The smell of sizzling butter and rich, dark coffee drifted through the penthouse, threading its way into the master bedroom.

Ryan opened his eyes. The space beside him in the massive king-sized bed was empty, the sheets still carrying the faint, lingering warmth of her body.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning sky was a brilliant, bruised purple, the sun fighting its way through the dense November clouds over Manhattan.

For the first time in weeks, Ryan didn’t wake up with his pulse hammering against his ribs. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

The Syndicate, the heavily armed PMCs locking down his forty-second-floor office—it all existed outside these walls.

In here, inside the biometric locks and private elevators of Zara’s sanctuary, the air was still.

He sat up, the dull ache in his ribs still shifting but manageable. He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, leaving his chest bare, and walked barefoot out of the bedroom.

The kitchen was white marble and brushed steel. Zara stood at the island stove, a sleek silver spatula in her hand.

She was wearing his discarded white dress shirt from the night before. The sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, the hem barely grazing the top of her thighs.

Her dark hair was piled into a messy, precarious knot, held together by a single clip.

She was humming. A low, off-key melody that completely obliterated the polished, untouchable supermodel persona.

Ryan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He watched her crack an egg into a cast-iron skillet, her brow furrowed in deep, absolute concentration.

"I thought you said you didn’t cook," Ryan said, his voice a low rumble breaking the quiet.

Zara jumped, spinning around, the spatula dripping a tiny spot of grease onto the pristine marble.

She let out a breathless laugh, her hand flying to her chest.

"I said I rarely cook," she corrected, turning back to the stove to rescue the eggs. "There is a distinction. I happen to make exceptional breakfast. My dad taught me before the agencies decided my diet should consist exclusively of almonds and sparkling water."

Ryan pushed off the doorframe and walked up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest.

She melted into him instantly, leaning her head back against his shoulder.

He kissed the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, breathing in the scent of her vanilla perfume mixed with the sharp, savory smell of the cooking food.

"Smells incredible," he murmured, his hands resting flat against her stomach through the thin cotton of the shirt.

"Wait until you taste it," she said, pride lacing her tone. She reached over to flip a piece of bacon.

Ryan’s hands didn’t stay on her stomach. They slid lower, dragging slowly down the smooth, bare skin of her thighs. She wasn’t wearing anything under the shirt.

Zara’s breath hitched. The spatula stalled in the pan.

"Ryan," she warned, a heavy, dark heat instantly pooling in her voice. "I am handling hot oil."

"Turn the burner down," he commanded softly.

He dragged his hands back up, his fingers grazing the heavy, pooling wetness between her legs. She was already slick.

The raw, unfiltered chemistry between them didn’t require a buildup anymore; it operated on a hair-trigger.

Zara’s hand shot out, twisting the dial on the stove until the flame died to a faint blue flicker.

Ryan didn’t waste a single second. He gripped her hips, bending her forward until her stomach hit the cold marble edge of the kitchen island.

She let out a sharp, surprised gasp, her hands bracing flat against the stone to keep her balance.

The oversized dress shirt bunched up around her waist, completely exposing the long, flawless curve of her back and the plush swell of her ass.

"We were making breakfast," she managed to choke out, her voice trembling as Ryan’s warm, calloused hands gripped her thighs, spreading them wider.

"I’m hungry now," he growled.

He unfastened the drawstring of his sweats, letting them drop just enough to free himself. He was already violently hard, the thick, heavy length of him throbbing in the cool morning air.

He didn’t bother turning her around. He stepped into the space between her legs, aligning the slick, heavy head of his cock with her dripping entrance.

Zara whimpered, her knuckles turning white against the marble counter.

Ryan pushed his hips forward, burying himself inside her in one long, unbroken thrust.

The contrast was staggering. The cold, hard stone beneath her hands. The burning, relentless heat filling her from behind.

She threw her head back, a loud, raw moan ripping from her throat, echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse.

"Fuck," Ryan breathed, his jaw locking tight. She was incredibly tight, her walls spasming around him instantly, milking him with a frantic, desperate rhythm.

He gripped her hips, anchoring her to the marble, and began to move.

The wet, heavy slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen, drowning out the faint sizzle of the cooling pan. He pulled back until the tip nearly slipped free, then drove his pelvis forward, hitting her deep and hard.

Zara’s legs trembled, her heels lifting off the hardwood floor with every bruising impact.

"Ryan—"

He leaned his weight over her, his chest pressing flush against her back.

He slid one hand around her throat, a heavy, dominant weight to hold her steady. His other hand swept around her front, finding the slick, swollen knot of her clit.

He rubbed a firm, vicious circle against the sensitive flesh while he pounded into her from behind.

The sensory overload short-circuited her brain completely. The pristine, glamorous life she led vanished. There were no cameras here. No publicists. Just a man dismantling her against her own kitchen counter.

Ryan rasped against her ear, his thrusts accelerating into a brutal, punishing pace.

She sobbed, completely unraveled. She rocked her hips backward, chasing the blinding friction of his hand and the deep, relentless claiming of his cock.

She shattered.

Her spine bowed sharply, a loud, feral cry tearing from her lips. Her core clamped down on him like a vice, contracting in tight, agonizingly fierce spasms that milked every ounce of control he had left.

Ryan gritted his teeth, his grip tightening violently on her hips. He drove into her one last, desperate time, a low groan ripping from his chest as he spilled deep inside her.

He held her flush against the marble, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against her back.

The kitchen was dead silent, save for their ragged breathing.

After a long minute, Ryan slowly pulled out, pressing a soft kiss to her sweat-dampened shoulder. He stepped back, fixing his sweats.

Zara remained slumped over the island for a few seconds, her forehead resting against the cool stone. She finally pushed herself upright, her legs visibly shaking, and pulled the oversized shirt back down over her thighs. Her cheeks were flushed dark red, her lips swollen.

She turned around, leaning her back against the counter, and looked at him. A slow, exhausted, utterly satisfied smile curved her mouth.

She reached over and turned the burner back on.

"As I was saying," she murmured, flipping the bacon. "I make an exceptional breakfast."

Ryan laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that felt completely foreign in his chest.

He pulled out a barstool and sat down, watching her work. For the first time since the alley, the cold, heavy dread in his gut was completely gone.