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The gala had been a blur of flashing lights, polite laughter, and the clinking of champagne flutes, but for Jamal, the only thing that had truly existed was the woman by his side. Mi looked devastating. The red satin dress she wore clung to her petite frame like a second skin, the fabric shimmering under the ballroom chandeliers, shifting between shades of blood and ruby every time she moved.

Throughout the night, Jamal had played the part of the composed professional, but underneath the tailored suit, his skin was crawling with a restless energy. Every time a photographer asked them to pose, he had felt the heat of her back against his palm. Every time he leaned in to whisper a joke in her ear, the scent of her perfume—vanilla and something sharp, like citrus—made his head swim. He had spent three hours watching other men look at her, and by the time they stepped into the quiet luxury of their hotel suite, his patience had evaporated.

The door had barely clicked shut behind them before the silence of the room was punctured by the sound of heavy breathing. Jamal didn’t wait for the lights to be turned on. The glow from the city skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the carpet.

"Jamal," Mi started to say, her voice breathless as she reached back to unfasten the strap of her heels.

He didn't give her the chance to finish. He moved with the same explosive agility he used on the pitch, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hands found her waist, the satin cool beneath his fingers, and he guided her toward the heavy mahogany dressing table.

"I’ve been thinking about this since the moment we left the house," he murmured, his voice low and raspy, stripped of its usual soft-spoken charm.

He spun her around, pressing her chest down against the polished surface of the table. The mirrors reflected a frantic, beautiful mess—her dark hair spilled over the wood, and the red dress hiked up dangerously high. Jamal didn't bother with finesse. He unbuckled his belt with trembling fingers, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He stepped behind her, the heat radiating off his body as he crowded her space. He reached down, grabbing her right leg and hooking it over his hip, hoisting her up so she was forced to balance on one foot. The position was precarious, leaving her completely open and vulnerable to him.

"Jamal, please," she whimpered, her fingers clawing at the edge of the table.

He didn't answer with words. He entered her in one swift, punishing thrust that drew a sharp gasp from her lungs. The friction of the satin against her skin and the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him made her head roll back.

He began to move, and he wasn't gentle. The pent-up frustration of the evening fueled every stroke. He was fast, his hips slamming against her with a rhythmic, heavy thud that echoed in the quiet room. He was a man possessed, his usual calculated movements replaced by raw, unbridled instinct.

Mi’s protests quickly dissolved into high-pitched whines. She couldn't catch her breath; every time she tried to steady herself, he hit her harder, driving her further into the wood of the dressing table. The bottles of perfume and expensive lotions rattled and tipped over, the clatter of glass lost beneath the sound of their combined breathing.

"You like that, don't you?" Jamal growled, his hand moving from her waist to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair to keep her head down. "You were driving me crazy all night. Everyone looking at you. Knowing you were mine."

He increased the pace, his lungs burning. He could feel the tension building in his thighs, the familiar coil of an approaching finish. He didn't slow down; if anything, he pushed harder, his movements becoming frantic. Mi was sobbing now, a desperate, needy sound that only spurred him on. Her body was shaking, her muscles twitching under his touch as she reached her peak, her internal walls clamping down on him.

That was the breaking point. Jamal let out a low, guttural groan, his eyes snapping shut as he buried himself deep inside her one last time. He held her there, his weight pressing her flat against the table as he came, the intensity of it leaving him momentarily lightheaded.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the frantic ticking of a clock and the ragged rasp of their breath. But Jamal wasn't finished. The adrenaline was still humming in his veins, a dark, electric current that demanded more.

He stepped back, letting her leg drop. Mi slumped against the table, her legs weak, the red satin dress rumpled and hiked up to her waist. She looked wrecked, her eyes glazed and her lips parted.

"Down," Jamal commanded.

She looked up at him, blinking through the haze of her climax. "Jamal?"

"On your knees. Now."

There was a streak of dominance in his eyes she rarely saw—a reflection of the fierce competitor who hated to lose. Mi obeyed, her knees hitting the plush carpet. She looked small beneath him, the red dress pooling around her like a spilled drink.

Jamal stood over her, his silhouette imposing against the moonlight. He reached down, his hand firm as he cupped the back of her head. He didn't wait for her to initiate; he guided her forward, his grip unyielding.

"Look at me," he muttered.

When she met his gaze, he saw the devotion there, the silent surrender that always drove him over the edge. He began to move again, using his hand to dictate the rhythm. He pushed her, forcing her to take more of him, making her work for it. His thumb brushed against her cheek, but his grip on her hair remained tight, pulling her head back whenever she tried to slow down.

"Faster," he urged, his voice a command. "Harder, Mi."

He watched her, his chest heaving. The sight of her—the elegant woman from the gala, now on the floor at his whim—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He was relentless, his movements sharp and demanding. He wanted to see her struggle, wanted to feel the vibration of her throat as she tried to keep up with his pace.

The end came quickly this time, a sudden, violent surge of sensation. He tightened his grip on her hair, his knuckles white, and pulled her closer as he finished. He didn't pull away. He let out a long, shaky breath as he came across her face, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the cool air of the room.

He stood there for a moment, his hand finally relaxing and sliding down to stroke her shoulder. The fire in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a soft, lingering heat.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice returning to the gentle tone the world knew.

He reached down, offering her a hand to help her up. Mi took it, her fingers trembling. As she stood, the red satin dress fell back into place, though it was now wrinkled and stained. She leaned her forehead against his chest, her breath finally evening out.

Jamal wrapped his arms around her, pulling her small frame tightly against him. He kissed the top of her head, the scent of her hair filling his senses. The gala felt like a lifetime ago. Out there, he was the star, the prodigy, the boy with the world at his feet. But here, in the dark of their room, he was just a man who belonged entirely to her.

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he murmured, his thumb wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

She nodded silently, her hands gripping his shirt. He picked her up, her light weight no burden at all, and carried her toward the bathroom. The night was far from over, but the frantic edge had been blunted, leaving behind a warm, heavy glow that felt far better than any trophy.