With gritted teeth and hot breaths, Andrew repositioned Aspen and continued his relentless assault.

Aspen's face flushed with panic, her lips parting to beg for mercy. Yet, before a word escaped, her snow-white neck arched sharply as she gasped.

A storm raged over her—inescapable, overwhelming.

The night became a cycle of sweet torment. Once, twice—she lost count of how many times she teetered on the edge of consciousness, certain Andrew would be the death of her.

Of course, this kind of "death" did not frighten her—it thrilled her.

By the end, Aspen clung to Andrew desperately, their sweat-slicked bodies fused together atop the drenched sheets.

…

Meanwhile, Rafael and Mosby also had a busy night at a luxury villa on Blumedale's outskirts. Two of Gabo Creek's most popular starlets lay sprawled unconscious on the large bed that was now stained crimson.

Rafael gestured for his secretary to pour two glasses of wine. Lighting a cigar, he smirked at Mosby and said, "Drink.