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BONUS SCENE

Faith

It’s third and goal, two minutes left in the second quarter, and all I can think about is Hunter.

Not the touchdown pass he’s about to throw. Not the screaming fans. Not even the commentators going off about his third straight 300-yard game.

Just…him and his very cute butt in this uniform.

That uniform should be illegal.

I’m curled up on my couch with a fuzzy blanket, the game muted, a bowl of popcorn on my lap, and a little black box sitting on the coffee table like it’s watching me.

My phone buzzes.

Hunter: Can’t wait for tonight. I reserved the room.

I laugh and shake my head. He’s literally in the middle of a nationally televised football game and he’s texting me ?

Me: LOL. That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

Hunter: Babe. This game is a side quest. The real main storyline is you + me at 9pm.

Another buzz.

Hunter: Did you open the box yet?

I glance at the small, sleek thing sitting just inches away. Wrapped in matte black paper, tied with a soft velvet ribbon, no tag. Just because, he said.

I bite my lip as I text him back.

Me: Nope. Still sitting here looking at it.

Hunter: Good girl. Don’t open it. You wait until you’re at Mont du Marquette. Promise?

My heart thuds. I stare at the box like it might whisper secrets.

Me: Promise.

Hunter: 9pm. Room 4. Be ready.

I toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth and glance back at the TV, where he’s jogging toward the locker room at halftime, sweat clinging to his jawline, face set with that focused, don’t-fuck-with-me energy that only makes me want to do exactly that.

I toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth and glance back at the TV, where he’s jogging toward the locker room at halftime, sweat clinging to his jawline, face set with that focused, don’t-fuck-with-me energy that only makes me want to do exactly that.

God, I’m ruined.

My eyes drift back to the black box on the coffee table.

I’ve stared at it so long, it’s practically humming now. What the hell did he put in there?

Lingerie? A new toy?

Maybe something trickier. Hunter’s clever like that. He likes to play. To test limits. To tease until I’m breathless and begging.

What if it’s a collar?

What if it’s a key?

My body heats just thinking about it, and I cross my legs, squeezing tight.

Later that night, I drive toward Mont du Marquette, the box riding shotgun, taunting me the whole way. The sky is velvet-dark, the road mostly empty. My heart kicks up as I pull into the secluded parking lot and head to the back entrance.

I give the attendant the password Hunter texted me earlier.

She smiles like she knows exactly who I’m here for.

Inside, I slip into the familiar dressing suite and fasten my soft white mask. Angelic. Innocent.

Ha.

The lights are low, the music a velvet thrum under the air. Desire coils through me like smoke.

An attendant reappears, not the same one as before. She’s holding a small remote and nods toward a corridor I’ve never been down.

“This way,” she says. “Room 4. It’s all yours.”

Not he’s waiting.

It’s waiting.

My breath catches.

I follow the hall down a lush stretch of carpet, every step louder than it should be in my heels. My heart’s pounding like it knows I’m about to step into something I won’t come back from the same.

Room 4 is tucked at the very end.

The door is matte black with a gold inlay—stars and feathers swirling in an arch over the number. I press the handle. It opens with the softest click.

And then I step inside.

The room is sensual decadence. A sex dream brought to life.

There are three mirrored walls—angled just enough to reflect every angle, every flicker of movement. The lighting is golden, moody. A single chandelier hangs from the center, dripping crystals that catch the light like stars.

In the corner, a low four-poster bed with jet-black silk sheets. Cuffs hang neatly from the headboard. There’s a chaise upholstered in dark emerald velvet. A wall of toys—leather, silk, gold. Every item placed like a gallery exhibit.

The scent is soft, masculine, familiar. Like Hunter’s skin after a shower.

But he’s not here yet.

I’m alone.

And I’m shaking.

Not from nerves. From the weight of anticipation.

I carry the sleek black box Hunter gave me to the bed. I sit. My knees press together, fingers skimming the ribbon.

I stare at it for a moment.

And then—I open it.