He Searched Three Years For The Girl Who Vanished From His Bed

The remainder of the dinner felt like sitting beneath a guillotine.

Jasper kept talking about a sailing trip he planned for next spring, his fork tapping against his plate. Chloe chimed in every few minutes, laughing and pouring more Pinot Noir.

I barely heard a word. Rook’s slate eyes pinned me to the banquette, heavy, unblinking, tracking every breath I took. Whenever I reached for my wine, his gaze dropped to my trembling fingers. When I swallowed, his focus dropped to my throat.

"Wren, are you doing interior design or corporate branding?" Jasper asked, breaking through the ringing in my ears.

"Interior," I managed, the syllable dry.

"Fascinating," Rook murmured. He swirled his scotch, the ice clinking against crystal. "Takes an eye for detail. Knowing what fits. Knowing what to discard when you're done playing."

The hidden bite in his words scraped raw.

I shoved my chair back, the legs scraping loudly over the floorboards. "Excuse me. I need the restroom."

"Down the hall to the left," Jasper said with a warm smile. "Take your time."

I practically bolted out of the private dining room.

The tiled restroom was blissfully cold and empty. I gripped the porcelain edge of the basin, turned the brass faucet all the way up, and cupped icy water against my cheeks. Water dripped down my chin onto my blouse.

*Calm down,* I told my reflection. *He doesn't own this city. It was three years ago. A single night.*

I patted my skin with a paper towel, fixed my lipstick, and pushed open the restroom door.

A wall of dark wool blocked the dim hallway.

Rook stood there, his shoulders spanning nearly the width of the passage, his tie loosened by a single knot. The smell of cedar, smoke, and expensive whiskey washed over me.

"Don't recognize me, Wren?" His voice came low, harsh, scraping the quiet air between us.

I stepped back, lifting my chin to hold his gaze. "I told you at the table, Mr. Thorne. We've never met."

Rook scoffed, a dark, humorless sound. He stepped into my space, backing me against the patterned wallpaper until the cold surface hit my shoulder blades. He planted one large hand flat against the wall beside my head.

"Liar," he rasped, tilting his head down so his lips were an inch from my ear. "Three years, and you think I forgot the sounds you make in the dark? You think there’s another woman alive with eyes like yours who runs out of a penthouse suite at five in the morning?"

"I don't know what fantasy you're talking about—"

"Stop lying to me." His fingers twitched against the wallpaper, knuckles grazing my hair. "I searched six countries for you. You erased your tracks like a ghost."

"Rook?"

A high, melodic voice echoed down the corridor.

Rook didn't blink. His stare remained locked on my mouth for one brutal second longer.

"There you are," Chloe said, turning the corner in her emerald silk dress. She slid an arm smoothly through Rook’s elbow, leaning her weight against his side. "Jasper wants to order dessert, but I told him you hate sweets. Are you ready to settle the bill?"

Rook shifted his attention to her, his expression instantly smoothing into a polished, impenetrable mask. "Yes. Let's go."

He didn't give me a second glance as Chloe steered him toward the dining room.

I stood frozen against the wall until my legs stopped shaking.

***

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced pleasantries.

I had no permanent apartment lined up yet, only a two-week reservation at a boutique hotel downtown. Jasper insisted on driving me himself in his vintage roadster, completely oblivious to the war that had unfolded under his nose.

"You're sure you don't need help carrying those bags up?" Jasper asked, popping the trunk outside the hotel lobby.

"I've got them, Jasper. Really," I said, offering him an exhausted smile. "Thank you for dinner. And the ride."

"Anytime. I'll text you tomorrow about that breakfast place I mentioned." He waved, hopped back behind the wheel, and pulled away into the night traffic.

I hauled my two heavy suitcases into the elevator, rode up to the fourteenth floor, and dragged them down the carpeted hallway to room 1408.

My head pounded with jet lag and adrenaline. All I wanted was a boiling shower and eight hours of unconscious sleep.

I pressed the plastic keycard against the electronic lock.

A red light blinked. A dull beep followed.

"What now?" I muttered, swiping it again.

Red light. Another beep.

I raised my hand to knock my knuckles against the plastic reader in frustration, but before I could touch it, the brass latch clicked from within.

