There was something about the club that felt… expensive.
It wasn't just in the obvious way; the velvet-lined walls, the dim amber lighting, the air heavy with money and cologne, but in the way people moved inside it. They moved slow. Confident. Like nothing here had ever been denied to them.
I noticed it the moment we stepped in.
And then I noticed him.
While the rest of the men we were introduced to seated on the sofa laughed, drank, and admired the women around them, he didn't move. He sat back, legs spread comfortably, one arm draped over the backrest like the space belonged to him. Like everyone in it did.
And his eyes—
God.
Those piercing blue eyes locked onto me with zero shame, roaming my body slowly, deliberately, like he had already decided something about me and was simply waiting for me to catch up.
I'd been stared at before. Plenty of times. Working night shifts at a bar made that unavoidable. Men stared when they were drunk, when they were bored, when they thought a few extra dollars entitled them to more than a smile.
But this was different.
This wasn't careless hunger.
This was calculated.
It was ownership.
Quincy leaned in close, her voice brushing my ear over the music. "Maddy," she said, breathless with laughter, "that man has not stopped looking at you since we walked in."
I didn't look away from him. "I noticed."
"Noticed?" She scoffed, giving my back a playful smack as she danced. "Girl, he looks like he's about to eat you alive."
Maybe that should've unsettled me.
Instead, heat curled low in my stomach, low and dangerous.
Carlos, Quincy's rich, suspiciously-married invitation for the night, handed us shots before pulling her onto the dance floor. The music shifted, the bass deep and insistent, and I let my body move with it, hips swaying, hands sliding up my sides.
Still, I felt his gaze.
Burning.
Watching.
Waiting.
I danced harder because of it.
I knew what I looked like. The rose-gold silk dress barely clung to me, dipped low enough to expose more than a decent amount of cleavage, open at the back, short enough that I could feel the cool air against my thighs every time I moved. My hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, makeup flawless. It wasn't bar-shift flawless, but tonight flawless.
Tonight, I wasn't serving drinks. I wasn't counting tips or calculating rent in my head.
Tonight, I was being watched.
And when I finally glanced back toward the sofa, his eyes were still on me.
Unwavering.
Something inside me snapped into place.
I wanted another drink.
I wanted to see what would happen if I didn't look away.
So I walked back to the table, poured myself a glass, and deliberately sat down just a few spaces away from him. Close enough that I could feel his presence. Close enough that my thigh brushed his when I crossed my legs.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
I let my lips linger on the rim of the glass before finally taking a sip. Then I turned my head and met his gaze.
"You're staring." I said.
For a split second, surprise flickered across his face but it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Excuse me?"
His voice was deep. It was calm. Controlled. The kind that didn't need volume to command attention.
"I said," I repeated, slower, firmer, "you're staring. Shamelessly."
A corner of his mouth twitched, like he found that amusing. "No one talks to me like that."
"Well," I said, holding his gaze without flinching, "I guess I just did."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in irritation, but interest. Like I'd just turned a situation he thought he understood into something unpredictable.
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," I continued, my voice dropping instinctively. "I felt your eyes on me the moment I walked in. When I danced. When I moved. You stayed right here, watching, because you didn't need to chase. You look like the kind of man who's used to things coming to him."
Silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
Then his hand lifted, fingers catching my chin, tilting my face up.
I sucked in a breath before I could stop myself.
"Well," he murmured, eyes darkening, "don't you have a foul mouth."
"You'd be surprised how foul it can be," I said, refusing to look away.
His grip shifted from my chin to my neck. It felt light, testing and deliberate. It didn't feel tight enough to hurt, but just enough to remind me that he could.
"And what makes you think I had sinful intentions toward you?" He asked.
I clasped my thighs together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much that single touch affected me. "Because I'm used to men like you looking at me. The difference is… with you, I don't feel offended."
"What do you feel, then?"
My pulse thudded loud in my ears. I reached up, curling my fingers around his wrist.
"What do you think?" I breathed out, holding his gaze.
His jaw tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed.
That was all the answer either of us needed.
"Come dance." I said, already standing, already pulling him with me.
To my surprise, he followed.
On the dance floor, he didn't pretend to be polite. One smooth movement and my back was pressed to his chest, his hands settling on my hips like they belonged there. The height difference alone made my breath hitch.
I moved against him deliberately.
Slow.
Provoking.
His hands explored, from my waist to my hips to my thighs, until one slid up, squeezing my breast, bare skin under silk. I gasped softly, arching back against him, my fingers clutching at his neck.
The club blurred.
The music. The lights. The heat.
When he spun me around and kissed me, it wasn't tentative. It was claiming. His mouth devoured mine like he'd already decided this was happening, and I let him because God help me, I wanted to.
By the time we pulled apart, we were both breathing hard.
His forehead rested against mine.
"Come back to my place." He said quietly.
I should've thought about Monday.
About the email sitting unread on my laptop at home.
About the job I desperately needed.
About how I couldn't afford distractions or mistakes.
Instead, I smiled.
"I thought you'd never ask."