to feel the softness of that slightly heavier bottom lip that formed a natural pout. That mouth would inspire both worshipful poems and dirty limericks.

Then there was her body.

Even the worn leather jacket, simple white T-shirt and ripped skinny jeans couldn’t detract from the lushness of her curves. If anything, the plain clothes emphasized the miracle that was her body. Tall, even in gym shoes, the top of her head brushed the underside of his jaw. Strong but slender shoulders. Beautiful, firm breasts that would more than fill his hands—and God, did he want to find out for himself if that were true. A tucked-in waist that accentuated the wide flare of hips that had his palms tingling to cradle her—hell, degenerate that he was, he wanted to dig his fingers into her...leave his prints behind on that flesh. Impossibly long, thick legs and that ass. He briefly closed his eyes. God only gave asses like that to those He really loved... He must love the hell out of her. Round. High. Flawless. Made to be adored.

Yes, Grayson’s first glimpse of her had pummeled the sense from his head and ignited his body like a struck match tossed in a pool of gasoline. Not even Adalyn had garnered that reaction from him.

And sitting here with this woman in a private world carved out of darkness, he couldn’t deny that he wanted her. Wanted to feel her breath on his lips, his skin. Wanted to taste her mouth, taste that golden almond skin, discover its flavor for himself. Wanted to feel those abundant curves pressed to his larger, harder frame, adhered to him by sweat and lust.

The clawing desire also had him mentally scooting back.

Nothing that powerful could be good. Especially for him and his addictive personality. During his teens, it’d been the excess afforded him by his parents’ wealth and social status. Later it’d been women. Then he’d poured that intensity and driving need into founding and building KayCee Corp. And then into Adalyn.

Yeah, he sensed that he could become wildly addicted to the woman next to him, whose vanilla and earthy scent—like fresh wind after a summer storm—reached out to him, tempted him. Hell, a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

And that scared the hell out of him.

And yet...

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

Her hesitation was brief, but he still caught it.

“Nadia,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Nadia,” he murmured, stretching his hand out toward her. “Grayson.”

Again, she paused. But then, she slid her palm into his. And when an electrical charge sizzled up his arm and straight to his cock, he instantly regretted touching her. Only pride kept him from jerking his hand away.

He shifted his gaze from their clasped hands to her eyes, expecting to see the same shock. Instead he glimpsed resignation. And shadows. His gut clenched. Experience had taught him that secrets lurked in the shadows. Lies lived there.

Slowly, he released her, returning his hand to his knee. Resisting the urge to fist his fingers and ease the residual tingling.

Or capture it.

Turning away from her, he stared straight ahead into the enveloping dark. “Why don’t you want me to know your name?” he finally asked, casting aside the socially acceptable tact that had been drilled into him since birth. “Do we know each other?”

Her sharp but low intake of breath glanced off his ears, and he faced her again, openly scrutinizing her face for any telltale signs of deception. But she was good. Aside from that gasp, her expression remained shuttered. Either she had nothing to hide or she was damn good at lying.

He couldn’t decide which one to believe.

“No,” she whispered. “We don’t know each other.”

Truth rang in her voice, and the vise squeezing his chest loosened a fraction of an inch.

“And I guess, I didn’t see the point of exchanging names. If not for this blackout or you being in this hallway instead of the ballroom, our paths wouldn’t have crossed. And when the power is restored, we’ll become strangers again. Getting to know each other will pass the time but it’s not because we truly want to. It’s not...honest.”

Her explanation struck him like a punch. It echoed throughout his body, vibrating through skin and bone. Honest. What did he know about that?

In the world he moved in, deception was everywhere—from the social niceties of “It’s so good to see you” to the cagey plans to land a business deal. He wasn’t used to her brand of frankness, and so he didn’t give her platitudes. Her honesty deserved more than that.

