Mistaking The Ruthless CEO For An Escort

The bass from the Neon Lounge's sound system didn't just vibrate in the air; it rattled against Ava Kidd's ribs, making the nausea in her stomach churn violently.

She sat at the edge of the marble bar, her fingers wrapped so tightly around her fourth shot of tequila that her knuckles were entirely white.

She threw the liquid down her throat. It burned like battery acid, but the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the suffocating pressure in her chest.

Her phone screen lit up from inside her open purse on the dark counter.

Lorelei.

The name of her stepmother flashed like a warning siren. Ava's throat tightened. Her lungs forgot how to pull in air. Maybe I should just do what Lorelei always accuses me of, she thought bitterly. Find some rich man to pay my way. My friend even joked this hotel has a secret menu for that. Elite male escorts.

She didn't answer. She shoved the phone deeper into her bag and snapped it shut, the harsh smack of leather and metal barely audible over the deafening music. She pressed her thumbs into her eyes until she saw sparks.

A bartender slid a vibrant, neon-blue martini across the counter. It stopped inches from her hand.

"From the gentleman in the Armani suit at the corner booth," the bartender shouted over the music.

Ava didn't even look at the corner booth. Her stomach twisted into a tight, sick knot.

She pushed the glass away with the back of her hand. She pushed too hard.

The blue liquid sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto the lap of her cheap, black silk dress. The cold wetness seeped into her skin instantly, making her shiver.

"Keep it," Ava muttered, her voice thick and raspy.

She grabbed the edge of the bar and forced herself to stand. The moment her weight shifted onto her heels, the tequila hijacked her equilibrium.

The floor tilted. Her ankle wobbled, and she stumbled sideways, her shoulder slamming hard into the back of a tall man standing nearby.

"Whoa, easy there, sweetheart," a greasy voice slurred.

Three men in unbuttoned dress shirts immediately turned their attention to her. Their eyes dragged up and down her ruined dress like she was an item on a menu. One of them reached out, his thick fingers grazing her bare arm.

Ava's skin crawled. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her sternum. She tried to step back, but her legs felt like lead.

Before the man could grab her waist, a figure stepped between them.

He wore the immaculate, gold-trimmed uniform of The Elysium hotel staff. His broad shoulders completely blocked the predatory men from her view.

"Miss," the employee said. His name tag read Rico. His voice was calm, professional, but his eyes darted nervously around the club. As he reached out, the club's strobe lights caught the heavy gleam of a solid gold Rolex on his wrist-a watch that cost more than his entire year's salary. "You seem unwell. Would you like me to escort you to the private VIP lounge to sober up? It is much quieter there."

Ava's brain was a thick, foggy mess. The word quieter echoed in her skull like a lifeline.

She couldn't go home to Lorelei. She couldn't stay here.

She gave a slow, heavy nod.

Rico immediately gripped her elbow. His hold was firm, almost urgent. He steered her away from the flashing strobe lights and the suffocating crush of sweaty bodies, guiding her toward a dark corridor at the back of the club.

As they passed the velvet ropes, two women in designer dresses glared at Ava. Their eyes dripped with disgust, clearly assuming she was just another desperate girl trying to sleep her way into a rich man's wallet.

Ava didn't care. She just wanted silence.

They reached a set of brass elevator doors. Rico pulled a sleek, unmarked black card from his pocket and pressed it against the scanner.

The light flashed green. The doors slid open in absolute silence.

Rico practically shoved her inside and hit the top button. As the doors closed, she vaguely noticed him pulling out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen to type a single word: Done.

Ava leaned her back against the mirrored wall. The cold glass felt good against her flushed skin. She watched the floor numbers climb at a dizzying speed, her vision blurring at the edges.

The elevator didn't stop at the lounge level. It kept going. Up, up, up, until it hit the Penthouse floor.

The doors opened to a hallway lined with thick, sound-absorbing Persian carpet. The silence was so absolute it made Ava's ears ring.

Rico kept a tight grip on her arm, half-dragging her down the long corridor. They stopped in front of a massive, carved agarwood door.

"It's too dark," Ava mumbled, her tongue heavy. She tried to pull her arm away. "Where is the couch?"

Rico ignored her. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes locking onto a security camera. He exhaled a shaky breath, swiped the black card against the door's digital lock, and pushed the heavy wood open.

A soft electronic chime sounded.

