Chapter 1 #2
"Earth to Rory." Chloe waves her hand in front of my face. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"She looks like she's seen something," Tiana says, following my gaze. Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Oh wow."
"What?" Chloe turns, scans the VIP section. "What are we—holy shit. Okay. Okay, I take back everything I said about you being picky. If that's your type, I completely understand why college boys did nothing for you."
He's still looking at me. Hasn't looked away once.
Heat spreads lower, settles between my legs.
I shift on the bar stool and feel it—wetness.
Actual wetness soaking into my underwear, and I haven't even spoken to him.
Haven't heard his voice. Don't know his name.
But my body's responding like he just whispered every filthy thing he wants to do to me directly into my ear.
I should look away. Should act like I don't care, like I haven't noticed him noticing me. But I can't. It's like we're having a conversation without words, and I'm saying I see you and he's saying I know and underneath it all there's this question neither of us is asking out loud.
What would happen if we stopped pretending we're not doing this?
"How old do you think he is?" Tiana whispers.
"Old enough to know what he's doing," Chloe answers. "Unlike every fumbling idiot you've dated."
"I should look away."
"You really should."
I don't.
He shifts, just slightly, leans back in his seat like he's got all the time in the world.
There's something about the way he moves—controlled, deliberate.
Like a predator who's never had to chase anything because everything comes to him eventually.
The jacket pulls tight across his chest, and even from here I can see he's built.
Not gym-rat built, but the kind of solid muscle that comes from actual work, actual violence.
He looks like he could break someone in half and not break a sweat doing it.
The thought should scare me.
Instead, I get wetter.
What is wrong with me?
The woman next to him says something, touches his arm. He doesn't even glance at her. Just keeps those dark eyes on me, and there's something in them now—heat, hunger, the kind of raw want that makes my thighs clench together.
I'm throbbing. Actually throbbing, pulse beating between my legs like a second heartbeat, and all he's done is look at me. If he touched me right now, I think I'd come apart. Just disintegrate into a puddle of need and shame and holy-shit-is-this-what-I've-been-missing.
"You're blushing," Tiana says, delighted.
"I'm not—"
"You are definitely blushing. I don't think I've ever seen you blush. Not even when Marcus tried to serenade you."
"That's because Marcus made me want to die, not—" I stop myself, grab my drink, drain the rest of it. The vodka doesn't help. If anything, it makes the heat worse, makes me brave and stupid and dangerously close to doing something insane like walking up there and climbing into his lap.
Chloe's grinning like Christmas came early. "Rory. Hey. Look at me."
I tear my eyes away from him, and it's actually painful. Chloe's face is pure mischief.
"Go talk to him."
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"Because I—because that's not—" I flounder, trying to find a reason that doesn't sound completely insane. "I don't just walk up to strange men in clubs."
"You've never had a reason to before. Now you do?"
"He could be anyone. A serial killer. A—"
"A really hot older guy who's been eye-fucking you for the past five minutes?" Chloe supplies. "Yeah. Terrible fate. However, will you survive."
My phone buzzes. All three of us jump, then laugh, nerves turning into something lighter. I check the screen. Dad. Of course.
Call me when you get home. We need to discuss your return.
The reminder is a bucket of ice water. Right. Return home. Get married off. Become someone's wife, someone's possession, someone's anything-but-mine.
Four days of freedom left.
I look back at the VIP section, and the silver-haired man is still there, still watching. But there's something in his expression now that wasn't there before. Something that looks almost like... recognition. Like he's seeing something in me that he didn't expect to find.
My underwear is ruined. I can feel how wet I am, how ready, and it's mortifying and thrilling and I've never wanted anything as badly as I want to know what his hands feel like.
I could talk to him. Just walk up there and—
"Don't overthink it," Tiana says softly. She knows me too well, knows I'm already building a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea. "For once in your life, Aurora, just do something without calculating the risks."
"That's literally the opposite of what they taught us in accounting."
"This isn't accounting. This is..." she gestures vaguely at the VIP section, at him, at whatever this electricity is between us. "This is living."
The song changes. Something slower, heavier, all bass and dark promises. Around us, couples start pulling each other closer on the dance floor.
He stands.
My heart kicks into overdrive.
He's tall. Taller than I thought, probably six-two or six-three, and the way he moves—God.
There's this controlled power in it, like every gesture is intentional, nothing wasted.
Muscles shift under that expensive suit.
He says something to the person next to him, doesn't wait for a response, and starts walking.
Toward the stairs.
Toward the main floor.
Toward me.
"Oh shit," Chloe breathes. "Oh shit, he's coming over here."
"What do I do?" My voice comes out higher than normal. My nipples are so hard they hurt. The throbbing between my legs is distracting, demanding, making it hard to think.
"You breathe," Tiana says. "And you smile. And you see what happens."
But he doesn't come over. He stops at the edge of the dance floor, hands in his pockets, and just... looks at me. Like he's waiting for something. Like this is my decision, my choice, and he's going to respect whatever I pick.
Come here. Don't come here. Your call.
The bucket list burns in my mind. Number seven. The one thing I haven't been able to check off, not because I haven't tried, but because I've never found someone who made me want to try hard enough.
Willingly lose my virginity to someone I actually choose.
I don't know him. Don't know if he's good or bad or dangerous or safe. But standing here, feeling his eyes on me like a physical touch, feeling my body respond in ways I didn't know it could, I know one thing for sure:
I want him.
Maybe that's enough.
"I'm going to regret this," I say.
"Probably," Chloe agrees, grinning.
I stand, smooth down my dress, and take one step toward him.
He smiles.
It's not a nice smile. There’s nothing nice about that smile.
It's the kind of smile that promises trouble, the kind that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking and he's thinking it too. My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, between my legs where I'm so wet I'm surprised it's not running down my thighs.
I take another step.
Then someone grabs his arm—a man in a dark suit, urgent, saying something I can't hear over the music. The silver-haired man's expression changes completely, becomes something colder, harder. He glances at me one more time, and I see it in his eyes:
Not now. Not yet.
How do I know this? Even if I ask myself. I don’t freaking know. The margarita must be getting to me.
He turns, follows the other man back toward the VIP section, and just like that, the moment shatters.
I stand there on the edge of the dance floor, dress clinging to my suddenly cold skin, nipples still hard, underwear still soaked, watching him disappear into a private room. The door closes. He doesn't look back.
"What the hell was that?" Chloe appears at my elbow.
"I have no idea."
But I'm shaking. Actually shaking, like my body can't process what just happened—or didn't happen. It's been five minutes. Less. We didn't even speak. But I feel like something fundamental just shifted in my universe, and I don't know if I'm terrified or exhilarated.
Maybe both.
"Come on," Tiana says gently, taking my arm. "Let's get out of here."
I let them lead me toward the exit, but I can't stop looking back at that closed door. Can't stop wondering who he is, why he looked at me like that, if I'll ever see him again. Can't stop feeling the wetness between my legs, the proof that my body knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
I'm not broken.
I just needed the right man to prove it.
The night air hits me when we step outside, cool and sharp after the heat of the club. My Uber's already pulling up. Chloe hugs me tight, whispers, "Best night ever," and even though nothing actually happened, I can't disagree.
In the car, I pull out my phone. Stare at the bucket list again.
Number seven's still unchecked.
But for the first time in four years, I think I might actually know what kind of man I'm looking for.
The kind who looks at me like I'm the only person in the room worth looking at.
The kind who can make me wet with just a glance.