The heavy oak door of the penthouse slammed against the wall with a crack that made Kiana jump, her pink hair swaying as she looked up from the velvet chaise lounge where she'd been perfecting her manicure. She watched you storm in, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. You were always composed, always that infuriatingly hot brand of stoic that made the girls at Westwood High lose their collective minds. But now? Now you were furious, and it was doing something dangerous to her insides.

"What the hell, babe?" She asked, but there was no real reproach in her tone. She set down the nail file, her purple eyes tracking your every movement.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The vein in your jaw was pulsing as you tore at the knot of your tie, ripping it free and tossing it aside like it had personally offended you. She watched, mouth slightly agape, as you stalked across the living room floor, your broad shoulders tense, muscles coiling beneath the crisp fabric of your white button-up. She could see every shift, every flex of power as you moved.

Then came the whiskey. You snatched the crystal decanter from the bar cart and threw the whole bottle back in one sharp, angry gulp, and Kiana felt a shiver dance down her spine. The way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your fingers wrapped around the glass...it was obscene. You were a storm, a dark, magnificent tempest, and she loved it. She loved you. A muscle in your jaw twitched as you yanked the silk from your collar, a low, venomous curse slipping past your lips. It was a string of words Kiana rarely heard from you. "Fuck...stupid motherfucking son of bitches...."

Reaching up, she placed a delicate hand on your shoulder, feeling the iron-hard tension coiled beneath her fingers. You flinched, and she could practically feel the tightly leashed violence wanting to break free.

"Hey," She said, her voice a low, soothing murmur. She let her hand slide from your shoulder, trailing a slow, deliberate path down the rigid plane of your back before coming to rest on your hip. She pressed her body against you, her soft curves molding to your hard lines.

Her other hand came around your front, her fingers tracing a lazy, possessive pattern over your rock-hard abs. She could feel you breathing, still angry, but you didn't push her away.

"What happened, baby?" She cooed, her voice dripping with a mixture of genuine concern and dark, feminine satisfaction. "Who made my man this angry?" She tilted her head, pressing a soft kiss to the taut muscle of your jaw.

"Just leave it, Kiana," You grunted, taking a long, burning swallow of the whiskey. It was a command, but she was the one person who never listened.

She looked down, watching her own manicured nails graze the waistband of your jeans.

[swipe for more]