“You’re right,” he said. “And you’re wrong.” Deliberately, he straightened his legs until they sprawled out in front him, using that moment to force himself to give her the truth. “If not for me needing to get out of that ballroom and bumping into you here, we wouldn’t have met. You would be outside, unprotected in the parking lot or on the road. And I would be trapped in the dark with people I wish I didn’t know, most likely going out of my mind. So for that alone, I’m glad we did connect. Because Nadia...” He surrendered to the need that had been riding him since looking down into her upturned face, and clasped a lock of her hair, twisting it around his finger. “Nadia, I would rather be out here with you, a complete stranger I’ve met by serendipity, than surrounded by the familiar strangers I’ve known for years in that ballroom.”

She stared at him, her pretty lips slightly parted, espresso eyes widened in surprise.

“Another thing you’re correct and incorrect about. True, when the lights come back on and we leave here, we probably won’t see each other again. But in this moment, there’s nothing I want more than to discover more about Nadia with the gorgeous mouth, the unholy curves and the underwhelming fairy godmother.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed it with the comments about her mouth and body, but if they were being truthful, then he refused to hide how attractive he found her. Attractive, hell. Such an anemic description for his hunger to explore every inch of her and be able to write a road map later.

Her lashes fluttered before lowering, hiding her eyes. In her lap, her elegant fingers twisted. He released the strands of her hair and checked the impulse to tip her chin up and order her to look at him.

“Why did you need to escape the ballroom?” she asked softly.

He didn’t immediately reply, instead waiting until her gaze rose to meet his.

Only then did he whisper, “To find you.”

Four

Nadia struggled to compose her features. To not let the yearning tangling in her to reflect on her face. Especially with Grayson’s piercing scrutiny attempting to peel away her carefully constructed protective layers. She’d spent years erecting them and couldn’t afford to let him see the insecure woman who raised her brother the best way she could, constantly afraid she would screw him up in some way as their mother had with her.

But oh God, did he tempt her to lower her guard. To surrender to the quiet invitation in those amazing eyes.

Still, Grayson Chandler, president of KayCee Corp, one of the most successful tech start-ups to explode onto the financial scene in years, the golden son of the revered Chandler family, couldn’t want her. Not Nadia Jordan, formerly of Tatumville, Georgia, daughter to Marion Jordan, the town’s notorious man-eater and drunk.

It had nothing to do with her self-esteem—or lack of it—regarding her body. If her mother had bequeathed anything to her, it was a confidence in her curves. Because Nadia had inherited her build from Marion.

From the time Nadia had been old enough to understand what was happening, she’d witnessed the lust and appreciation men possessed for Marion’s large breasts, wide hips, thick thighs and not-so-small behind. Those rich pillars of the community might ignore her in public when standing next to their wives and daughters, but in the dark, in secret, they couldn’t get enough of Marion’s brash laugh, her flamboyance, her casual sensuality, and of course, her body.

And when Nadia hit puberty and started to fill out, their dirty leers had transferred to her. Almost everyone in her hometown had expected her to follow in Marion’s footsteps. Like mother, like daughter. Earlier than she should’ve, she’d learned to dodge grasping, searching fingers, to avoid deserted hallways and dark corners where teen boys and older men could trap her.

It was why she’d escaped Tatumville as soon as she could. To move to a place where she wasn’t seen as her mother’s daughter. To give her brother a chance to grow up out from under that censure.

So no, she didn’t have body issues. Still, she’d seen the pictures in society and gossip magazines and blogs capturing Grayson with women who were the anti-her.

And then there was the matter of his wealth.

He might not know all of her background, but from her clothes and the conversation they’d shared, he had to know she was not only from the other side of the tracks, but that those tracks were miles away.

She didn’t trust rich men. Too many times had she witnessed her mother not only using those kinds of men for money, favors or gifts, but also allowing them to use her, too. Nothing they gave Marion had been free, and in Nadia’s experience, rich men did nothing without expecting something back.

Staring at Grayson with his “To find you” ringing in her ears, she forced herself to remember those lessons. She tried to resist the small but insistent whisper in her mind asking what would be the harm in letting go just once in her life? Who would it hurt if she took something for herself?

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man to believe in that fated nonsense,” she finally said, resenting the rasp in her voice.

“I’m not,” he agreed. “I don’t believe in ideas like destiny, blind faith or unconditional love. I forge my own path, make my own choices and live by them. And there are always conditions, strings attached to everything. Nothing in this life is free,” he said, echoing her own thoughts. “You know what I do believe in, Nadia?” She shook her head, and the intensity in his gaze seemed to deepen. “What I can touch, see...taste. If I can’t, then I don’t trust it.”

