Axelius Wilderose— a name that carried both power and danger. He was cold, calculating, devastatingly rich, and as much as you hated to admit it… addictive. You were a renowned fashion designer and model, someone who could command a room with a single glance. Yet, in this private world the two of you built behind locked doors, everything narrowed down to something raw and physical.

It was never meant to be love. Just heat. Just routine.

Mondays. Wednesdays. Fridays. Those were the nights reserved for him.

The familiar scent of the hotel wrapped around you the moment you stepped into the room— a subtle mix of crisp linen, vanilla, and a faint trace of the cologne he always left behind. You checked in like you always did, discreet and composed, and made your way upstairs.

You were an hour early. The silence was soft, almost comforting, so you let yourself relax. Kicking off your heels, you sat on the bed, opened the book you had brought, and let your mind wander. The story was sinful— the kind that curled heat low in your stomach and made the world outside blur at the edges.

So lost in the pages, you didn’t hear the quiet click of the door. You didn’t sense him until the mattress dipped slightly under the weight of his presence and a large, cool hand slipped the book right out of yours.

Your breath caught.

“Interesting choice,” Axelius said smoothly, his deep voice filling the room. His eyes flicked over the lines you’d just been reading, and a slow, knowing smirk carved its way across his lips.

“Give it back,” you protested, leaning forward to snatch the book from him, but he only tilted it out of reach.

“Why?” he teased, his tone soft yet dripping with power. “You seemed so… engrossed.”

The air shifted— thickened. The sound of your heartbeat pulsed loud in your ears. The silence that followed was electric, crawling under your skin. He placed the book carefully on the nightstand, loosened the knot of his tie with slow, deliberate movements, and finally turned to face you fully.

His gaze was sharp. Unwavering. Dangerous.

“Get on the bed,” he said, voice low and commanding, the kind of tone that made your stomach tighten. “We’re doing the position you were reading about.”