The scent of coffee and something warm and sweet drifted into her senses before her eyes even opened.
Gie let out a soft, lazy groan as awareness crept in, her entire body aching in the most exquisite way. A deep, delicious soreness settled in her thighs, her hips, and especially between her legs—a reminder of the night before, where she had been thoroughly, completely undone.
Golden morning light poured in through the towering windows, wrapping the bedroom in a soft glow. The crumpled sheets tangled around her were still warm, but the space beside her was empty. She blinked, slowly reaching over. No Alexander.
Her cheeks heated as the memories came rushing in—how wild she'd been, how shamelessly she had moved under him, on top of him, how she'd begged, whimpered, demanded.
A fresh wave of embarrassment bloomed through her.
She wasn't the type to lose control like that. She never had. And now, the idea of facing him after such a night—after the way she had sounded, the things she had said—made her hesitate.
The scent of him lingered in the sheets—spiced, clean, masculine. She felt like a creep smelling the pillows.
Then came the distant clatter of pans, the sharp sizzle of something cooking, and the low, rhythmic sounds of someone moving through a kitchen with quiet confidence.
Still aching, she sat up and winced a little, tugging one of his oversized shirts from the floor and slipping it over her bare skin.
Taking every confidence in her body, she went out the door. Padding barefoot through the apartment, she followed the sounds into a scene that made her pause in the doorway.
Alexander stood at the stove, his back to her. Broad and bare, the muscles in his shoulders shifted fluidly with each movement. He wore only a pair of sweatpants that clung low on his hips, teasing the curve of his spine and the hint of what lay below. The contrast between his raw strength and the domestic setting short-circuited her brain.
He looked like a painting—one she'd never be able to recreate.
She leaned against the doorway, watching him, curious. The man radiated control. It was stitched into every part of him—from his empire to the way he spoke, the way he kissed.
"So," she asked casually, stepping closer, "what's on the menu?"
He turned around fully this time, walking toward her with an ease that made her chest tighten. Without a word, he cupped her cheek and kissed her—slow and deliberate. Not hungry like last night, but tender. Intimate. A kind of kiss that whispered of something more than physical need.
Her breath caught as he pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against hers.
"How do you feel?" he murmured, his voice low and rough.
She blushed, heat blooming across her face, because she knew exactly what he was asking. He meant her body. Her soreness. The way she could barely walk straight. But it felt like more than that, too.
Embarrassed and unsure what to do with the feeling curling in her stomach, she cleared her throat and stepped back with a half-smile.
"So... what's on the menu?"
"Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs."
He flipped a pancake with ease, then added, "You'll need the energy."
Her cheeks flamed. "Seriously?"
He turned just enough for her to see the glint of amusement in his eyes. That cocky, infuriating smirk.
And just like that, she knew—she was in so much trouble.
They sat at the kitchen island, plates full and coffee steaming. The tension between them had shifted, softened into something warm. Comfortable. Dangerous. For a moment, it felt almost normal—if normal included being thoroughly wrecked by the most complicated man she'd ever met.
"So," she said, cutting into a pancake, "tell me about this photoshoot with the nipple ring."
He smirked, sipping his coffee. "Curious, are we?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's my piece. Of course, I'm curious."
"It's for a new campaign. High-end, very provocative. I don't usually model for my brand, but they insisted sales would skyrocket if the CEO showed some skin."
"And?"
He turned slightly, voice low. "A custom suit. Nothing underneath."
Her breath caught in her throat.
The image hit her in a flash—Alexander in a sleek, dark suit, jacket open just enough to expose the gleam of her jewelry against his skin. The fine chain trailing from his chest, the intimate piercings she had created for him catching the light like forbidden art.
She swallowed hard, gripping her fork tighter.
He knew exactly what she was imagining.
"Bastard," she muttered under her breath.
He only smiled.
Trying to regain her composure, she shifted the conversation.
"Do you always do business in... this line of work?"
"You mean the sex industry?"
She nodded.
He set his mug down and leaned back, his expression thoughtful.
"I inherited the foundation. Publishing from my grandfather, adult entertainment from my father. I digitized it. Scaled it. Made it global."
"So your family built an empire on sex."
His lips curled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Something like that."
"But you..."
She hesitated. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp.
"You don't seem like you enjoy it."
A pause. Then, something flickered across his face—something darker.
"You're not wrong," he said softly. "I've spent my life building a brand based on physical pleasure. But I don't like being touched. Not really."
Her heart skipped.
"I've learned to tolerate it for appearances," he added. "The image is everything. But the reality?"
His hand tightened slightly around his cup.
"I can't stand it. It makes my skin crawl."
She stared at him.
She had seen it—the way he stiffened in public, recoiled ever so slightly when others leaned in too close. She'd felt it in the tension that never quite left his shoulders.
But with her... he let go.
"Except me," she said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her then, really looked. No mask.
"Except you," he echoed.
Her chest ached with something unspoken.
"Does your family know?"
He gave a bitter laugh. "God, no. That would ruin the illusion. And in this world, illusion is everything."
Before the weight of it could settle too deeply, he turned the spotlight onto her.
"And you? You come from a family of artists?"
She exhaled, glad for the shift.
"Yes. My father, grandfather, great-grandfather... we've crafted jewelry for royalty. It's what we do."
"That explains the talent."
She blushed, ducking her head. "My sister's the only one not obsessed. She wants to be a doctor."
"And you never considered anything else?"
She paused, thoughtful. "No. Jewelry isn't a career. It's... how I think. How I speak. It's my way of translating the world."
Alexander smirked and leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "And when you design for me—what are you thinking then?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "Professional things," she said too quickly. "Measurements. Composition. Balance."
But her blush betrayed her.
He chuckled lowly, clearly amused. "Right. Except I'm guessing you think about me a lot more than you want to admit. Probably in bed, too."
Her mouth dropped open in scandalized offense. "You—!"
"Don't deny it," he murmured, sipping his coffee like he hadn't just lit her on fire.
She stabbed at her pancake, cheeks fully flushed. "I liked you better when you were broody and silent."
He grinned. "Liar.""