Wrong Room: The Ruthless CEO's Captive

Joanna Santana's fingers slipped against the heavy brass handle of the double doors. The metal was cold against her palm, but her skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. Three glasses of champagne. Maybe four. She couldn't remember anymore. The gallery opening had been a blur of fake smiles and cheaper wine than the price tags suggested.

She pushed.

The doors gave way with a soft pneumatic sigh, and Joanna stumbled into a corridor that swallowed sound. The carpet was so thick her heels sank into it, muffling every step. She blinked, trying to clear the swimming darkness at the edges of her vision. Wrong floor. She knew it the moment the silence hit her. The party had been on twelve. This was-she squinted at the brushed steel elevator panel down the hall-twenty-six.

"Perfect," she muttered. Her voice sounded wrong. Too loud. Too slurred.

She reached for the wall to steady herself. Her fingers found silk wallpaper, something expensive that felt like money under her nails. One step. Two. Her left ankle rolled on the third step, the four-inch heel catching in the carpet's plush pile.

"Shit-"

The pain was sharp and immediate, shooting up her calf. She grabbed for the wall but missed. Her shoulder hit a hard, flat surface. A door. It swung inward with a weight that spoke of solid oak and custom hinges, and Joanna tumbled through the opening into absolute blackness.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The sound was final. Sealed. She was alone in the dark with her own ragged breathing and the distant hum of Manhattan twenty-six floors below.

Joanna pushed herself up from the floor. Her palms found marble, cold and smooth. She got one knee under her, then the other. The room smelled like cedar and something else. Something warm. She reached out blindly and her hand connected with fabric. Cotton. Warm skin underneath.

A chest.

She froze.

The chest moved. Inhaled. The body attached to it shifted, and Joanna felt herself being shoved backward with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Her back hit the wall. Hard.

"Who the hell-"

The voice was male. Low. Dangerous. Joanna's drunk brain processed the sound in fragments. Deep. Angry. Close. Too close.

She tried to speak. Her tongue felt thick. "I-water. I need-"

Her knees buckled. The room spun. She reached for something, anything, and her fingers closed around an arm. Muscle. Tension. Heat radiating through the thin cotton of a shirt.

The arm tried to shake her off. Joanna held on. Her face pressed against something warm and firm, the texture of fabric over muscle. A shoulder. She breathed in. Cedar. Soap. Male. The combination made her head swim worse than the champagne.

"Let go." The words were clipped. Controlled. "I'm calling security."

Joanna heard the threat. Her brain formed the appropriate response-apologize, explain, run-but her body wouldn't cooperate. She was so tired. So warm. The wall behind her was cold, but the body in front of her was furnace-hot, and her drunk mind couldn't decide which sensation to follow.

She made a sound. It wasn't words. It was closer to a whimper. A protest. Her fingers tightened on his arm.

The body went still.

Joanna felt the change in him. The shift from rejection to something else. Something that made the air between them feel charged, electric. She tilted her head back, trying to see his face, but the darkness was absolute. She could only feel him. Smell him. Sense the sudden coiling tension in the muscles under her hands.

Her lips brushed skin.

His throat. The hollow where his pulse beat. She felt it jump against her mouth-once, twice-then his breath came out rough and heavy.

"Don't."

The warning came too late. Or maybe she didn't hear it at all. Joanna was lost in the sensation, in the warmth, in the strange safety of this stranger's body. She pressed closer. Her hips found his. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with alcohol.

He moved.

One second she was leaning against him, the next her back was flat against the wall and his body was pinning her there. Hard. Unyielding. His hands found her shoulders and pressed her into the silk wallpaper with a force that should have hurt. That did hurt. But the pain was distant, filtered through the haze in her brain, and it mixed with something else. Something that made her arch into him instead of away.

"Who are you?" The question was growled against her ear. His breath was hot. His teeth grazed her lobe. "What are you doing in my room?"

Joanna tried to answer. Her mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a breathy sigh. She was burning up. The wall was cold against her back, but his chest was fire against her breasts, and she couldn't stop herself from rubbing against him like a cat seeking warmth.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. She felt his fingers dig in, felt the pressure of individual bones. He was going to push her away. Throw her out. The thought made her desperate.

