Page 15 of Reaper's Desire

That's the thought that keeps circling through my head as I stand in front of my hotel room mirror, adjusting the neckline of my dress for the third time. I wanted to look even hotter tonight, so I picked the most flamboyant thing in my suitcase. It's a tight dress in a red-orange color, the color of a bloody sunset, so short it barely covers the tops of my thighs with a draping neckline in the front held together by a bunch of gold chains, and the same drape in the back swooping at the bottom of my spine. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, my makeup is perfect, and my heels are high enough to make my legs look endless.

But I'm still getting ready to go back to the same nightclub, hoping to see a man whose name I don't even know.

What are you doing, Isabelle?

I don't have an answer. Not a good one, anyway. I came to Ibiza to escape. To be wild and reckless and free. To fuck strangers and dance until dawn and forget about my father and Vivienne and the suffocating weight of being a Montague heiress. I didn't come here to chase after some man.

And yet here I am.

I grab my clutch from the bed and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it. The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. I try not to think about the fragmented memories I have from last night of the nameless man on his knees in front of me, his mouth between my thighs as he licked me to a gasping orgasm while we rode the elevator up to my room.

I look confident. Sexy. Like I know exactly what I'm doing.

It's a lie, but it's a convincing one.

I only remember parts of last night—a blur of pleasure and alcohol and his mouth and thick fucking cock. He was so good. And he was gone this morning when I came back with breakfast—another thing I've never fucking done in my life. I've never gone andpicked up breakfastfor a man the morning after. But I took my ass downstairs and went to get takeout for us from the restaurant in the hotel, and planned to surprise him with it—all the greasy, salty food I normally never eat but needed after all that drinking.

But he wasn't there when I came back. Which makes sense. It was a hookup. A one-night stand. If we hadn't been so wasted, I would have kicked him out.

But in the morning, I wanted to fuck him again, after breakfast. Maybe on the balcony, overlooking the ocean.

I still do.

The night air hits me as I step outside, warm and humid, carrying the scent of salt and flowers. The streets are already crowded with people heading to the clubs, their laughter and chatter filling the air. I join the flow, my heels clicking against the cobblestones, and try to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach.

He's not going to be there.

I know that. I do. Last night was a one-time thing. A perfect, anonymous encounter that was never meant to be repeated. He's probably already left the island, moved on to wherever he came from, and forgotten all about me.

But I can't shake the memory of the way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he made me feel. I want at least one more night, if I can have that.

So I keep walking.

The nightclub is just as packed as it was last night, maybe more so. I didn't get my name on the list tonight, so I bribed the bouncer instead, slipping him a couple hundred euros to get through the door. He smirks, but lets me through, and I pause once I'm inside.

The music hits me like a physical force, the bass thumping through my chest. Bodies press together on the dance floor, moving in rhythm, and my nose stings from the scent of sweat and the smell of alcohol. I push through the crowd, my heart pounding, and scan the room.

I don't even know what I'm looking for. Tall, dark-haired, devastatingly attractive—that describes half the men in here. I don't know his name. I don't know where he's from. I don't know anything about him except the way he felt inside me, the way he made me come so hard I saw stars.

This is insane.

But I keep looking.

The dance floor is a blur of bodies, the bar crowded with people shouting orders over the music. I weave through the crowd, my eyes constantly moving, searching for a face I'm not even sure I'll recognize sober.

And then I see him.

He's at the bar, sitting on a stool facing the crowd and nursing a drink. My heart stops. He turns his head, scanning thecrowd, and our eyes lock. The world narrows to just the two of us.

The music fades. The crowd disappears. There's only him, and the way he's looking at me, and the sudden, overwhelming rush of heat that floods my body. His eyes widen slightly, recognition flashing across his face, and then something dark and hungry fills his eyes. He stands, setting his drink down on the bar, and starts walking toward me.

I can't do anything except stand there and watch him approach, my pulse racing, my skin flushing hot. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The chemistry is just as intense as it was last night. Maybe more so, because now I'm sober enough to fully appreciate it—the way he towers over me, the way his dark eyes rake over my body, lingering on the neckline of my dress, the curve of my hips, the length of my legs.

The way he looks at me like he wants to devour me.

"You came back," he says finally, his voice low and rough, that accent sending shivers down my spine.

"So did you," I manage, my voice breathless.