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damneddamsy · 8 days ago

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𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence.

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

-> PART TWO HERE.

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

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