"Please," she whispered. She didn't know what she was asking for. Water. Mercy. Something else. Something her body understood even if her mind didn't.

He made a sound. It was part curse, part surrender. Then his mouth was on hers, and there was no more thinking.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was punishment and possession and something darker that Joanna didn't have words for. His teeth caught her lower lip, pulled, released. His tongue pushed into her mouth without invitation, tasting her, claiming her. Joanna gasped into the kiss, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and he used her surprise to press closer, to fit himself into the cradle of her hips with a precision that made her moan.

She had never been kissed like this. She had never been kissed at all, not really, not this. This was consumption. Annihilation. His hands left her shoulders to slide down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin silk of her dress, and Joanna's knees gave out completely.

He caught her. One arm banded around her waist, lifting her, carrying her. She felt the wall disappear from her back, felt the vertigo of being moved through darkness. Her fingers tangled in his hair-short, thick, soft-and she pulled, hard.

He growled against her mouth. The sound vibrated through her chest.

Then she was falling. Not far. Just enough to feel the give of a mattress beneath her back, the cool slide of expensive sheets against her overheated skin. He came down on top of her, his weight pressing her into the bed, and Joanna's breath left her in a rush that felt like drowning.

His hands were everywhere. Pushing her dress up her thighs. Skimming the edge of her underwear. She felt the fabric tear-heard the rip of lace-and then his fingers were there, touching her in a place no one had ever touched, and Joanna's back arched off the bed with a cry that didn't sound like her own.

"You're so wet." The words were ground out against her collarbone. His voice was different now. Rougher. Broken. "Already. For a stranger."

Joanna shook her head. She didn't know what she was denying. The stranger part. The wet part. The way her body was responding to him with a hunger that terrified her. She tried to close her legs, but his hips were between them, his thighs forcing hers apart, and there was nowhere to go.

He sat back. She felt the loss of his weight, the cold air rushing in to replace his heat. Then his hands were on her knees, pushing them wider, and Joanna realized with a jolt of clarity that cut through the alcohol that she was completely exposed. Vulnerable. Open.

She tried to sit up. "Wait-"

He came back down. His mouth found her breast through the silk of her dress, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and Joanna's protest died in her throat. His hand slid back between her legs, two fingers pushing inside her with a suddenness that made her gasp.

The stretch burned. Not enough preparation. Not enough anything. But the burn was drowned out by the wave of sensation that followed, the way her body clamped down on his fingers, the way he groaned against her skin like she was the best thing he'd ever felt.

"You're tight." He said it like an accusation. His fingers moved, curling, finding a spot that made Joanna's vision spark white even in the darkness. "So fucking tight."

She was panting now. Her hips moved without her permission, rocking against his hand, seeking more. More pressure. More friction. More of the building tension that was coiling low in her belly, tighter and tighter, until she thought she might break apart.

He withdrew his fingers. Joanna made a sound of loss, of protest, but then she heard the rustle of fabric, the tear of a foil packet, and understanding crashed through her haze.

Protection. He was being careful. The thought was distant, almost funny-careful, after he'd already torn her underwear and left marks on her skin-but then he was positioning himself against her, and there was no more room for thought.

The first push was pain. Sharp, tearing pain that made Joanna cry out and try to scramble backward on the sheets. He caught her hips, held her still, and pushed again. Deeper. Harder. The pain expanded, became everything, and Joanna felt tears spill from the corners of her eyes, hot tracks sliding into her hair.

He froze.

Joanna felt it in the sudden tension of his body, the way his breath caught and held. He was inside her-she could feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness-but he wasn't moving. His hands on her hips were trembling.

"You're-" He stopped. Started again. His voice was barely recognizable. "This is your first time."

It wasn't a question. Joanna didn't answer. She couldn't. The pain was receding, slowly, replaced by a strange ache that wasn't quite pleasure but was heading in that direction. She shifted her hips experimentally, and they both groaned-the sound tangled together in the dark.

