The club pulsed like a heartbeat. Low lights. Red velvet curtains. Music that slithered through the air like smoke. Everyone there had something to hide, that was the rule of Velvet Hour. No names. No questions. Only secrets traded through glances and touch.
She walked in wearing black, not just a dress, but a dare. Her perfume lingered before she spoke, before she even looked at anyone. Every man in the room turned, but her eyes landed on only one.
He sat in the corner, nursing a glass of bourbon, watching her like a sin he'd been warned about but couldn't resist committing twice.
She slid into the seat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. "You come here often?" she teased.
He smirked, slow and dangerous. "Only when I'm hoping to get in trouble."
"Then tonight's your lucky night."
The air thickened between them, heavy with curiosity and something darker. They didn't need names; the game worked better without them.
When he reached out, his fingers brushed hers, and a spark leapt, the kind that didn't fade, only deepened. Her lips parted just slightly, an unspoken invitation.
Minutes later, they were upstairs, the private lounge hidden behind velvet ropes and secrets. The bass from below trembled through the floor, a rhythm that matched the wild beat of her heart.
"Take this off," she whispered, her hand sliding up his chest to his collar.
He didn't hesitate. The sound of fabric giving way filled the silence. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his shoulders, memorizing him like a language she'd forgotten.
When he kissed her, it wasn't soft. It was the kind of kiss that demanded to be remembered, the kind that burned itself into memory. She met him with equal fire, matching every touch, every sigh.
The world beyond the red curtains disappeared. There was only skin, breath, and heat, two strangers losing themselves in the only moment that felt real.
After, they lay tangled in shadows, the music below now a distant echo. Her lipstick marked his throat; his hands left invisible fingerprints on her soul.
"Tell me something I shouldn't know," she whispered into the dark.
He turned his head, smiling faintly. "I'm married."
She didn't flinch. "I know."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then she leaned in, her voice a whisper against his lips. "No saints here, remember?"
He kissed her again, harder this time, like confession and punishment in one.
When dawn finally broke, she was gone. Only the scent of her perfume lingered, velvet and sin, and on the table beside his drink, a single lipstick-stained napkin that read:
"You'll think of me whenever you lie."
He did. Every night.
Because some sins aren't meant to be forgiven, only repeated.
And he did repeat it.
Three nights later, he found himself back at Velvet Hour, though he told himself it was just for the bourbon, just for the music, just for the memory of something he shouldn't want. But lies are best told in mirrors, and his reflection looked hungrier than honest.
She wasn't there at first. The same red glow painted the walls, the same smoke curled like secrets in the air, but without her, the place felt hollow, a stage with no leading act. He sat in the same corner, ordered the same drink, and told himself to forget.
Then she walked in.
Black again, but this time silk instead of velvet. The fabric clung to her like desire had hands. She saw him immediately, not a flicker of surprise, not even a smile, just that same calm acknowledgment, as if she'd been expecting him all along.
He rose, meeting her halfway through the haze of perfume and temptation.
"Did you miss me?" she asked, voice low, mocking.
"I tried not to."
She tilted her head. "And failed beautifully, I assume."
He chuckled under his breath. "Something like that."
She leaned closer, the edge of her mouth brushing his ear. "Then don't fight it tonight."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command disguised as mercy.
They didn't go upstairs this time. They slipped behind the curtain near the back, a hidden booth barely lit, the kind of place where the shadows did most of the talking. Her hands were on him before he could think, her lips tracing the pulse in his neck, slow, deliberate, as if she was memorizing every reason he shouldn't be there.
"You shouldn't be doing this," he murmured.
"I shouldn't be doing a lot of things," she said against his skin. "That's never stopped me."
When their mouths met again, it was deeper, not the heat of strangers anymore, but the fire of two people who already knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to break.
Her laugh trembled against his mouth, half pleasure, half warning. "You taste like regret."
"And you," he breathed, "taste like reason enough."
The curtain swayed faintly as the music below changed, a slower rhythm, heavier bass, every beat syncing with the pull of her breath. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her nails grazed his jaw. The room smelled like bourbon and want.
When it was over, they sat in silence, bodies close but hearts miles apart. She traced the rim of his glass with one finger, not looking at him.
"Someone will get hurt," she said softly.
He smiled without humor. "Someone always does."
Her gaze finally lifted to meet his. "And yet here we are."
He didn't answer. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't sound like confession.
She stood first, straightening her dress, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You'll look for me again," she said. "Even when you promise you won't."
He laughed quietly. "You sound sure of that."
"I am," she replied, leaning down to press one last kiss to his mouth, slow, final, dangerous. "Because you've already made me your favorite sin."
When she walked away, he didn't stop her. Couldn't.
And when he returned home hours later, the scent of her still clung to his skin, impossible to wash off. His wife was asleep, one arm draped over his side of the bed. Guilt curled in his chest, cold and sharp, but beneath it was something worse, the ache of wanting her again.
He lay awake till morning, staring at the ceiling, her words echoing in his mind.
"You'll look for me again."
She was right.
And when the next storm rolled over the city, he found himself back at Velvet Hour, drawn not by lust or loneliness, but by the unbearable pull of recognition of seeing his own corruption reflected perfectly in someone else's eyes.
No saints here.
Not him.
Not her.
Not anymore.