The Forbidden Chase

Sylvia Hart was undeniably wasted.

The alcohol coursed through her veins, stripping away her usual composure. She pinned the man against the heavy mahogany door of the VIP suite, leaning lazily against his chest. Her small hand tugged at his silk tie, while the other traced the sharp, chiseled lines of his jaw, her fingers dancing teasingly over his skin.

She looked up at him, her gaze hazy yet intense, sticky with unspoken intent. A soft, drunken giggle escaped her lips.

The man’s face was a masterpiece of austerity—lean, striking, with bone structure that could cut glass. His eyes were deep-set, holding a natural allure that threatened to pull anyone under. As the social circles whispered, Damon Chase wore the face of a sinner, designed solely to tempt the virtuous.

“Temptation” might have been a feminine word, but on him, it fit like a tailored glove.

He lowered his gaze, his breath heavy as his hand came up to rest against her flushed, heated cheek. He murmured a low, intimate word.

The sound of his voice was like velvet, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his tone a deliberate seduction.

Sylvia looped her finger around his tie, yanking it downward. Damon obliged, dipping his head until his lips hovered inches from hers. Her breath was scorching, her voice a soft, trembling purr against his ear. “I want to give him a…”

*Hic!*

Right in the middle of the seduction, Sylvia let out a loud, unglamorous hiccup.

A flicker of disdain crossed Damon’s eyes, but it vanished just as quickly.

Sylvia blinked, ignoring the interruption, and continued, “I want to cheat on him. I want to cuckold Marcus.”

She tilted her head, pressing a messy, open-mouthed kiss to his cheek. Her voice dropped to a provocative whisper. “Do you have the guts?”

They had just emerged from the gala, having engaged in a subtle game of glances and touches in the cloakroom. It was only fair to return the favor.

Damon lowered his lashes, a spark of genuine interest igniting in his dark eyes. *This woman plays dangerous games,* he thought. *And I’m more than happy to play along.*

With a sharp tug, he ripped the tie from his collar. Before Sylvia could process the shift in power, her wrists were bound together, secured with a tight, unforgiving knot.

Confusion swirled in her hazy mind. She felt herself being pressed back, dominated. Wait—wasn’t she the one in control?

She tried to struggle, determined to be on top.

Damon’s gaze darkened. “Not happy with the position?”

She was fickle, he’d give her that. But he wasn’t a saint, and he certainly wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sylvia half-opened her eyes, shaking her head. She slurred, “I want to be on top.”

Damon’s expression softened marginally, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “Earn it.”

“Mmph…”

Sylvia frowned, the sensation overwhelming her. His kiss was punishing, consuming. He offered her no quarter, and she had no strength to fight back.

In the throes of passion, Damon’s spine stiffened momentarily. A flash of shock crossed his features. “A virgin?”

Sylvia was too far gone to answer, her mind a blur of sensation, capable only of soft whimpers.

Marcus Chase didn’t seem like the type to suffer in silence. Keeping a beauty like this untouched by his side… it was surprising. Damon thought. It seemed it was his gain.

“Bear with it,” Damon whispered against her ear, his voice rough, scorching her cheeks.

*He really is wicked…*

The next morning, Sylvia woke with a skull-splitting headache and a body that ached in places she didn’t know could ache.

She opened her eyes. The first thing that came into focus was a face that triggered a cascade of fragmented memories from the night before—memories that rapidly assembled into a clear picture of her current predicament.

The man sleeping next to her.

She had really done it. She had slept with Damon Chase. She had effectively cuckolded Marcus.

Damon watched her fumbling, dazed awakening with amusement. He propped himself up, his smile lazy and indecent.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, confirming the reality of their transgression.

Sylvia clutched the Egyptian cotton sheets to her chest, her shoulders trembling slightly as she bit her lip.

“Pass me my bag,” she commanded, her voice steadier than she felt.

She extended a finger—pink and tender, the very one he had bitten the night before—pointing toward the floor behind him.

Damon narrowed his eyes, skeptical of her game, but he reached down, snagging the designer bag with a finger and tossing it onto the bed in front of her.

Sylvia rummaged through the bag, pulling out a checkbook. With a flourish, she tore off a blank check, grabbed a pen, and tossed both onto Damon’s bare chest.

He frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked from the paper to her.

“Fill it in yourself,” Sylvia said, tilting her chin up. An air of arrogant defiance radiated from her, a stark contrast to the submissive woman from the night before.

Damon tapped a long finger against the blank paper. He looked up, his gaze locking onto hers.

The air in the room chilled. Was she insulting him? Paying him off like a common gigolo after a night like that?

He was about to tear the check to shreds when Sylvia spoke.

“Not a bribe,” she clarified.

Damon paused, his eyes cold as he studied her.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a deliberate, syllabic pace. “Lover’s fee.”

She closed the distance between them, her hand gripping his jaw, tilting it up. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, the contact maddeningly light. “Do you want the job, or not?”

Damon’s hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. He smirked. It was a look of predatory acceptance. “Why would I say no?”

Cuckolding Marcus? It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Sylvia winced, trying to pull away, but Damon leaned in, his breath hot against her neck. “How about an encore? On the house.”

The man had inexhaustible energy. After everything they had done last night…

Sylvia’s face heated up. She pushed against his chest. “Next time.”

Damon didn’t press the issue. She was delicate, easily overwhelmed. Too much, and she might break.

He released her, flashing a reckless, charming grin. “We have a long future ahead.”

He emphasized the word ‘long’, his voice laced with double meaning.

As soon as Sylvia Hart stepped out of the hotel and slid into the backseat of her car, her phone buzzed. A notification lit up the screen—a message from Marcus Chase.

*Marcus: I drank too much last night. I’m sorry I wasted the hotel booking.*

Sylvia raised a brow, a cold, cynical light flickering in her eyes.

The suite had been booked for *him*. She had intended to give herself to him completely last night, to seal their engagement. But instead, she had walked in on him entangled with her own stepsister. The memory was seared into her brain—explosive and nauseating.

*Drunk? Is that the excuse for losing control?*

Sylvia scoffed softly. Her fingertips tapped rapidly against the screen.

*Sylvia: It wasn’t wasted.*

*I enjoyed it with your brother.* She typed the words out but deleted them before hitting send. There was no need to show her hand just yet. Instead, she wrote:

*Sylvia: But if you truly feel guilty, why don’t you reimburse me