The door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of gold leaf and velvet. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a billion uncaring eyes.
Harrison didn't waste time. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was going to get.
Angelina's throat went dry. Brittain's idea of intimacy was quick, efficient, and usually happened with the lights off. This felt... raw.
Harrison stopped inches from her. He reached out and took the Hermès bag from her grip, setting it on the console table.
"Stop shaking," he murmured. "I'm not him."
The mention of Brittain was the trigger. The anger she had been suppressing for two years flared up, hot and bright. She didn't wait for him to initiate. She stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and pulled him down.
She kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision.
Harrison froze for a split second, surprised, before a low growl vibrated in his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the floor, crushing her against him. He kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her, tasting the vodka and the mint.
He carried her to the bedroom, not breaking the kiss. He laid her down on the massive bed, his body covering hers, a heavy, solid weight that felt grounding.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
Angelina opened her eyes. Harrison was hovering over her, his eyes dark, searching.
"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say it."
"Harrison," she breathed.
He didn't just have sex with her. He dismantled her. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to wring a reaction from her. He made her feel things she had convinced herself she was incapable of feeling. He forced her to be present, to be vocal, to be Angelina, not Mrs. Kane.
Afterward, the silence in the room was different. It wasn't heavy anymore. It was soft.
Angelina lay curled on her side, the high-thread-count sheets pulled up to her chin. She felt exhausted, sore, and strangely, incredibly hungry.
Harrison was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. He shifted, turning to look at her. He reached out, his index finger tracing the line of her spine.
"You're starving," he said. It wasn't a question.
Angelina's stomach growled loudly. She flushed. "I... I usually skip dinner."
"To fit into the sample sizes Brittain likes?" Harrison scoffed. He sat up and grabbed the room service menu. "Not tonight."
He picked up the hotel phone. "Two double cheeseburgers. Fries. Truffle aioli. And... a chocolate milkshake. Two straws."
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on the million-dollar bed, surrounded by greaseproof paper.
Angelina hesitated, holding the burger. It was greasy, heavy, everything she wasn't allowed to have.
"Eat it, Angelina," Harrison said, taking a massive bite of his own. "It's just food. It won't kill you."
She took a bite. The taste of salt, fat, and cheese exploded in her mouth. She groaned involuntarily. She ate the whole thing. She wiped a smudge of ketchup from her lip, but she missed a spot.
Harrison reached out. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping away the sauce. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. It was such a domestic, intimate gesture that it terrified her more than the sex had.
She pulled back sharply.
Harrison dropped his hand. The mask slid back into place, but his eyes remained soft.
"You staying?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Harrison lay back down, pulling the duvet up. "I'm not leaving a suite that costs fifteen grand a night until check-out. Besides," he closed his eyes, "we haven't finished the milkshake."
Angelina watched him sleep. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel alone. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
