Christian was danger personified, a man carved from midnight with a smirk that could unravel a saint. Six-foot-three of lean, predatory muscle, his hair fell in a reckless wave over piercing silver eyes that stripped me bare with a glance. His hands, calloused from years of illicit dealings, bore the scars of a past he never spoke of, but I felt them in the way he gripped me— possessive, punishing, like I was his to break. Beneath that rough exterior simmered a torment he buried deep, a hunger for control that bordered on obsession. I knew he was trouble, a kingpin in this den of vice, but the forbidden pull of him was a drug I couldn’t quit. Every smirk, every brush of his fingers, was a taunt, a promise of ruin I craved to taste again.
I spotted him across the room, lounging against a scarred velvet booth, his long legs sprawled wide, a tumbler dangling from his fingers. He watched the crowd like a wolf surveying prey, but the moment his gaze locked on mine, the air charged with a current so potent it stole my breath. My black satin dress clung to every curve, the plunging neckline a deliberate invitation, and I felt his stare rake over my exposed skin—my full breasts, the swell of my hips—like a physical caress. I shifted, letting the fabric ride higher on my thighs, and his jaw tightened, a flash of raw hunger darkening his features. He didn’t move, didn’t beckon, but I felt the command in that look: Come to me, or I’ll drag you.
I crossed the floor, hips swaying with each deliberate step, the clack of my stiletto heels a staccato challenge against the sticky tiles. The crowd parted instinctively, sensing the tension coiling between us, a live wire sparking with every inch I closed. Up close, his scent hit me—leather, smoke, and something darkly masculine that made my core clench. “You’re late, Angelica,” he drawled, voice a low growl that vibrated through me, each syllable dripping with accusation and promise. “Thought you’d run scared after last time.”
Last time. The memory seared through me—his loft, the cold steel of handcuffs biting into my wrists as he pinned me to the wall, his cock driving into my pussy with ruthless precision while a vibrator buzzed against my clit, edging me until I screamed his name. He’d owned every inch of me, his dirty whispers branding my skin: “You’re mine to fuck, mine to break.” I hadn’t run. I’d burned for him since, my body a live wire of need only he could spark.
“Not scared,” I shot back, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, my lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Just deciding if you’re worth the trouble.” A lie. I was already wet, my thong soaked beneath the dress, the ache in my cunt a insistent drumbeat demanding his touch.
His hand shot out, fingers curling around my wrist with bruising force, yanking me onto his lap. My gasp was swallowed by the thump of the music as I straddled him, my dress riding up to bare the lace of my stockings. His erection pressed hard against my core through his jeans, a thick, throbbing promise that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “Don’t play coy, Ang,” he growled, his other hand sliding up my thigh, rough fingertips teasing the edge of my thong. “I can smell how much you want this. Your pussy’s begging for my dick.”