Rico pushed Ava into the dark entryway. Before she could turn around, he yanked the black card from the slot.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her. The deadbolt clicked into place with a heavy, metallic thud.

Ava stood in the pitch black. She kicked off her pinching heels, her bare feet sinking into carpet so plush it felt like walking on clouds.

"Hello?" she called out. Her voice sounded small, swallowed by the sheer size of the room.

No one answered. The only light came from the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows in the distance.

She dragged her hand along the wall, searching for a light switch. Her fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. She knocked it over.

A heavy art piece hit the carpet with a muffled thud. It didn't break, but the sound made her flinch.

Her mouth was dry. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She needed water.

She stumbled forward, moving blindly toward what looked like a hallway. The air here was different. It didn't smell like a hotel. It smelled like sharp, cold cedarwood and expensive soap.

From the end of the hall, the sound of running water suddenly stopped.

Ava blinked. Cleaning staff? she thought, her drunk brain struggling to make sense of the situation.

She dragged her feet toward the slightly open door at the end of the hall. She pushed it wide open and stepped inside.

She slammed face-first into a wall of solid, scorching hot muscle.

Water dripped onto her forehead. The scent of cedar and raw, aggressive male pheromones flooded her senses.

Ava gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grab onto the wet, bare chest in front of her.

The impact sent a shockwave through Garrison Terry's body.

His muscles locked instantly. His large hand shot out, his fingers clamping around Ava's wrist with the crushing force of a steel vice.

His blood was already burning. Ten minutes ago, he had downed the glass of Dom Pérignon his assistant, Jarett, had sent up. Now, a toxic, unnatural heat was clawing at his veins, making his skin feel too tight for his body.

Garrison narrowed his eyes, peering through the dim light filtering in from the city below.

He saw a woman. Messy hair, a cheap black dress stained with alcohol, and eyes that couldn't focus.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. A setup.

He immediately assumed she was a low-level escort hired by a corporate rival, or worse, another one of Jarett's misguided attempts to "humanize" him, just like the disastrous blind date he had arranged with that senator's daughter last Christmas. A pathetic gift.

Disgust rolled in his stomach. He shoved her wrist away as if her skin burned him. He turned toward the wall panel, his hand reaching for the emergency security button to have her dragged out by her hair.

Without his grip holding her up, Ava's legs gave out.

She slid down the wall, her body hitting the floor in a heap. A soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips.

That tiny sound hit Garrison's ears and acted like a match dropped into gasoline.

The drug in his system flared, sending a violent spike of adrenaline and lust straight to his groin. His hand froze an inch from the security button. His breathing turned ragged, the air scorching his throat.

"Why doesn't this lounge have a couch?" Ava mumbled to the carpet, her eyes closed. "My head hurts."

Garrison let out a harsh, breathless laugh. The sheer audacity of this woman.

He dropped his hand from the wall and took a step toward her. He towered over her, his massive frame casting a dark shadow over her small body.

He crouched down. His long, damp fingers gripped her chin, forcing her head up.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Ava's eyelashes fluttered. She struggled to focus. Through the haze of tequila, she saw a face carved from marble. Sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes, and wet hair clinging to his forehead.

Her drunk brain misfired completely. The lounge staff are really good-looking, she thought.

She giggled. A soft, breathless sound. She lifted her hand and poked his cheek with her index finger. "You're very warm."

Garrison's vision tinted red. The last thread of his legendary self-control snapped.

The drug eradicated his logic. He didn't see a corporate spy anymore. He saw a willing, soft body in his private space.

He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her to her feet in one violent motion.

Ava gasped as her feet left the ground. She lost her balance entirely and crashed against his chest.

The thin, wet silk of her dress was nothing against the radiating heat of his bare skin. Garrison felt her curves press into him, and a feral groan ripped from his throat.

"Get out," Garrison gritted out, his voice shaking with the effort it took not to devour her right there. "Leave now, or I won't let you."

Ava didn't hear the warning. The alcohol had completely shut down her survival instincts. She just felt cold, and he was a furnace.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline. "I'm so hot," she complained, her face burying into the crook of his neck. She tugged uselessly at the collar of her dress.

Her soft lips brushed against his pulse point.

That was it. The dam broke.

Garrison slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

Before she could process what was happening, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a hostile takeover.

Ava's eyes flew wide open in shock. She tasted tequila, mint, and pure, unfiltered male aggression. His lips were punishing, demanding, parting her mouth with ruthless efficiency.

