Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

I never thought a single email could change my life, but there it was, glowing on my laptop screen: confirmation that Voss Philanthropic Foundation had selected my small event-planning firm for their annual charity gala. The pay was obscene—enough to clear my debts and then some—but the real draw was the name attached: Julian Voss. Billionaire. Visionary. The man whose face graced Forbes covers and whose elusive smile made women weak in boardrooms across the city.

I’d spent weeks perfecting the proposal, pouring every ounce of creativity into mood boards and timelines. Now, standing in the mirror of my tiny apartment, I smoothed my charcoal pencil skirt and white silk blouse, trying to look like I belonged in his world. My dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup, professional but not invisible. I needed him to see me as capable, not just another pretty face chasing his money.

The foundation’s headquarters occupied the top five floors of a glass tower downtown. Security waved me through after checking my ID twice, and the private elevator shot me upward in silence. When the doors opened, I stepped into a lobby of marble and modern art, the air scented faintly with something expensive and masculine.

“Miss Rivera?” A polished assistant appeared. “Mr. Voss is ready.”

My stomach flipped. Ready. As if he’d been waiting for me specifically.

She led me down a hallway lined with photographs of Julian shaking hands with presidents and royalty. At the end, double doors stood open to an office that felt more like a penthouse living room—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, leather furniture, a grand piano no one probably played. And there he was.

Julian Voss stood by the window, phone to his ear, his back to me. Even from behind, he commanded the room: broad shoulders in a tailored navy suit, dark hair trimmed precisely, posture that said he owned everything he surveyed—including the skyline. He ended the call without turning.

“Naomi Rivera,” he said, voice low and smooth, like aged whiskey. Only then did he face me.

God, the photos didn’t do him justice. Sharp jaw, piercing gray eyes, a mouth that looked like it could ruin a woman with one smirk. He was thirty-five, maybe thirty-six, but carried the kind of authority that made age irrelevant.

“Mr. Voss.” I extended my hand, praying it wasn’t shaking. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

His grip was warm, firm, lingering just a fraction too long. Those eyes scanned me—slowly, deliberately—from my heels to my face. Not leering, exactly. Assessing. Like he was deciding something.

“Please, call me Julian.” He gestured to the sofa. “Sit.”

I perched on the edge, clutching my portfolio like a shield. He took the chair opposite, legs spread in that careless way powerful men have, elbows on the armrests. The silence stretched until I felt heat creeping up my neck.

“Your proposal was… exceptional,” he finally said. “Bold. Sensual, even. The theme—‘Midnight Blossom’—it’s provocative.”

I swallowed. “I wanted the evening to feel intimate despite the scale. The floral installations will cascade from the ceiling, lighting shifting from deep indigo to soft gold as the night progresses. Guests should feel enveloped. Desired, almost.”

His lips curved. “Desired. Interesting choice of word.”

My cheeks burned, but I held his gaze. “Philanthropy at this level is seduction, isn’t it? You’re asking people to open their wallets for causes they might otherwise ignore. You have to make them feel something.”

Something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe hunger. “Exactly. And you understand that.”

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees now, closing the space between us. His cologne reached me: cedar, bergamot, something darker underneath.

“Tell me, Naomi,” he murmured, “what makes you feel something?”

The question caught me off guard. My breath hitched. For a moment, the room felt too small, the city behind him blurring.

“I—” I forced professionalism back into my voice. “Beauty. Passion. When someone commits fully to a vision, no holding back. That moves me.”

His stare intensified. “Good. Because I don’t do half measures. This gala will be flawless. And I expect the same commitment from you.”

The word commitment from his mouth sounded filthy somehow. I shifted, thighs pressing together against a sudden ache.

We spent the next hour reviewing logistics: guest list (three hundred of the world’s wealthiest), menu (seven courses by a Michelin-starred chef), entertainment (a private performance by an artist whose name made my jaw drop). He listened more than he spoke, but every question he asked was razor-sharp, revealing how deeply he controlled every detail of his empire.

When we finished, he stood and walked me to the door. His hand brushed the small of my back—barely contact, but electricity shot through me.

“I’ll see you next week for the venue walk-through,” he said. “Alone.”

Alone. The word hung in the air as the elevator doors closed between us.

That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep, my skin too sensitive, mind replaying the way he’d looked at me. Like he’d already imagined me naked. Like he’d decided I was his to take.

I told myself it was just attraction. Powerful men flirted; it meant nothing. But deep down, I knew Julian Voss didn’t do anything without intention.

And something told me his intentions for me went far beyond planning a charity gala.

 

Chapter Two

The ballroom was a cathedral of shadows and possibility when I arrived that afternoon, three days before the gala. Crystal chandeliers hung unlit above me, their facets catching the pale winter sunlight that poured through the arched windows. Garlands of midnight-blue orchids and white roses cascaded from the ceiling exactly as I’d sketched them, and long tables draped in black silk waited for their final touches. I walked the length of the room alone, heels echoing, checklist in hand, breathing in the scent of fresh flowers and polished marble.

