Xander's penthouse felt colder without her.
Empty glasses still littered the kitchen counter. A pair of heels sat abandoned near the entrance. Her perfume lingered in the halls like a ghost refusing to move on.
But Daisy was gone.
And Xander was unraveling.
He sat alone in his office, the lights dim, fingers curled around a half-full glass of whiskey. His eyes weren't on the city lights outside the window but on his phone. Her number lit up the screen. He didn't call. He didn't text.
Not yet.
He couldn't beg.
Not when he was the one who'd broken her.
Not when the file she found still echoed in both their hearts.
But damn, he missed her.
Her mouth, her fire, her defiance.
The way she melted when he touched her.
The way her eyes begged for more even when her lips said "no."
He'd taken her for granted.
And now, the ache of her absence was gnawing through him like hunger.
Meanwhile...
Daisy sat curled on the edge of her hotel bed, phone in hand, staring at a photo she couldn't delete.
It was blurry just a stolen shot of Xander sleeping, his hand splayed across her thigh, their bodies tangled under silk sheets.
She remembered that night.
How she had climbed into his bed like a woman possessed.
How he made her forget everything.
How she almost whispered "I love you" into his skin.
Her chest clenched.
She hated him for the pain.
But she hated herself more for missing him.
For craving him.
She'd left to protect herself.
But now she didn't know who she was without his rules, his voice, his rough hands keeping her grounded.
And worse she could still feel him in her dreams.
Two days later, he came for her.
No warning.
No call.
Just a knock on her hotel door that sent her heart into overdrive.
She didn't open it at first.
"Daisy," he called from the other side, his voice low, tense.
She froze.
"Open the door."
"No."
"I'm not leaving."
"I didn't ask you to come."
Silence.
"Then let me show you what you mean to me."
Her breath caught.
He sounded broken.
Wrecked.
And the ache in her chest cracked wide open.
With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door.
He stood there, looking like sin in a tailored black coat, collar turned up, eyes wild.
Neither of them moved.
Until he stepped forward.
And she stepped back.
But not far enough.
He cupped her face roughly, as if afraid she'd disappear again.
"I told myself I'd let you go," he said, voice hoarse. "But I lied."
"You're good at lying," she whispered.
He flinched.
"Don't do this, Xander."
"You walked away from a contract," he said, stepping closer, "not from what's between us."
"There is no 'us.' Just rules. Control. And pain."
"And pleasure," he growled, backing her into the wall. "Don't forget that."
His hand slid to her waist.
She gasped but didn't stop him.
"You miss it too," he murmured. "The way I touch you. The way I make you beg."
Her knees nearly buckled.
"You think sex will fix this?"
"I think you're shaking, Daisy."
She was.
Because his mouth was now inches from hers, and her body still remembered everything.
"You hate me," he whispered. "So hate me while I kiss you."
And then he did.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't sweet.
It was a kiss of punishment.
Of hunger.
Of two people addicted to each other and too stubborn to admit it.
Daisy whimpered as his tongue pushed into her mouth, claiming her like territory lost and reclaimed.
Her hands slammed into his chest then curled around his coat.
He pulled her tighter, grinding against her so she could feel how hard he already was.
"You came here to seduce me," she panted.
"No," he growled, ripping her shirt over her head. "I came to own you again."
He lifted her off her feet.
She wrapped her legs around him on instinct.
They crashed into the bed, mouths never parting.
His hands were everywhere palming her breast, gripping her thighs, sliding between her legs until she gasped.
"You're already wet."
"You're already smug."
He chuckled against her neck.
She rolled him over and pinned him down, breath heaving, her hair wild.
"You don't get to be in control this time," she said.
He smirked.
"Then show me how much you hate me."
She did.
With her mouth.
With her nails.
With her body grinding on top of his, teasing, tormenting.
Until he snapped and flipped her over again.
"Rules don't apply to us," he said, voice ragged. "They never did."
The bed wasn't enough
They barely made it to the bathroom.
Again.
This time, he shoved her against the cold marble sink.
Her moans echoed against the glass as he kissed a trail down her spine.
Water ran in the background, hot steam rising.
Their clothes disappeared like an afterthought.
"Look at yourself," he ordered, tilting her chin toward the mirror.
"I see a woman with bad decisions."
He thrust into her hard.
She screamed.
"You see a woman who belongs to me."
Aftermaths, they collapsed onto the soaked bathroom rug, skin slick, breath wild.
Silence.
Then his voice.
"I'm not done fighting for you."
She looked at him, eyes dazed, heart thudding.
"I don't trust you yet."
"I know."
"But I still want you."
"I know that too."
Later that night, he pulled out a velvet box from his coat pocket.
She blinked.
"You're not proposing, are you?"
He smirked.
"No. But I am rewriting the contract."
She arched a brow.
"What's the new clause?"
His voice dropped to a promise.
"You don't just belong to me. I belong to you too."