The skyline poured fractured neon through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, painting Haven’s bedroom like a crime scene curated by Vogue.
The air was thick with overpriced cologne, something amber and smug. The sheets were black silk, smooth and cold, clinging to Jake’s skin like a secret he wasn’t ready to admit.
Haven’s hands moved up his thighs, firm, hungry, and sure of the answer before the question was even asked.
A bassline thumped somewhere in the walls, matching the sound of their breath. Haven leaned in and kissed the spot behind Jake’s ear. Jake sucked in a breath, the kind you only take when you know you’re about to do something you’ll lie about later.
“You’re fucking irresistible,” Haven said, low and cocky. His fingers tangled in Jake’s hair and gave a tug, just enough to tilt his head back and expose his throat.
Jake didn’t say anything. His brain was too busy deciding whether to give in or pretend this wasn’t happening again. His hands fumbled with Haven’s shirt, the fabric strained across a chest that belonged in thirst traps and corporate lawsuits.
“Haven,” Jake breathed, as Haven’s hand slipped to his waistband. The belt came undone with a soft clink. Jake didn’t remember falling back, but the sheets welcomed him like they always had before.
Haven hovered above him, his hazel eyes alight with the spoiled heat of someone who’d never been told no, while his platinum hair glowed under the city’s light.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me you want it.”
Jake swallowed. “I want it.”
“Good boy.”
Jeans and briefs hit the floor. Haven reached for the lube, his movements swift and fluid.
Jake had cleaned up earlier.
He told himself it was just in case.
Even though he knew damn well this was going to happen.
Haven’s slicked fingers slid between Jake’s cheeks, circling without entering just yet, teasing until Jake’s hips lifted in search of more.
“Impatient,” Haven said, amused.
Then came his tongue. Filthy. Methodical. Patient in all the ways his personality wasn’t.
Jake groaned, his fists bunching the sheets as Haven rimmed him with the kind of focus usually reserved for spreadsheets and sadism.
A finger followed, then two.
He worked Jake open with a slowness that bordered on torture before a third finger slid in. Jake cursed under his breath, the ache blooming into something electric as Haven found the spot and pressed, making Jake jolt before biting his lip.
Haven grinned as he shed his own clothes with arrogance. He moved like a man used to being watched, every motion designed to make Jake feel like the lucky one.
He slicked himself slowly, almost theatrically, then straddled Jake, while the city painted his skin in shades of gold and ruin.
"Fuck,” he grunted, his voice thick with satisfaction as he shifted, guiding their bodies together, the lube making everything slick and seamless.
He leaned in. “You ready?”
Jake didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Haven pushed in, slow at first, letting him adjust. The stretch made Jake gasp, but the burn was familiar.
Too familiar.
His mind flared with guilt, but his body had already made the decision, his hips tilting back on instinct, matching rhythm for rhythm.
Haven shifted deeper and angled just right, hitting that spot again.
Jake arched, his breath catching on a broken sound as heat curled through his gut.
No hand was needed on his cock.
He was already there, helpless against it.
He came hard, his body seizing and shuddering around Haven, letting out a noise caught halfway between a grunt and a prayer.
Haven wasn’t far behind. One last thrust, and he spilled with a hiss before collapsing onto Jake.
They lay there, sweat-slick and sticky, a tangle of limbs and poor decisions.
“You’re mine,” Haven whispered against his temple, smug with possession.
Jake rolled over, letting the sheets peel off his back. Haven spooned behind him, his hand already creeping downward.
Jake batted it away. “Don’t.”
Haven pouted. “You’re always so shy after. You should be basking. I’m a five-star experience.”
Jake reached for his phone and the folded towel on the nightstand. “You’re a five-star Yelp review with a minor case of erectile narcissism.”
“Ouch,” Haven said, grinning. “Still bitter your husband doesn’t know how to spoil you like I do?”
Jake stared at the text Clay sent him.
Working late again?
He deleted it. “Maybe I’m not into being spoiled.”
“Then why do you keep coming back?” Haven asked as he stretched, displaying the lean musculature of a man who spent more time poolside than in meaningful conversations. His Rolex flashed as he poured himself a glass of cabernet.
Jake shrugged as he cleaned himself. “Maybe I like the guilt.”
“Ohhh, you’re one of those,” Haven said with a knowing smirk. “That tortured Catholic boy energy. Hot.”
Jake stood and pulled on his jeans. “I’m not Catholic.”
“You’re guilty. Same thing.”
Jake zipped his fly and grabbed his shirt off the floor. “That’s rich coming from the guy whose moral compass is a Rolex.”
Haven swirled the wine in his glass. “What can I say? I like expensive things.”
“Including other people’s husbands.”
“Correction, unhappy husbands. If I were really the villain here, one of you would’ve left by now.”
Jake didn’t respond. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the city below.
“But you won’t leave,” Haven continued. “You’ll just keep coming back. You always do.”
“Maybe I’m just collecting evidence.”
Haven smiled. “Evidence of what?”
Jake slipped on his shoes. “That I still know better. And that it doesn’t matter.”
Haven took another sip, then looked over the rim of his glass. “You’d miss me if I stopped answering.”
Jake didn’t deny it.
He just stood there, pretending to check his phone, waiting to stop wanting to stay.
Behind him, Haven’s voice came low and unbothered. “Tell Clay I said hi.”
Jake didn’t turn around.
Didn’t reply.
He tucked his phone into his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and walked out like the floor wasn’t falling away beneath him.
He didn’t look back.
He already knew Haven was watching from the doorway, smiling.