“And yet...” She trailed off.

“And yet,” he continued. “It might not have been you who dragged me out of that ballroom. But I’m here. And I’m not alone.”

Alone.

That one word resonated inside her, expanding until it rang like a struck gong. A man like him shouldn’t be alone. It struck her as...wrong.

“It seems to me that someone who attends a gala that even peons like me know about isn’t often alone.” She cocked her head. “Unless he wants to be.”

“You know what they say about assuming, Nadia.” He tsked, but she didn’t miss the thread of steel in the teasing. As if he were warning her to back off the topic. Which perversely only heightened her desire to pursue it.

“Well then don’t let me assume, Grayson. Enlighten me. Tell me something about yourself. Something nobody knows. Something that will stay here in this hallway. Between you and me.”

He studied her for a long moment, and Nadia met that blue-and-green gaze, no matter how much she might want to duck her head and avoid it. And, she didn’t rescind her request. She waited, her chest tight, hoping he would answer. Even if it was some bullshit that every gossip outlet knew. For this moment, she could pretend it was only for her.

“I hate this pretentious, fake, incestuous fishbowl,” he finally murmured, drawing his legs back up and propping his arms on his knees again. Turning from her, he stared straight ahead, but a small muscle ticked along his jaw. “No, not a fishbowl. A shark tank. A tank full of predators waiting for the slightest sign of weakness so they can tear you to pieces. Do you know how exhausting it is to be constantly on guard?”

“Yes,” she whispered. God, did she. “But, you know, the thing about sharks? We see them as ruthless, single-minded killers, when they’re not. They’re important to the ocean’s ecosystem. In a way, they’re protectors. Smaller fish depend on them for survival. I could make the argument that if they didn’t exist, neither would the weaker, more vulnerable species.”

He shifted his gaze back to her, and a faint smile played with his lips. Heat rushed into her face. Thank goodness for the dark so he couldn’t see the evidence of her mortification. Unfortunately, her mouth wouldn’t stop running.

“I watch a lot of Animal Planet,” she mumbled. “But maybe, you’re in that tank to protect the defenseless so they can thrive.”

The smile disappeared. And she regretted whatever she’d said that had caused it to vanish.

“I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but protector has never been one of them. You make me sound noble, and I’m not,” he said, that vein of harshness entering his voice again. This time, it might’ve induced her to back away from the subject—if not for the presence of something else there, too, something that tasted of desperation, of...pain.

It drew her to him.

The press painted Gideon Knight and Grayson Chandler as light and dark, the yin and yang of KayCee Corp. Gideon was the intimidating, merciless owner, while Grayson was the golden, charming half. But the glimpses of him she’d received tonight...

Who was Grayson?

Those glimpses promised that more lurked beneath that affable mask. It was the more that had her reaching out to him. Had her settling her hand over his.

“In my experience, people who warn you that they aren’t noble are the ones with good hearts. It’s the ones who brag about being righteous and moral that you need to watch out for.”

Grayson’s gaze dipped to her hand, then slowly lifted until it met her eyes. A shiver rippled through her, and he didn’t miss it.

“My heart isn’t good, Nadia. I’m selfish. Greedy. Spoiled. And if you knew the thoughts in my head right now, about you, you would remove your hand from mine,” he warned.

She didn’t. Even though her heart thudded against her sternum, she didn’t heed his warning.

“Go on and ask me,” he murmured, and her breath caught in her lungs at the sin in his voice. “You’re thinking it. I can see that in those pretty brown eyes. Ask me what thoughts are in my head.”

Here in the dark, the caution that ruled her life started to unravel. That small, low whisper encouraging her to take grew in volume, in strength. In this hallway, cut off from the real world, with only the man she’d fantasized about for company, she was Eve reaching for the apple even knowing she shouldn’t.

Knowing that traveling down this path with her employer would be one of the biggest mistakes of her life...

She bit the apple.

