Chapter 9 IZZY
IZZY
SEVEN YEARS AGO
The club pulses with bass so deep it rattles the bones in my chest. Lights flash across the dance floor in bursts of neon and shadow, bodies moving together in that messy, chaotic rhythm that only exists after midnight.
I am nineteen and feeling immortal.
Which, in hindsight, should have been my first clue the night was going to go sideways.
Sweat slicks my skin as I dance, my hair sticking to the back of my neck. The music vibrates through the floor, through my ribs, through the soles of my boots. It feels like the whole room is alive and breathing.
And for a few minutes, I forget about everything else.
No rent.
No bills.
No disappearing father and exhausted mother working double shifts, while I’m out here enjoying the music, motion and the feeling that tonight belongs to me.
That illusion lasts about thirty seconds.
A hand clamps around my wrist—hard.
I turn and find a guy leaning way too close. Mid-twenties maybe, shirt half unbuttoned, breath sour with beer and bad decisions.
"Come on, babe," he slurs. "Let's find somewhere quiet."
He starts dragging me toward the back of the club.
My brain switches from fun mode to survival mode instantly.
"No," I say, twisting my arm. "Let go."
He laughs like that's adorable.
He shoves a door open and pulls me into a private room. The music muffles behind the walls, turning into a dull thud. The door slams shut behind us.
And suddenly it's very clear I'm alone with someone who does not care what I want.
His hands grab at my shirt.
"Stop," I say sharply.
He pushes me against the wall.
"Relax," he mutters.
My stomach drops.
I shove at his chest harder. "I said stop."
He laughs again.
The door opens, and that is when he suddenly disappears.
One second he's in front of me, the next he's flying sideways like someone hit the fast-forward button on physics.
He slams into the door so hard it bursts open and he tumbles straight out into the hallway.
I blink.
Then I turn.
And that's when I see him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Perfectly tailored suit that costs more than my entire wardrobe. Dark hair, strong jaw, eyes that land on me with a kind of quiet intensity that makes the air in the room feel heavier.
He looks older. Not old—God, no—but older than anyone else here. Forties maybe.
Which somehow only makes him more interesting.
"You alright?" he asks.
His voice is low. Calm. Like he just swatted a fly instead of throwing a full-grown man across a room.
I straighten my shirt, adrenaline buzzing through me.
"Better now."
His eyes sweep over me once. Not in the sleazy way the other guy was looking at me, but like he’s checking I’m okay. Lingering, but protective.
Which is not a combination I usually associate with men in nightclubs.
“Want me to call a cab for you?”
“No.” I shake my head, pushing hair out of my face. “I set out to have fun tonight. I’m not gonna let one asshole get in the way of that.”
Something flickers across his mouth. Not quite a smile. “What’s the occasion?”
“My birthday.” I grin. “Twenty-one today.”
His eyebrow lifts. “That’s a lie.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Nineteen. Happy?”
“Club owner wouldn’t be.”
“Then it's a good thing he's not here,” I say lightly. “Whoever he is.”
The man studies me for a second. That faint smirk appears again. It makes him look extremely kissable, which is not a thought I expected to have about a mysterious possibly-dangerous older man who just body-checked a creep into another dimension.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Izzy.” I tilt my head. “What’s yours?”
Surprise flickers in his eyes, quick and gone. "You really don't know?"
“Why? Are you famous or something?”
“Or something,” he says, looking amused. “But you can call me Nico."
Determined to still enjoy my big day, I push the memories of the last minutes aside. I step closer, the air between us thick. "Nico. Dance with me."
"I don't dance."
"We're alone. I won't tell." I grab his hand, pulling him into the center of the room. The music filters in softer now, a slow thrum.
He resists for a second, then lets me guide him. Soon, I have my hands on his shoulders, and his settling lightly on my hips. We move together, simple steps, bodies syncing without effort.
"You shouldn't be alone with a man like me," he says after a minute, his grip firm but controlled.
"Why not?"
"Better you don't know."
I laugh softly. "You're not much of a talker."
"I admit that." His words hang heavy, like he is a guy who prefers action over chat. And right now, he holds back—desire simmering under the surface, kept in check.
We keep swaying, drifting nearer until our chests nearly touch. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me in just a fraction. Heat builds between us, electric.