Her hands fluttered against his chest, a weak attempt to push him away. But the drug-fueled intensity of his kiss was overwhelming. The oxygen was sucked from her lungs. Her knees buckled.

Garrison didn't let her fall. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly across the room.

He threw her onto the center of the massive King-size bed.

Ava bounced against the mattress, her hair splayed wildly across the white pillows. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed with intoxication and a sudden, terrifying heat.

Garrison stood at the edge of the bed. He reached down and ripped away the only towel wrapped around his waist.

He crawled over her, his massive frame caging her in completely.

The lights of Manhattan blinked silently outside the window, completely oblivious to the disastrous, drug-fueled collision happening in the dark.

The morning sun was a brutal, blinding weapon.

It sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, stabbing directly into Ava's eyelids.

She let out a dry, painful groan and tried to roll over. Her body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt bruised, stretched, and sore, as if she had been repeatedly thrown against a concrete wall.

She forced her eyes open. Her vision swam for a second before focusing on the ceiling.

It wasn't the water-stained plaster of her cheap apartment. It was a hand-painted, vaulted ceiling dripping with luxury.

Ava stopped breathing. Her heart gave a violent, painful lurch in her chest.

The memories of last night hit her like a freight train. The tequila. The dark room. The burning heat. The ruthless, bruising kisses.

She slowly, rigidly turned her head to the side.

A man was sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach, the white sheet pooled around his waist. His broad, muscular back was covered in a network of angry red scratch marks.

Her scratch marks.

Ava slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. Bile rose in her throat.

Her mind raced frantically. She remembered her friend mentioning a rumor about The Elysium hotel. The underground concierge service. Elite male escorts for the ultra-rich.

She looked at the absurdly lavish room. She looked at the man's flawless, sculpted physique.

The conclusion slammed into her brain with horrifying clarity. She had slept with a high-end gigolo.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She had to get out of here. Now.

Moving with agonizing slowness, she gripped the edge of the sheet. She lifted it, trying to slide off the mattress without making a sound. Her bare toes just barely brushed the thick carpet.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"

The voice came from right behind her. It was deep, raspy, and completely devoid of sleep.

Ava jumped so hard she nearly fell off the bed. She whipped around, yanking the sheet up to her chin, her knuckles turning white.

Garrison Terry was awake. He sat up slowly, the sheet falling away to reveal his heavily muscled chest. His dark eyes were razor-sharp, pinning her to the spot with terrifying intensity.

He looked at her, his mind already calculating. He was waiting for the blackmail demand. He was waiting for her to name her price for keeping quiet about sleeping with the CEO of Terry Group.

Ava's chest heaved. The shame was eating her alive, but she refused to cower. She needed to handle this like a transaction.

"Last night... was an accident," Ava blurted out, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm. "But I'm not someone who takes advantage. I pay my debts."

Garrison's brow furrowed. He stared at her, the gears in his head freezing for a fraction of a second.

Ava swallowed hard, avoiding his piercing gaze. "How much are you for one night?"

The silence in the room became absolute. It was so quiet Ava could hear the blood rushing in her own ears.

Garrison stared at her. He genuinely thought he had misheard her.

"Excuse me?" he said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a dark, dangerous undertone.

Ava thought he was trying to negotiate. She bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. She reached over the edge of the bed, digging into her ruined purse on the floor until she found her phone.

She tapped the screen and held it up.

"I'm asking for your service fee," Ava said, her voice rising in panic. "I can just Venmo you right now. Let's just settle this."

Garrison looked at the bright screen of her phone. The Venmo transfer page was open.

The realization hit him. She thought he was a whore.

The CEO of the Terry Group, a man who moved billions of dollars before breakfast, was being offered a Venmo payment for sexual services.

A dark, humorless laugh ripped from his throat. The sound made the hairs on Ava's arms stand up.

Garrison threw the covers off completely. He didn't care that he was naked. He stepped off the bed, his tall frame radiating pure, unfiltered menace.

He took a slow step toward her. Then another.

Ava's breath hitched. The sheer physical presence of the man was suffocating. She scrambled backward on the mattress, her heart hammering against her ribs until her spine hit the solid wood of the headboard.

She was trapped.

Garrison planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek.

"Are you absolutely sure," Garrison whispered, his voice dripping with lethal ice, "that your bank account can handle my price, sweetheart?"