The neon glow of the city pulsed like a heartbeat outside the bar's fogged windows, but inside, the air was thick with secrets. I'd never been one to linger in places like "The Velvet Hour"--dim, velvet-curtained booths, the cloying scent of bourbon and perfume, the murmur of strangers' laughter that felt more like a dare than a sound. But tonight, the weight of my own predictability pressed down on me. My roommate's words echoed: "You're twenty-six, Emily. When's the last time you did something reckless?" So here I was, in a dress that clung like a second skin, sipping a gin tonic I didn't really want, pretending not to notice the eyes crawling over me.
That's when he walked in.
The door swung open with a gust of cold air, and the room seemed to tilt. He was tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a charcoal suit that looked tailored to every lethal angle of his body. His hair was dark, tousled as though he'd just rolled out of bed--or someone else's. But it was his eyes that pinned me: sharp, gray as storm clouds, scanning the room with a predator's patience. When they landed on me, I felt it like a physical touch. My pulse spiked.
He didn't smile. Didn't look away. Just held my gaze as he slid onto the stool three down from mine, ordering a whiskey neat in a voice that rumbled through the noise. The bartender handed him the glass, and he swirled it once before taking a sip, his throat working in a way that made my own mouth go dry.
Don't look. Don't you dare.
But my body betrayed me. My knee shifted under the bar, my heel dangling from my toes as if begging to be noticed. When I risked another glance, he was smirking, his lips quirking at the corner like he'd already won.
"Emily," he said suddenly, and my name in his mouth sounded filthy.
I froze. "How do you--?"
He nodded at my wrist. The silver bracelet with my name etched in cursive--a birthday gift from my mother, of all things.
"Clever," I said, forcing a laugh I didn't feel.
"Lucas," he replied, extending a hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and when his thumb brushed my knuckles, heat coiled low in my stomach.
The conversation that followed was a blur of double entendres and lingering glances. He asked what brought me here, and I lied about meeting a friend. He called me out with a laugh. "You're a terrible liar. Your cheeks turn pink."
"And you're a terrible stranger," I shot back, emboldened by the gin. "Buying a girl a drink before interrogating her."
He did. Another gin tonic, though I hadn't finished the first. His knee pressed against mine under the bar, and when I didn't pull away, his hand settled on my thigh. The contact burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
"You're shaking," he noted, fingers flexing.
"Am I?"
He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "You want to know what I think?"
I swallowed. "Do I?"
"I think you're here because you're bored. Because you're tired of being the 'good girl.' And I think..." His lips grazed my earlobe, and I shuddered. "You want someone to take that choice away."
The words should've sent me running. Instead, my nails dug into the barstool. "You're arrogant."
"Accurate," he corrected, pulling back to study me. "Your pupils are blown. Your pulse is racing. And you haven't taken a full breath since I sat down."
He was right. I felt drunk, reckless, alive.
"What now?" I whispered.
His smile was all teeth. "Now, you decide."
---
His apartment was a penthouse loft, all sharp lines and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city's glittering skyline. The elevator ride up had been silent, his hand splayed possessively at the small of my back. When the doors opened directly into his living room, I hesitated.
"Second thoughts?" he asked, stepping close enough that his chest brushed my shoulder.
I turned, my lips inches from his. "Do I look like the type to have second thoughts?"
His laugh was dark. "No. You look like the type to beg."
The first kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision of teeth and tongue, his hands fisting in my hair as he backed me against the wall. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his hips pinning mine. When he finally pulled back, my lips were swollen, my dress halfway down my arms.
"Fuck," he breathed, staring at me like I'd unraveled him. Then his mouth was on my neck, sucking bruises into my skin as his hands shoved the dress to the floor. His teeth scraped my collarbone, and I arched against him, desperate for friction.
"Please--"
"Please what?" He nipped my earlobe. "Use your words, Emily."
