Naya Brooks adjusted her short black dress as the Uber pulled up outside Club Lure 47, one of Velora's most exclusive nightspots. The fabric hugged her curves just right, making her look prettier than she felt. She stepped out carefully, heels unsteady on the cracked sidewalk.
Next to her, Jenny moved with effortless confidence.
She turned, her leather jacket catching the streetlight—slick, bold, dangerous. Her fingers pressed against Naya's arm, firm enough to snap her out of her hesitation.
"Chill, girl. Drop that look," she said, playful but sharp. "We own the night. You promised."
Naya smiled faintly, then exhaled, turning toward the glowing entrance.
It hadn't even been a week since she landed in Velora—and already, Leon had dumped her saying that long-distance was "unrealistic."
She could've stayed in bed, rereading that cruel little message, but Jenny wouldn't let her.
She'd shown up at her door with a glittery clutch, a bottle of wine, and that troublemaking grin.
"You didn't move here to cry over weak men girl. Put on something sinful. We're going out. Let me remind you what magic feels like."
And now, here they were.
Music pulsed through the air, lights flickering like a heartbeat across the club.
The heat wrapped around her skin, the bass a steady rhythm under her ribs.
Jenny caught her hand and pulled her toward the bar, eyes gleaming.
"One drink. One dance. After that, you can drown in your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, rolling her eyes." But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave and you."
Jenny burst out laughing. "Please, babe. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
Naya didn't answer. She just picked up the shot glass and threw it back, letting the fire do the talking.
The first tequila burned sharply. The second dulled the edge of her nerves. By the third, her body relaxed, and the tightness in her chest eased.
Her laughter came more easily now, syncing with the pulse of the music and the shifting energy around her.
She rested on the bar, her fingers circled the glass's edge; the lime's sharpness and salty grit lingered on her tongue.
Jenny had abandoned her perch moments ago, drawn by the beat like a flame to her wild. Now she was on the dance floor—laughing, swaying, fully alive.
Naya let herself breathe. Just for a second.
The crowd pulsed around her, all glitter and sweat and bodies moving to the bass. She was starting to forget Leon. Starting to remember herself.
But just as she was starting to breath again, her gaze drifted toward the velvet ropes of VIP... and stopped cold.
A man was leaning against a column like he owned the oxygen around it—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a midnight-black suit tailored to sin. No tie. The top button of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to whisper danger. A gold watch glinted at his wrist, understated but lethal.
Tattoos peeked out faintly from beneath his cuff—just enough to hint at stories she wasn't ready for. His smirk was slow and deliberate, as if he knew the effect he had—dark, devastating, and unapologetically male. The kind of man her mama had warned her about… and the kind her fantasies had never quite let go of.
Naya felt her temperature spike. She'd seen fine men before but this one? This one rewired her damn nerves.
Her hands curled into fists before her knees betrayed her.
Her breath hitched before her brain caught up — her thumb already lifting the phone.
Snap.
She stared at the photo, a faint smile curling at the corner of her mouth. Her thighs clenched. Her chest rose and fell like she'd just run a race.
Then—something shifted.
She looked up.
And froze.
He was watching her.
Not just glancing—watching. Like he'd felt the weight of her attention land on him and turned to claim it.
His gaze pinned her in place. Slow. Unflinching. Amused. A little cruel.
Like he knew what she'd just done.
Like he liked it.
His mouth curved—half challenge, half invitation.
Then his eyes flicked to the man beside him, and their heads tipped toward her in perfect, wordless sync.
The tattooed man's smirk shifted—no longer lazy. Intentional. Like he'd already chosen her.
He peeled off the column with the kind of smooth, deliberate control that made her chest forget how to rise and fall. Every inch he moved felt personal. Like a slow exhale down her spine.
The lean one followed, laughter still at the corner of his mouth—but his eyes were all over Jenny, drinking her in like he already liked what he saw.
They didn't just walk—they cut through the room like they were made of gravity.
And Naya felt it. Every. Step.
Heat surged through her veins as she tucked her phone away, hands unsteady.
"Jenny," she whispered, urgency sharpening her voice. "We have to go."
Jenny barely turned. "What? We just got—"
Too late.
They were there.
The tattooed one stopped just short of touching distance, gaze steady and low—like he'd unwrapped her with one look and liked the view.
"Hey," said the leaner one with the lazy grin. "Can we join you?"
Jenny arched a brow, playful but wary. "Sure."
His smile revealed a dimple, brief and mischievous. Then he turned slightly, facing Jenny with easy charm. "I'm Dante," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "Figured I'd start with names."
His eyes flicked to Naya just briefly—acknowledging her, but clearly letting his friend handle what came next.
Before either of them could respond to Dante, the one Naya had photographed stepped forward. Measured. Unsmiling but daring
"Enjoying the view?" His voice was smooth, low—velvet laced with gravel, a dangerous caress in the dark.
Naya froze heart pounding. Every nerve screamed to flee. But she met his gaze, refusing to look away.
"Why?" Her voice faltered, caught between fear and fascination.
His brow lifted, a smile playing at the edges like he'd expected that response.
Then his voice dropped, colder now beneath that smooth exterior.
"You took my picture." Not a question. A claim. A challenge.
Her mouth went dry. Words jammed between panic and pounding bass.
"I… I can delete it," she whispered, barely steady.
He stepped in, close enough that the air shifted. His presence thickened everything around her. He tilted his head, dark eyes locking onto hers.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His gaze traveled down her body like a slow burn—appraising, hungry, unapologetic—before snapping back up.
"I want to know why you took it."
Jenny stepped in, her hand brushing Naya's, grounding her. Her eyes searched her friend's face.
Naya inhaled, trembling, and gently pulled away from Jenny's touch.
And something inside her—something tired of playing safe—whispered: Answer him.
She let the tequila speak.
"I guess I needed proof," she said. For a second, neither of them moved. The music thumped around them, but between their eyes, something else pulsed—sharp, slow, undeniable.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
His gaze sharpened—eyes narrowing like he was seeing her for the first time, like her honesty had reached beneath whatever armor he wore.
He studied her, visibly surprised. Not because she'd said it—but because she meant it.
And for a second, the air between them changed. No bass, no flashing lights—just the hum of something raw. Real.
Then he leaned in, just a fraction—close enough for his cologne to wrap around her like sin made scent. Spice. Smoke. Something expensive.
"Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."