“What are your thoughts about me?” she asked, the question barely there.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. When she nodded, he did, as well. “You bumped into me earlier, but only because I’d already stopped. I couldn’t move. Watching you walk is pure sex. The confident stride of those legs that mesmerize a man. Give him thoughts of how they would clasp him in their strong embrace. The sensual sway of hips I want to dig my fingers into while I press you close and take your mouth that was created to be claimed, corrupted. That’s what you are, baby. Corruption. Sin. Desire in flesh. And I want to kneel in front of you and beg you to consign me to your hell. Because I want to burn in you. With you.”

Oh God.

Desire, scorching hot and out of control, blazed a path from her belly, up her chest and to every limb of her body. Consuming her. With just words, he caused her nipples to tighten, her sex to spasm in need. Thank God she was sitting, because her trembling legs wouldn’t have supported her. Not when the blood in her veins had become liquid lust. Not when the breath in her lungs had evaporated into smoke.

I want to kneel in front of you... Because I want to burn in you. With you.

Now, she could do nothing but picture him on his knees in front of her, that proud head tilted back, his amazing eyes fixed on her. His fingers clasping the tab of her zipper and steadily lowering...

She closed her eyes, not to block out the image but to dwell on it.

“Nadia.” Gentle but firm fingers pinched her chin and lifted her head. “Look at me,” Grayson ordered, and she did. When she stared into his amazing eyes, he nodded. “Your turn. Tell me something nobody knows. Something that will stay here in this hallway,” he said, lobbing her words back at her.

Brave. She’d always prided herself on not backing down from any challenge. Especially because it’d almost always meant going without something—food, rent, money. But here, brave meant being selfish. It meant grabbing ahold and taking for herself...for once.

And God, did she want to take.

Could she do it only for tonight? Slap the time-out button and live brashly, without a thought for the consequences? Who would she hurt?

Maybe just herself once morning dawned or the lights came back on. But she was prepared to walk out of here accepting that when she returned to work on Monday, she would go back to being the nameless, faceless employee on the twentieth floor.

If she could have this slice of time with Grayson, then she’d deal with the hurt of becoming invisible again.

“I like tequila shots,” she whispered. “What no one knows is you’re like that hit of tequila. Potent as hell, hot and strong like the first punch of alcohol to the stomach—and I’ll gladly get drunk on it, on you, even knowing I’ll be hungover and remorseful in the morning.”

The silence between them thickened and heated. His grip on her chin tightened, and the slight pressure drew a gasp from her. His eyes. They seemed to glow with the same need that snapped inside of her. His skin tautened across his cheekbones, his sensual, full mouth flattening into a firm line.

“Do you understand what you do to a man like me when you say that?” he growled.

“A man like you?” she rasped.

“I told you,” he said, voice rough, harsh. His hand shifted from her face and up into her hair, gripping the strands. “I’m greedy. Selfish. And will take without conscience what you’re offering me.” He tugged on her hair, and pinpricks of pleasure danced across her scalp. She sank her teeth in her bottom lip to trap a moan. “What are you offering me, Nadia?”

“Me,” she breathed. “For tonight. All of me.”

As if those words snapped a fraying leash on his control, Grayson swooped down and crushed his mouth to hers. Oh God. She hadn’t been prepared. Maybe she’d believed she was. But foolish, foolish her—she wasn’t.

Not prepared for the intensity, the hunger, the ravishing. She felt silly even thinking that antiquated word, but no other could describe how he consumed her. Dragged her under with the thrust of his tongue, the hard but sensual molding of his lips to hers.

His holds in her hair and on her chin tightened. He tugged her head back farther, and his thumb pressed firmer just under her bottom lip. Both helplessly and willingly, she opened wider for him, for the plunging and tangling of his tongue. For his possession. A possession she not only welcomed but craved like her next breath.

He had become that vital.

His mouth abandoned hers, and with a disappointed whimper, she followed him. But he shifted his grip to her jaw and held her still. He trailed a sizzling path from her lips, down her throat and to the crook between neck and shoulder. There, he nuzzled her, and she gasped as a jolt leaped from that spot to her taut nipples, through her knotted belly and down to the already damp and spasming flesh between her thighs.