He moved. Just a small withdrawal, a slow push back in. The friction was different now. Less pain. More something else. Joanna's fingers found his shoulders, dug in, and he made a sound that might have been her name or might have been a curse.

"Joanna." He said it again, clearer this time. Like he was memorizing it. "Joanna."

Then he started to move in earnest.

The rhythm he set was relentless. Deep strokes that filled her completely, then withdrew until she was empty, aching, before driving back in. Joanna's body learned his pace, began to meet him, and the ache built into something else. Something that had her nails scoring down his back, her heels digging into the mattress for leverage.

He changed angle. Joanna's spine arched as pleasure-real, sharp, overwhelming pleasure-shot through her for the first time. She cried out, loud and unrestrained, and he made a sound of triumph and did it again. And again. Until she was sobbing with it, with the intensity, with the impossible climb toward something she didn't understand but needed more than her next breath.

When it broke over her, it was like falling and flying at the same time. Joanna's body seized, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves that seemed to go on forever. She heard him curse, felt him swell even larger inside her, and then he was coming too, his hips jerking against hers with a violence that should have hurt but didn't, not anymore, not when she was floating in this place where nothing existed but sensation.

He collapsed on top of her. Heavy. Sweaty. Still inside her. Joanna's arms came up around him without her conscious decision, holding him, and she felt his heart hammering against her chest in time with her own.

The darkness was softer now. The alcohol was winning again, pulling her under. She felt him withdraw, felt the loss and the sudden wetness between her thighs, but she was too tired to be embarrassed. Too tired to do anything but let the darkness take her.

She slept.

---

The light was wrong.

Joanna's eyes squeezed tighter shut, trying to block out the intrusion. Too bright. Too sharp. Manhattan morning sun, streaming through windows that faced east, cutting through her eyelids like blades.

Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like cotton and regret. She tried to roll over, to bury her face in the pillow, but something was wrong. The pillow was too firm. The sheets were too smooth. They smelled like cedar and sex and a stranger.

Memory crashed into her with the force of a physical blow.

Joanna's eyes flew open.

She was in a bed she didn't recognize. White sheets. White walls. A ceiling so high it disappeared into architectural details she couldn't focus on. And beside her-oh God, beside her-a man.

She saw his back first. Broad shoulders. Tanned skin. Dark hair that was mussed from sleep and her own fingers. The sheet was pulled low on his hips, revealing the curve of his spine, the dimples above his ass, and-

Scratches.

Four parallel lines, red and raised, scoring down his left shoulder blade. Fresh. Deep enough to have broken skin in places.

Joanna's hand flew to her mouth. She remembered. The pain, the pleasure, the way she'd clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. She remembered the sounds she'd made, the things she'd let him do, the way she'd begged-

Her stomach heaved.

She was naked. The realization hit her with a fresh wave of horror. Her dress was somewhere on the floor, a crumpled heap of red silk. Her underwear was-she didn't want to think about what had happened to her underwear. She was naked in a strange man's bed, in what was clearly a hotel suite that cost more than her annual rent, and she had no memory of how she'd gotten here beyond the fragments that made her want to die.

Joanna moved. Slowly. Carefully. Every muscle in her body protested, but the pain between her legs was the worst. A deep, throbbing ache that reminded her with every heartbeat exactly what she'd done.

She sat up. The sheet slipped down to her waist, and she grabbed it, clutching it to her chest like armor. The movement made the man beside her shift. His hand-the same hand that had been inside her, that had held her down, that had learned her body better than she knew it herself-twitched on the pillow.

Joanna stopped breathing.

She watched his face, terrified, waiting for his eyes to open. For the moment of recognition. The accusations. The awkward morning-after conversation that she had no script for, no experience with, no desire to have.

His eyelashes fluttered. His brow furrowed. But he didn't wake.

Joanna moved faster. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, biting her lip against the scream that wanted to escape when her weight settled on abused muscles. Her feet found the carpet-thick, plush, impossibly soft-and she stood, swaying, one hand pressed to her stomach to hold back the nausea.

Her clothes. She needed her clothes.

