The gala was suffocating.

Overdressed Supes, politicians with plastic smiles, the smell of money and corruption in the air. Cameras flashed like lightning, and every time I turned, I felt his eyes on me.

Black Noir.

Posted up in the far corner of the ballroom, half-shadowed beneath the balcony. Everyone else was too distracted by power plays and cocktail dresses to notice him, but I always did.

And he was staring at me.

Not just watching — devouring. Every sweep of his gaze over my skin felt like a touch. I’d worn the tightest dress I owned for exactly this reason. Black, clinging to every curve, slit up my thigh, showing just enough to be dangerous.

I lifted my champagne glass to my lips, letting my laser eyes flicker just enough to catch his attention.

He moved.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind me — close enough that I could feel the heat of his body against my bare back.

His gloved hand brushed my lower back as if guiding me through the crowd. The touch was subtle, practiced, nothing anyone else would notice. But it made my breath hitch.

I felt something slip into my palm. Smooth. Paper.

I closed my fingers around it and smirked.

I knew exactly what it was.

I waited until he melted back into the crowd before I lifted the small, square piece of paper. In that bold, sharp scrawl I was addicted to:

“Bathroom. Now.”

My pulse kicked up.

I didn’t hesitate. I made my way down the hall, past the staff-only doors, into the nearest empty bathroom. Dim lighting. Marble sinks. The thump of bass-heavy music from the ballroom bleeding through the walls. Then the door closed behind me.

I didn’t even turn around before his hand was at my waist, spinning me to face him. And fuck — the way his body pressed into mine, hard, unrelenting, made my knees weak.

His gloved hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. The other slipped down, fingers gripping the curve of my ass through the thin fabric of my dress. I barely managed a gasp before his mouth was on mine.

It was brutal. Possessive. All teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. I moaned against his lips, my hands fisting the front of his suit as he backed me into the wall.