The glass of champagne tilted precariously in Riven's hand as he maneuvered through a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. Everything in this room reeked of power and old money—from the sculptures imported from Paris to the silk carpets that muffled footsteps. His sharp jaw clenched as he passed another self-important socialite pretending to understand abstract art.
He didn't belong here, and he knew it. But that was the point.
A stolen painting—his own creation, signed under a pseudonym—hung provocatively on the center wall of the gallery. It was a burst of reds and black, shadows of tangled bodies, desire and pain blending in chaotic passion. He smirked as a critic leaned forward to interpret it, completely unaware the "anonymous" artist stood three feet away, dressed in a suit he stole off a coat rack backstage.
"You did good," he whispered to himself.
Then he felt it—the heat of a stare.
Across the marble floor, beyond the clusters of socialites and celebrities, stood a man who didn't need the spotlight to claim it. Cassian Velthorne. Black suit. No tie. Open collar revealing a touch of golden skin and ink. Power wrapped in silk and shadows. His eyes—gray and merciless—locked onto Riven's like a dare.
Riven didn't flinch. He took a sip of champagne and offered the faintest smirk.
Cassian began walking.
Each step was deliberate, like a predator who knew his prey wasn't going to run—but should. The crowd parted for him without realizing it. Riven's breath hitched. It wasn't fear. It was... interest. Maybe arousal. Maybe both.
"You're not supposed to be here," Cassian murmured, voice dark velvet over steel as he stopped just close enough to invade Riven's space.
"Neither are half the guests," Riven replied. "They just pretend better."
Cassian's smile was slow and predatory. "That painting." He turned slightly toward the canvas. "You know the artist?"
Riven's lips curved. "Intimately."
Cassian's eyes narrowed with amusement—and something more dangerous. He leaned in until Riven could feel the heat of his breath against his ear.
"You're either a fool, a genius... or a con."
"I'm all three on bad days."
Cassian laughed, low and unhurried. Then he reached out, gloved hand brushing the edge of Riven's jaw, tracing the line up to his cheek. Not a touch meant to soothe—meant to claim.
"You'll come with me."
"Why would I?"
Cassian stepped even closer, bodies now brushing. "Because you're hard beneath those expensive lies. And I know how to make you come undone."
Riven's breath hitched. He hated himself for it.
Cassian walked away.
Not looking back. Not waiting.
Riven followed.
---
The hallway outside the gala was dim, lit only by soft sconces. Cassian's stride didn't slow. He pressed a code on a hidden panel—an unmarked door opened silently. Riven slipped inside after him.
The private suite was decadent. Velvet curtains. Dark marble. Gold-trimmed liquor trays. A chaise longue in red.
Cassian tossed his jacket onto a chair and turned.
"Strip."
Riven stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"I want to see what you're hiding under that stolen suit."
"Bold of you to assume I'll listen."
Cassian stepped forward. "Bold of you to think you'll leave without screaming my name."
That shouldn't have made Riven's cock twitch. But it did.
He undid the jacket buttons. Let it fall. Then, slowly, sensually, peeled off the shirt. Cassian's eyes drank him in. Muscled, lean, inked with secrets.
Cassian's fingers brushed Riven's chest. "You're art."
"And you're the buyer?"
Cassian's hand shot up, gripping his jaw. "I'm the collector."
Riven grabbed his wrist, shoved back—and Cassian let him. Their mouths clashed. Tongues battled. Hands yanked at fabric. There was no sweetness in the kiss—just dominance, hunger, claim.
Cassian shoved Riven against the wall, dropped to his knees, fingers yanking open the stolen pants.
"You'll remember this when you try to pretend you have control."
Riven gasped as Cassian's mouth wrapped around his cock in a hot, punishing rhythm. Lips, tongue, throat—all relentless, wet, perfect. Riven moaned, one hand bracing against the wall, the other tangling in Cassian's hair.
He didn't just suck. He devoured.
Riven tried to hold back. But Cassian sucked harder, hand stroking what his mouth couldn't take. His body buckled as he came with a growl, painting Cassian's throat.
Cassian swallowed, stood, and kissed him—letting Riven taste himself on those perfect lips.
"Next time," Cassian whispered, fingers teasing between Riven's legs, "I fuck you."
"Who says there'll be a next time?" Riven rasped, dazed.
Cassian smirked. "Because you'll beg for it."
And Riven hated that he already wanted to.
---