I nod anyway.
Because I’m an idiot.
“Lola…” I start. “She said you were just back from?—”
“Don’t talk about my sister,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Not right now.”
Something about the way he says it—low and final and coated in steel—makes my stomach drop and my thighs press together on instinct.
He leans in, just enough that his mouth brushes the shell of my ear, and holy fuck, I have never wanted anything more than I want to hear what comes out of it next.
“This place,” he murmurs, voice scraping down my spine, “isn’t what you think.”
“Then tell me,” I whisper.
A beat.
Then another.
He leans back, eyes scanning me like he’s weighing something.
Then—he offers his hand.
Not a word. Just the gesture.
A silent choice.
My chest rises. Falls.
And I take it.
His fingers close around mine—bigger, warmer, rougher than I expected, like heat and power and consequence wrapped in one perfect touch.
He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t rush. Just turns and starts walking through the club, and I follow.
The floor thumps underfoot—bass and sex and secrets vibrating in my bones.
He leads me past the bar, past the velvet ropes, past the couples pressed into corners and shadows and bodies.
Deeper.
Until we reach a black archway I hadn’t seen before. No sign. No light. Just a heavy curtain and the promise of things I’m not sure I’m ready for.
He pauses. Looks back at me.
“This is your out, butterfly.”
I blink up at him.
“Out?”
“If you come in here with me,” he says, “you don’t get to pretend you didn’t know better.”
My heart stutters.
And still?—
“I’m not pretending.”