The heavy wood swung open.

Rook stood in the doorway.

He had stripped off his suit jacket and tie. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, a room key dangling from his left index finger.

My heart stalled.

"You—" I gasped, staggering a step backward into the hall.

I spun on my heel to run.

Rook moved like lightning. His fingers locked around my wrist, firm as iron, yanking me forward over the threshold. He dragged me into the room, kicked the heavy door shut with his boot, and trapped me against the closed panel in a single, fluid sweep.

The lock clicked shut behind my back.

"Run again," he growled against my mouth, his chest heaving against mine. "Try it, Wren. See how far you get tonight."

"Let me go!" I shoved hard against his solid chest, panic warring with a sudden, violent heat pooling in my gut. "How did you get into my room? Chloe is—"

"I booked this entire floor forty minutes ago," Rook cut in, cutting off my air as his mouth hovered a breath away. "And Chloe is an associate's daughter I took to a business dinner to close a portfolio. Don't speak about things you know nothing about."

"I don't care who she is!" I hissed, twisting my wrists against his grip. "Let me go, Rook!"

"You said my name." A feral satisfaction flashed in his dark eyes. "Say it again."

"No—"

His mouth crashed down on mine, brutal, starving, and instantly shattering every shred of defense I had left.

A broken noise caught in my throat as he pulled my pinned hands above my head with one grip, using his free hand to gather the fabric of my blouse, tearing the tiny pearl buttons straight down the seam. His tongue forced my lips apart, tasting like fire and the scotch he had nursed all night.

"Three years," Rook muttered against my lips, breathless and venomous. "Three fucking years, Wren. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"

"You're insane," I whispered, but my fingers traitorously buried themselves into the short, thick strands of his dark hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

The old, reckless hunger from three years ago roared back to life, erasing the distance, erasing reason, turning everything inside me into ash.

"You're the one who drove me crazy," he snarled.

He bent down, hooked his arm under my thighs, and threw me onto the king-sized mattress.

He followed me down before I could catch my breath, his heavy weight pinning my hips into the sheets. His hands were ruthless, stripping away my slacks, tearing away the silk barrier between us until his rough palms slid up my bare inner thighs.

"Look at me," Rook commanded, his voice thick with raw fury and lust. "Tell me you don't remember this."

He shoved inside me in one deep, unyielding thrust.

I arched off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat as my fingers dug deep into his broad, muscular shoulders. The sheer, overwhelming stretch of him filled me completely, so familiar, so devastatingly big that my eyes stung with tears.

"Fuck, Wren," he groaned, his jaw clenching hard as he gripped my waist, his hips pulling back and slamming forward again. "You feel exactly the same. So damn tight. So fucking soft."

"Rook—please—"

"Please what?" He hammered into me, fast, deep, ruthless, every strike hitting the nerve that made my toes curl and my vision fracture into sparks of white heat. "Tell me what you want. Tell me who's fucking you."

"You," I cried out, my head tossing back against the pillows, my hips rising instinctively to meet his punishing rhythm. "You, Rook."

"That's right," he panted, bending low, his teeth scraping the sensitive curve of my collarbone as his thrusts turned frantic, pounding into my wet heat without mercy. "Mine. You never stopped being mine."

The friction was agonizingly perfect. My thighs shook against his flanks, the wet, slapping sounds of our bodies colliding filling the quiet room. He reached down between us, his thumb finding my swollen clit and rubbing in hard, wicked circles while he drove into my core.

The pleasure hit me like a tidal wave. I screamed his name, my walls clamping down around his thick cock in violent, rhythmic spasms.

Rook cursed loudly, his hips bucking three more times into my clenching heat before he stiffened, spilling himself deep inside me with a ragged, shuddering groan that rattled his whole frame.

He collapsed against my chest, his heavy heartbeat thudding against my ribs, slick with sweat, both of us gasping for air in the ruined dark.

Hours later, the room was silent.

Rook slept heavily beside me, one heavy, possessive arm slung tightly across my waist, pinning me to his side.

I stared at the ceiling, my body aching, sticky, and completely undone.

The clean break I had spent three years building had vanished in a single night. And the ghost I thought I left behind had just wrapped its chains around my throat once more.