Reaching for steady purchase to cling to in the erotic maelstrom, she dug her fingernails into his shoulder. And held on.

“Come here,” he murmured, his hands dropping to her hips and drawing her toward him. Over him. In breathless seconds, she straddled his rock-hard thighs. Slowly lowered herself until the long, thick length of his erection pressed against her denim-covered sex. A low, shaky gust pushed out of her lungs. Damn. He was... Screw it. He was big. And for a woman who hadn’t had sex in well over a year? Intimidating.

But for a woman who’d never indulged in sex where she didn’t need to worry if the man would gossip about her afterward?

Exhilarating.

Liberating.

Rolling her hips, she stroked her sex over him. A full-body shiver worked its way through her, and she groaned at the stunning pleasure. Layers of clothes separated them, but they didn’t prevent her from feeling him. His width, his hardness, his strength.

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she ground against him, rubbing, rocking over his flesh, getting lost in the swells of desire that threatened to quickly drown her in the release that already loomed wonderfully close. Jesus. She was going to embarrass herself by coming quickly just from some fully clothed dry humping, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“I like that you’re using me for your pleasure, baby,” he praised in a silk-and-gravel voice that both slid over and abraded her skin...her nerve endings. “But don’t hide from me.” He pressed his thumb to her lip and gently tugged it free from her teeth. “I want to hear every sound, every word of your need for me. Don’t keep anything from me.”

Oh God. He was temptation, a sinful lure enticing her to fall in the most spectacular of ways.

With deft hands that spoke of skill and practice, he removed her jacket and shirt. Seconds later, she sat on his lap, his rigid dick between her thighs and his beautiful, bright gaze on her half-naked body. She resisted the urge to lift one arm over her plain bra and cross the other over her stomach.

No, she might not be ashamed of her body, but that didn’t prevent insecurities from creeping in with their sly reminders that she wasn’t like the women he’d been pictured with. Though Nadia worked out and ran—not just for health reasons but because it was also a great stress reliever—she would never have a cut six-pack unless she drew it on her abs with a Sharpie. Her flatish, soft belly carried faint stretch marks, and her breasts... Well, they were firm, but their weight would always make them sag a little rather than sit high on her chest like perky B cups.

“Don’t even think about it,” Grayson snapped, his eyes sparking with blue-and-green fire. Stroking his hands up her arms, he squeezed her shoulders, before continuing his journey south until he cupped her breasts in his big hands. “Maybe I should’ve been more specific when I told you not to hide from me. Not sounds, not words and definitely not this gorgeous body.”

“You’re certainly bossy, you know that?” she said, arching an eyebrow but leaving her hands on his shoulders. “Does that usually work for you?”

“Yes,” he rumbled, whisking his thumbs over her stiff, aching nipples. “And it does for you, too.” He pinched the tips, wringing a low cry from her. “Doesn’t it, baby?”

She didn’t answer but lowered her head and took his mouth, swallowing his wicked chuckle. He didn’t let up playing with her body, tweaking and tugging her nipples until she ripped her lips from his and threw her head back. More than anything, she wanted him flesh to flesh, no barriers. Reaching behind her, she unclipped her bra and yanked it off. An almost feral growl tore from him, and he hefted her breasts, lifting one to his mouth and sucking deep while continuing to toy with the other.

Every flick and circle and suckle agitated the insatiable creature she’d become. She tunneled her fingers through his hair, gripping, caught between clutching him close so he couldn’t turn her loose and pushing him from her, unable to bear the brutal sting of pleasure.

Switching to the other mound, he rubbed the wet tip, but slid his free hand down her torso, over her stomach and beneath the band of her jeans. Her audible catch of breath echoed in the hallway, and she stilled as his fingers slipped underneath denim and cotton, resting on top of her sex.

Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “Yes or no?” he asked.

Desire burned in his mismatched eyes, but so did resolve. His stare assured her that he wanted her, but if she said no, he would back away.

“Yes,” she said, the answer firm and sure.

She wanted his touch. Him. Releasing her hand from his hair, she dipped it under her pants as well, covering his fingers with hers. “Yes,” she repeated.

