Page 70 of The Spark

“Ready?”

My hand found hers.

“Been ready.”

We didn’t even wait for dessert.

31

Ididn’t even ask where we were going.

He’d been quiet since the gallery—focused, driven. I should’ve known he already had something planned. When the car slowed in front of the Fairmont Pittsburgh, the driver barely had time to stop before Amir was reaching for his phone, already scanning the confirmation like he’d sealed our fate hours ago.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

The moment we stepped into the lobby, it hit me. Polished marble floors. Sculptural lighting overhead. That quiet, expensive hush that clung to five-star hotels like perfume. He didn’t speak, just guided me with a hand at the small of my back, eyes forward, jaw tight like he was holding something in.

The elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside.

The silence between us pulsed with need.

Every breath I took felt charged, like the anticipation was thick enough to touch. Our fingers brushed. He caught my hand and held it, his grip firm and warm. When the elevator chimed on the top floor and the doors opened, I followed him down a long hallway to a corner suite.

He swiped the keycard.

Opened the door.

And the second we stepped into that room—with its panoramic view of the city glittering beneath us, floor-to-ceiling windows painting us in moonlight—the tension between us snapped.

He needed me.

I needed him.

The air changed the second we crossed the threshold. It wasn’t just the space—glass walls, glowing skyline, sleek black furnishings—it was the charge between our bodies, vibrating with everything we hadn’t said.

I couldn’t stop touching him on the ride over. My hand on his thigh. His fingers laced with mine. Every shift of his body sent sparks through me.

We didn’t talk.

We didn’t need to.

The second the door clicked shut behind us, he was on me.

My back hit the console table with a gasp, the cool surface shocking against my skin. His mouth crashed onto mine—hot, hungry, like he’d been starving. His hands gripped my waist, sliding down to my thighs, lifting me onto the edge, spreading me with one push of his knee between mine.

Clothes fell away, piece by piece. He unzipped my dress with a slow, deliberate pull, like he was unwrapping something fragile. It pooled at my feet, and when he stepped back to take me in—black lace, heels still on, breath shaky—I saw his control break.

I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and hit play.

Floetry’s“Say Yes”spilled through the room, soft and sensual, as if the beat had been waiting on us.

His jaw clenched. His hands fisted at his sides.

I started to move.

Slow. Rolling my hips to the rhythm, dragging my fingers down my stomach, over the lace barely covering my thighs. He watched—burnedthrough me with his eyes. His breathing changed. His body stilled.

I climbed onto the bed, straddling him like I was claiming what had always been mine. His dick was thick and hard beneath me, and I circled my hips just enough to feel him press against my heat.

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