The club was alive—sweat, bass, and bodies moving like desire was the only language they spoke. Lights strobed across the room, casting shadows that danced over bare skin and drunken lust. People weren't here to fall in love. They came to forget, to crave, to touch.
And in the center of it all, she walked in.
A woman in a fire-red dress, tight enough to tease, short enough to start rumors, and dangerous enough to silence an entire room. Her golden hair curled down her back in waves that shimmered beneath the neon glow. Eyes sharp, lips painted sinfully dark, and heels that announced every step like a challenge.
She didn't glance around for approval. She wasn't looking for anyone.
But he saw her.
Alec Virelli.
Sitting in the exclusive VIP lounge with a glass of aged bourbon in hand, he looked like the kind of man you didn't approach unless you wanted to lose something—your pride, your mind, or your clothes. Jet black suit, red silk tie, hair neatly styled, jawline carved by the gods. Eyes like midnight storms and a smirk that knew too many secrets.
He watched her like a wolf sizing up a flame.
And she felt it—down her spine, in her thighs, behind her ribs. The way his eyes pinned her like he already had her undressed in his mind.
She didn't run from it.
She walked straight toward him.
No hesitation. No permission. Just confidence poured into curves and wrapped in velvet.
The bouncers didn't stop her.
The women already sitting near him moved without protest.
And Alec?
He didn't move. He waited.
Like he knew.
She reached his table and tilted her head, her voice smooth as silk, playful as a blade. "Is this seat taken?"
Alec leaned back slightly, letting his gaze roam—legs, lips, fire in her eyes. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Depends. Are you planning to waste my time?"
She let out a breathless laugh, then climbed onto his lap without another word.
His eyes narrowed. Not in protest—but in approval.
She straddled him in the middle of the club like it was the most natural thing in the world. One hand pressed to his chest, the other tracing the edge of his jaw. Her thighs hugged his, her body soft and firm against him. She smelled like danger and vanilla. Like sex and secrets.
"You don't even know my name," she whispered near his ear, her lips brushing the edge of it like a tease.
"I don't need it," he murmured, his voice low, rich, dark.
And then she kissed him.
No hesitation. No nerves. Just heat.
Her mouth collided with his like they were already lovers. His hand gripped her thigh, then her waist, then her back. His tongue met hers like a war, and the entire world around them blurred.
People stared.
No one mattered.
She rolled her hips slightly. He groaned into her mouth.
"What are you doing to me?" he muttered.
"Whatever you'll let me."
His hand slid up her spine, her dress rising with every second. "Careful," he warned. "I don't do soft."
She bit his lower lip and whispered, "Good. I don't do safe."
---
The Night That Followed
It started in the backseat of his car—legs tangled, breath stolen, lips swollen.
By the time they reached his penthouse, her dress was halfway off and his tie was undone. Neither of them spoke on the elevator. They just stared at each other, breathing heavy, drunk on anticipation.
The second the doors opened, he shoved her against the nearest wall, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nails dug into his back. She moaned his name like she was starving for it.
They didn't even make it to the bedroom.
First the wall. Then the kitchen counter. Then finally—finally—the bed, where he worshipped her like a man breaking his own rules.
He kissed her thighs like he was memorizing them.
He whispered filth into her ear and made her beg for more.
She scratched his chest, left marks on his neck, screamed into his mouth when she came.
Again.
And again.
There was no love. No promises.
Only heat.
Only obsession.
Only them.
---
The Morning After
The sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the room in soft gold. Alec opened his eyes slowly, blinked at the light, and reached across the bed for the warm body that had haunted his dreams all night.
But the bed was empty.
His eyes sharpened instantly. He sat up, chest bare, sheets tangled around his hips. He scanned the room.
No dress.
No shoes.
No trace.
Just a faint perfume on the pillow—and a red lipstick stain on his collar.
She was gone.
No name.
No number.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
And for the first time in a long damn time… Alec Virelli felt something. A strange ache in his chest. A twinge of annoyance.
And an obsession taking root.
He didn't know her name.
But he'd remember her body. Her voice. Her taste.
He would find her.
And when he did…
She was going to f*cking regret walking away.