She tilted her hips, and their combined touch glided over her flesh. Twin thick groans saturated the air, and she couldn’t contain the cry that slipped from her lips. Together they stroked her, slid through her folds and down to the small, tight entrance to her body. On the tail end of a curse, Grayson abandoned her breast to wrench the button on her jeans free and tug down the zipper, granting them more room.

Fingers tangled, side by side, they caressed her opening. But it was him that pushed inside, stretching her with a familiar but almost-forgotten burn. And now, with his fingers buried deep, she wondered how she would go on without it.

In a duet that was as dirty as it was beautiful, they coaxed a tune from her body.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, and she obeyed, untangling her fingers from his and slipping beneath his palm to slick a caress over the swollen button of nerves. She jolted, whimpered.

He gave a soft chuckle. “Do it again, Nadia. We’re going to take you there together.”

Shivering, she circled the nub, again and again, his rough praise and encouragement pushing her to rub harder, more, harder, more...

“Oh God,” she croaked, then splintered.

She cried out, quaking from the inside out. Grayson replaced her fingers with his, making sure she received every measure of the orgasm rippling through her. She went limp, falling into his body and wanting nothing more than to curl against him, lethargy weighing down her limbs.

Like she was a rag doll, he lifted her from his lap, damn near ripping the tuxedo from his powerful frame. Then he stripped her of her remaining clothes and arranged her on the makeshift pallet he made of his suit. He loomed above her, the dim light from his cell phone still managing to highlight the corded strength in his arms, chest, abs and thighs. His cock. Her lungs locked down all available air in her lungs at the sight of the heavy column of flesh rising from a dark nest of hair. The desire that had settled to a hum low in her belly sparked and crackled, the flames leaping to hot life. He was sexy, perfect...beautiful.

Thank God this wouldn’t go beyond tonight. Because she had the unnerving sense he could also very well be heartbreak.

Grayson tore open the small foil packet he’d retrieved from his wallet and rolled on the protection. The virile, erotic sight caused all her unsettling thoughts to scatter. All thoughts except him finally being inside her.

Lifting her arms to him, she murmured, “Grayson.”

An invitation. A plea.

“Gray,” he rasped, crawling over her and settling between her thighs.

“What?” She moaned as his weight pressed into her.

“Gray,” he repeated. “Those close to me call me Gray.”

But we’re not close, hovered on her tongue and from the sharpening in his blue-and-green gaze, maybe he expected and anticipated her protest. Sex didn’t make them close, didn’t grant her privileges.

But this was a night for pretend. For fantasy.

Both caused her to whisper, “Gray.”

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes, and he settled more firmly over and against her, every rock-hard, unforgiving plane of his body pressed to her softer, rounded curves.

“What did you say you were willing to give me, Nadia?” he growled, his erection at the entrance to her body.

“All of me,” she rasped, then gasped as he surged inside in one long, smooth, powerful thrust. “Take all of me.”

And he did.

Not holding back. Not allowing her to hold back.

He slid his hands under her ass, angled her up and, withdrawing in a slow drag that lit up nerve endings like fireworks, he then plunged back inside her. Stealing her breath. Words. Sanity.

Circling her arms and legs around his neck and hips, she clung to him, let him hurl her into the storm he created with each flex, each parry and thrust, each branding kiss.

The man was a sexual act of God.

He powered into her, taking her body, giving her pleasure...breaking every notion of what sex really was. Because she’d had sex before, but as he buried himself in her again and again, riding her until her thighs trembled and her breath stuttered, she could admit to herself that this...this exceeded all of it.

This, she’d never experienced.

And already, even though she’d promised herself there couldn’t be a repeat, she craved it again.

“Gray,” she cried out, fearing and welcoming the end that swelled dangerously near.

“Let go, baby,” he ordered, his voice harsh with the same need that clawed at her. “Let go and give it to me.”

As if all she needed was his permission, she did as he commanded. She let go. And ecstasy whipped through her like lightning. Illuminating her, searing her, sending her flying.

Above her, his hoarse shout dimly filled her ears, but she was already falling into the darkness, embracing it.

Knowing in the morning, she would have only memories to hold on to instead of Grayson Chandler.

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