Everything was perfect. Or it would be, once the lighting crew finished their final adjustments.

I was crouched beside a centerpiece, adjusting a single drooping bloom, when the air shifted. That subtle pressure that happens when someone powerful enters a space. I didn’t hear the door; I simply felt him.

Julian.

I straightened slowly, heart already kicking against my ribs. He stood at the entrance in a charcoal overcoat, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, watching me with the stillness of a predator who knows the prey has nowhere to run. No assistant. No security. Just him.

“I thought I’d see how my money is being spent,” he said, voice carrying easily across the vast room. He shrugged off the coat, revealing a black shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Then he started toward me, footsteps deliberate.

I clutched my clipboard like armor. “Mr. Voss—Julian. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Plans change.” He stopped a few feet away, close enough that his cologne—cedar and something dangerously warm—wrapped around me. “I wanted to inspect the space. And you.”

My breath caught. “Me?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he began to circle me slowly, the way one might study a sculpture. I stayed rooted, pulse hammering as his gaze traveled over my fitted black dress, the modest V-neck, the hem that ended just above my knees. When he moved behind me, I felt the heat of him even though he didn’t touch me yet.

“Flawless,” he murmured, voice low. “Every detail.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant the room or me.

He completed the circle and stopped closer than before. One hand lifted, fingers brushing an imaginary speck from my shoulder. The contact was feather-light, but it burned straight through the fabric to my skin.

“This perfection,” he said, thumb tracing the line of my collarbone, “deserves to be claimed. Not just admired from a distance.”

My lips parted, but no sound came out. His touch slid lower, down the outside of my arm, slow and possessive, until his fingers circled my wrist. Not tight. Just enough to remind me how easily he could hold me if he wanted.

“Tell me, Naomi,” he continued, eyes locked on mine, gray storm clouds ready to break. “Do you ever let anyone close enough to ruin all this careful control you wear so well?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m here to do a job.”

“And you’re doing it beautifully.” His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, right over my racing pulse. “But I’m not talking about the gala anymore.”

The clipboard slipped from my fingers and clattered to the marble floor. Neither of us looked down.

He stepped in until only inches separated us. I could feel the warmth radiating from his chest, smell the faint trace of snow on his skin. His free hand rose to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, knuckles grazing my cheek.

“I’ve thought about this since the moment you walked into my office,” he said quietly. “About how you’d look bent over one of these tables. Dress rucked up. My hands on your hips. My cock buried so deep inside you there’d be no question who you belong to.”

Heat flooded me, shameful and instant. My thighs pressed together beneath the dress.

“You can’t—” I started, but my voice cracked.

“I can.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear as he leaned in. “And I will. The only question is whether you’ll keep pretending you don’t want it as badly as I do.”

He drew back just enough to meet my eyes again. Waiting. Giving me one last chance to run.

But my feet wouldn’t move. My body was already leaning toward him, traitorous and aching.

His smile was slow, victorious. “Good girl.”

Then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claim and conquest, his tongue sliding past my lips like he owned them. One hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wanted; the other splayed across my lower back, pressing me flush against the hard length of him. I felt how much he wanted me—thick, unmistakable—grinding against my stomach, and a helpless sound escaped my throat.

He swallowed it, kissing me deeper, walking me backward until my hips met the edge of a table. China and crystal rattled softly as he lifted me onto it without breaking the kiss. My legs parted instinctively, dress riding up my thighs, and he stepped between them like he’d planned this moment for weeks.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, eyes dark with hunger.

“Not here,” he said roughly. “Not yet. When I take you, it will be where I can keep you all night.”

My body throbbed in protest, empty and desperate.

He smoothed my dress back down with deliberate care, then picked up my fallen clipboard and handed it to me. His fingers lingered on mine.

“Finish your work, Naomi,” he said, voice steady again, as if he hadn’t just unraveled me in under five minutes. “I’ll see you on the night of the gala.”

He walked away without looking back, leaving me perched on the table, lips swollen, panties soaked, heart pounding so loud I was sure the chandeliers trembled with it.

I now understood with perfect clarity: escaping Julian Voss’s attention was never an option.

He’d already decided I was his.

And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it.

 

Chapter Three

The gala had been flawless. Three hundred of the world’s most powerful people had danced beneath my midnight blossoms, drunk vintage champagne, and pledged millions to Julian’s latest cause. Cameras flashed when he took the stage to thank everyone, his voice smooth and commanding, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back as he introduced me as “the brilliant mind behind tonight’s magic.” The room had applauded; I’d smiled until my cheeks ached. All evening I’d felt his eyes on me—hot, patient, promising—while we played the perfect host and planner in front of the crowd.