Elena’s Secret Groom Craving

Elena Vargas stepped into the sunlit loft carrying her leather portfolio and a laptop bag that suddenly felt too heavy. The place smelled like expensive leather, fresh espresso, and something darker—pure male. Marcus Reed stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearms corded and veined. At thirty-two he looked like he’d been carved for sin rather than boardrooms. His fiancée was in Milan for the week. Elena knew that because it was listed in the client notes. She hadn’t expected the information to make her thighs clench.

“Ms. Vargas,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d already tasted her name on his tongue. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

“Elena,” she corrected, setting her things on the massive marble island that dominated the open kitchen. “We’re going to be working closely for the next six months. First names make it easier.”

Marcus’s dark eyes dragged down her body—cream silk blouse, tight navy pencil skirt, four-inch heels—before snapping back to her face. The hunger there was so blatant it stole her breath. She was twenty-eight, good at her job, and had never once crossed the line with a client. She reminded herself of that fact while her nipples tightened against her lace bra.

They started with the basics. Venue options. Color palettes. Guest count. Elena kept her voice crisp and professional even as Marcus circled her like a predator. Every time she clicked to a new photo on her laptop, he leaned in closer. She could feel the heat rolling off him.

Half an hour in, the tension had thickened into something alive.

“These are the final three venues,” she said, opening a folder of high-res shots. “I think the rooftop garden at the—”

She didn’t finish. Marcus had moved behind her. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that his breath ghosted across the nape of her neck when he spoke.

“I can’t concentrate on rooftops, Elena.”