She spotted the red dress first, crumpled near the foot of the bed like a crime scene marker. Her bra was tangled in the sheets. Her shoes-one under the nightstand, one near the door. She moved in a crouch, gathering her things, her eyes never leaving the man in the bed.

He was beautiful. That was the worst part. Even in her panic, even with shame burning through her like acid, she could see it. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark stubble on his cheeks. The way his hair fell across his forehead, softening features that were probably devastating when he was awake.

She didn't want to know his name. She couldn't know his name. If she knew his name, this would be real. It would be something that had happened to Joanna Santana, twenty-three years old, gallery assistant, responsible, careful, the girl who had never done anything reckless in her life.

She found her purse near the door. Her phone was inside, dead. Her keys. Her MetroCard. The ordinary objects felt alien in her hands, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn't spent the night being taken apart by a stranger in the dark.

Joanna dressed with shaking hands. The silk of her dress felt obscene against her skin, too smooth, too expensive, too red. She didn't bother with the bra-she couldn't figure out the clasps with her fingers trembling like this. She stepped into her shoes, one then the other, and nearly fell when her ankle protested.

She caught herself on the doorframe. Froze. Looked back.

The bed was visible from here. The white sheets were ruined, twisted, stained with things she didn't want to identify. And in the center of the destruction, the man slept on. His face was turned toward her now, relaxed in a way that made him look younger. Vulnerable.

Joanna's gaze dropped to the bed. To the place where she'd been lying. Where he had been lying.

There was blood.

Not a lot. A smear, really. Dried now, brown against the white cotton. But it was unmistakable. Proof of what she'd given away. What she'd lost.

Her virginity. Her sanity. Her carefully constructed life, built on caution and planning and never, ever taking risks.

Joanna turned away. She couldn't look anymore. Her hand found the door handle, cold metal against her palm, and she pulled. The door opened without a sound-well-oiled hinges, money, everything in this place whispered money-and she slipped through the gap like a thief.

The hallway was empty. Silent. Joanna walked as fast as her injured body would allow, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other gripping her purse like a weapon. She found the elevator, stabbed the button with her thumb, and watched the numbers descend with a desperation that felt like drowning.

Twenty-six. Twenty-five. Twenty-four.

The doors opened. Joanna stumbled inside, punched the button for the lobby, and leaned against the mirrored wall as the elevator began its descent. Her reflection stared back at her-hair tangled, makeup smeared, lips swollen-and she looked away, unable to bear the evidence of her own recklessness.

She had to get home. She had to shower. She had to pretend this had never happened.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened onto the Plaza's famous lobby, all gold and marble and morning light, and Joanna walked through it without seeing any of it. Her eyes were fixed on the revolving doors, on the street beyond, on the yellow taxi that was just pulling up to the curb.

She ran. Or tried to-her body wouldn't cooperate, so it was more of a hurried limp, a desperate shuffle. She reached the taxi, yanked open the door, and threw herself into the back seat.

"Brooklyn," she gasped. "Please. Just drive."

The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes lingered on her disheveled appearance, on the dress that was clearly last night's outfit, on the marks on her neck that she hadn't thought to cover.

"Whatever you say, lady."

The taxi pulled away from the curb. Joanna pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the Plaza Hotel shrink in the distance, its elegant facade giving no hint of the destruction that had happened twenty-six floors above.

She didn't look back again.

Behind her, in the penthouse suite, the man in the bed stirred. His hand closed on empty sheets, searching, finding nothing but cooling cotton. His eyes opened-gray, sharp, instantly alert-and he sat up in one fluid motion.

The room was empty. The woman was gone.

He looked at the blood on the sheets. At the scratches on his back, stinging now in the morning air. At the red silk bra that had been left behind, tangled in the white sheets like a flag of surrender.

His jaw tightened. His hand closed into a fist, knuckles white with pressure.

"Joanna," he said aloud, testing the name. The only thing she'd given him, gasped into his mouth in the dark. He reached for his phone. Dialed a number from memory. Waited for the answer.

"Alex. I need you to find someone. Her name is Joanna. She was at the gallery opening on the twelfth floor last night. Start there."