RECKLESS DEVOTION: The Billionaire's Dark Desire

New York City – Ten Years Ago

The air inside the Waldorf Astoria penthouse was heavy with whiskey, candle smoke, and something even darker. Something unspoken.

Alexander Wolfe sat in the deep leather armchair, legs spread in a display of unshaken confidence, a tumbler of bourbon resting loosely in his hand. He watched her move-slow, deliberate, the silk of her dress clinging to the curves of her body like a lover's touch. She was everything a man could want: old money, social power, beauty refined over generations of privilege.

And yet, she was here. With him.

Elizabeth Lancaster had spent a lifetime commanding men, bending them with a flick of her wrist, a well-placed smirk, a whisper behind closed doors. She had come tonight to do the same to him, to remind this young upstart that no matter how brilliant or ruthless he was, he would never be more than an ambitious newcomer in a world built by men like her husband.

But the moment she stepped too close, the moment his gaze locked onto hers, something shifted.

She had planned to toy with him, to tease him, but now, standing inches away, she felt an invisible force pressing down on her, making it hard to breathe.

"Do you find me attractive?" she asked, her voice smooth, practiced.

Alexander took a slow sip of his bourbon before setting the glass down, his expression unreadable. "You don't need me to answer that."

She smiled, confident in her beauty. "Good. Because I'd hate to think I was wasting my time."

She leaned in, hands on the armrests of his chair, caging him in-a move that had left many men breathless before.

But Alexander? He didn't flinch. Didn't move. He just watched her, his lips curling slightly, as though amused by her performance.

"You think you're in control, don't you?" His voice was smooth, quiet. Dangerous.

Her pulse stuttered.

"You came here to seduce me," he continued, reaching out, running a single knuckle along the inside of her wrist. The touch was barely there, but it sent a shiver through her body. "To see if the rumors were true. To see if I could be yours to play with."

She swallowed. He was reading her too well.

"You miscalculated," Alexander murmured, shifting forward just enough that their faces were mere inches apart. "You're not here to take. You're here to be taken."

Heat pooled low in her belly, but she forced a smirk. "What makes you so sure?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached up, fingers tangling in her hair, and yanked her head back just enough to expose the delicate column of her throat. A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it, her body betraying her.

He stood then, towering over her, his grip firm but not cruel. "On your knees."

The words weren't loud, but they filled the space between them, heavy and absolute.

For a moment, she hesitated. A part of her screamed that this was insanity, that she was Elizabeth Lancaster, the wife of a billionaire, a queen among men.

But another part of her-one that had never before been touched, never before been seen-felt her knees bending before she could think to stop herself.

She looked up at him, her breath shallow.

"Good girl," he murmured, fingers brushing against her cheek, his touch both soft and possessive. "Now, let's see if you're worth my time."

Her body burned at the quiet challenge. She had never needed to prove herself to a man before. But now? Now, she wanted to.

She reached for his belt, but before she could unbuckle it, he grabbed her wrist, his grip firm.

"You don't decide," he said. "I do."

A shudder ran through her.

Alexander traced the line of her jaw, fingers drifting lower, brushing over the pulse point at her throat, down to the delicate strap of her dress. With one slow, deliberate motion, he slid the silk from her shoulder. It slipped down her arm, baring her breasts to the cool air, her nipples hardening instantly.

"Beautiful," he murmured, not in admiration, but as if he were appraising something that already belonged to him.

Her lips parted as he slid his fingers lower, down her stomach, between her thighs, the heat of his touch pressing through the thin fabric of her lingerie.

She gasped, arching into his hand.

But he didn't give her what she wanted. Not yet.

"You're wet," he said, his voice nothing more than a dark whisper. "You came here thinking you had the power. And now, look at you."

Her face burned, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't.

"Tell me what you want, Elizabeth."

Her nails dug into his wrist. "I want... I want to please you."

His smirk was slow, knowing. "Then prove it."

What followed was not gentle. Not sweet.

It was raw. Primal. The kind of claiming that left no doubt as to who was in control.

He stripped her bare, bending her over the armrest of the chair she had tried to trap him in. His hands roamed her body, exploring, teasing, until she was trembling, desperate for more.

And when he finally took her, she felt it everywhere.

The way he moved, unrelenting. The way his fingers pressed into her hips, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. The way his breath was steady, controlled, even as he wrecked her from the inside out.

She moaned his name, but he didn't acknowledge it.

Because this wasn't about her.

She wasn't the one being worshiped.

She was being used. Owned.

And the shameful, beautiful truth was-she loved it.

Pleasure built within her, so sharp, so consuming, she could barely think. But just as she was about to tumble over the edge, Alexander stopped.

Her body screamed in protest, her thighs trembling, her breathing ragged.

"P-please," she gasped, her voice hoarse.

His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back so his lips brushed against her ear. "You think this is about you?"

She moaned, her body quivering. "No... it's about you."

His hand wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just enough to make sure she felt him.

"Then say it."

Her lips trembled. "I belong to you."

He groaned in satisfaction before thrusting into her again, harder this time, taking what was already his.

Elizabeth shattered beneath him, her climax wracking through her body like a violent storm. But even in her pleasure, she wasn't thinking of herself.

She was focused on him.

On whether he was satisfied.

On whether she had given enough.

As the last waves of pleasure faded, she lay sprawled beneath him, her body ruined in the most beautiful way.

And yet, she still wanted more.

Still wanted him.

He pulled back, fixing his belt as if nothing had happened.

Elizabeth struggled to sit up, her body sore, her breath still uneven. "Alexander..."

He smirked, pouring himself another glass of bourbon.

"You were right about one thing," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

She swallowed, trying to steady herself. "And what's that?"

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear one last time.

"I do burn fast and bright." A pause. "And you? You'll be thinking about this moment for the rest of your life."

With that, he turned, walking away, leaving her breathless, aching, his.

And for the first time in her life, Elizabeth Lancaster-the queen of New York high society-was utterly, irreversibly ruined.