There’s tension in him. I can feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on my waist. In the way his body holds back even while the space between us disappears.
He wants this.
He just doesn't think he should.
Which, obviously, makes it about a hundred times more interesting.
"I'm no saint," he murmurs finally. "Go now. Before I do something we'll both regret."
I look up at him. "Will I?" I ask softly. "Regret it?"
"Definitely."
I don’t go.
I stay exactly where I am.
In his arms, his breath a whisper away from mine.
When he leans down and kisses me, I let him. When his mouth turns hungry and demanding, I kiss back, hands fisting in his shirt.
And that’s how his restraint finally snaps.
He backs me up to the divan, his body pressing against mine with every step until my calves hit the edge. He guides me down onto the soft cushions, his hands firm on my shoulders.
I land with a soft bounce, looking up at him as he towers over me, eyes dark with hunger.
His fingers move to my jeans, popping the button open slowly, the zipper rasping down inch by inch.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs them off my hips, pulling my panties along with them in one smooth motion.
The cool air hits my bare skin, making me shiver as he slides the fabric down my legs and tosses it aside.
I gasp when he drops to his knees between my thighs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider. His breath fans hot over my exposed pussy, teasing the sensitive folds.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, before leaning in.
His tongue drags flat and slow along my slit, from bottom to top, pressing firm against me. I arch my back off the cushions, a moan escaping as he circles my clit with the tip of his tongue, deliberate and unhurried.
He laps at me steadily, building the heat with each pass, his mouth covering me completely now.
“So fucking wet already,” he growls against my skin, the vibration sending a jolt through me.
He sucks on my clit gently at first, lips sealing around it, then increases the pressure, drawing it between his teeth just enough to make me whimper.
His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into the flesh to keep me spread open for him, thumbs brushing the insides where I'm most sensitive.
The pleasure coils low in my belly, tightening with every flick and suck. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there as my hips buck up toward his face.
“That's it,” he encourages me, the words muffled but clear, pushing me closer. “Come for me, Izzy.”
And that just fucking does it.
Waves of heat crash over me, and I shatter, my body shaking as I cry out his name, pussy clenching around nothing while he keeps licking through my orgasm, drawing it out until I'm panting and spent.
But I want more. I’m so hungry for him, I could die.
“Please,” I moan.
“Please what, Izzy?”
"Fuck me.” I’m not making any sense right now, but I don’t care. “Or let me suck you off. Want you inside me. Don’t care how.”
It’s too dark to see much, but I could swear his pupils grew wide at the sound of those words.
He rises to his feet, hands going to his belt, the metal buckle clinking as he unfastens it. But I push myself up before he gets further, my legs still trembling.
I kneel in front of him on the cushions, reaching for his pants and yanking the zipper down.
I shove them and his boxers to his thighs, and his cock springs out, thick and veined, the head already glistening.
My hand wraps around the base, feeling the heat and the pulse of him as I stroke upward once, slow and firm.
“Go slow,” he growls. “You’ll choke if you’re not careful.”
“Want to,” I slur.
He lets out a little laugh at that. “Impatient little princess.”
I lean in and take the tip into my mouth, tongue pressing against the underside as I suck. He groans deep in his chest, one hand fisting in my hair, guiding me without forcing.
I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting the salt of his pre-cum, then slide down further, taking more of him inch by inch until he hits the back of my throat. I bob my head, hollowing my cheeks, hand twisting at the base on each upstroke.
“Goddamn, your mouth feels good,” he mutters, hips twitching forward slightly. “Suck it harder, just like that.”
I do, increasing the pace, my free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently as I work him deeper. His breathing roughens, breaths coming in sharp bursts. I can already taste him, can’t wait to feel him come down my throat, to swallow him all down—
But then he tugs me off with a growl, his cock slipping free with a wet pop.
“Wha—” I blurt, but he’s already yanking me up by the arms.
“You said you wanted me to fuck you,” he whispers, all roughness and heat. “Have you changed your mind, principessa?”
That single word in Italian nearly undoes me. Princess. “No,” I moan. “I want it. Want you.”
The second I say that, Nico pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands settle on my waist, lifting me just enough to position me over his cock. I lower myself slowly, the head nudging my entrance, slick from before.