Yes. For me.
The club hums with Friday night energy when she arrives—jazz trio on stage, cocktail shakers working overtime, the sweet tone of saxophone filling every corner. But the crowd parts like magic when Amelia walks in. She’s wearing a deep emerald dress that clings to her curves, thin straps revealing constellations of freckles across her shoulders.
I guide her through the crowd, my hand on the small of her back. Several patrons turn to watch her pass.Mine, I think savagely, tightening my grip.
“Best table in the house,” I say, seating her in a secluded corner with a perfect view of both the stage and the bar. I’ve arranged everything—the wine is already breathing, and a special menu has been prepared. I watch her eyes take it all in, pleasure flowing across her face.
“You see things differently,” I say, pouring her wine. “I want to know how you see my world.”
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Maybe I’m observing you in your natural habitat.”
Halfway through our meal, a commotion erupts at the bar. A drunk businessman, red-faced and swaying, grabs our newest server by the wrist.
“I said another fucking drink,” he slurs, yanking her closer.
I’m across the room in seconds. One hand on his shoulder,thumb pressing a pressure point. My voice low, for his ears alone.
“You’re embarrassing yourself. Let her go, walk outside, and the car I’m calling will take you home. Or make this difficult, and you’ll regret it for weeks.”
The businessman releases the server instantly, apparently convinced by something in my eyes.
When I return to our table, Amelia’s watching me, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated.
“You’re good at controlling people,” she observes, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Knowing exactly what they need. What they want.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing to you?” I ask. “Controlling you?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes meet mine. “But I think I like it.”
The air between us crackles.
I slide back into my seat, feeling the heat of her gaze following my every move. The jazz trio begins a slow, seductive number—a perfect backdrop to the tension building between us. My fingers brush hers as I refill her wine glass, the brief contact sending a current through me.
“That’s quite an observation,” I say, leaning closer. The candlelight catches the gold flecks in her amber eyes. “What else do you see when you look at me, Amelia?”
She takes a deliberate sip of wine, leaving a crimson stain on her bottom lip that I ache to taste.
“I see someone who watches from the shadows. Someone who understands the darkness in beautiful things.” Her voice drops lower. “Like my paintings.”
“Is that what drew you to me? The darkness?”
“Partly.” She tilts her head. “But also, how you listen. How you really see me.”
The sultry notes of the saxophone wind around us likesmoke. I reach across the table, tracing patterns on her inner wrist with my thumb. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.
“Dance with me,” I say, not a question but not quite a command.
When she stands, the emerald fabric of her dress catches the light, transforming her into something otherworldly. I lead her to a small space near the stage where a few other couples sway to the music. My hand finds the small of her back, drawing her against me until I can feel the heat of her body through the thin layers separating us.
“The first time I saw your work,” I whisper against her ear, “I knew you understood something essential about the world that most people miss.”
Her fingers curl against the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
“And what’s that?” she asks, her breath warm against my throat.
“That beauty and terror exist in the same moment.” I guide her through a slow turn, my lips brushing her temple. “That the most exquisite experiences happen at the edge of darkness.”
Her body melts against mine as we sway to the music, the curve of her waist fitting perfectly in my palm. The scent of her—paint and jasmine and warm skin—fills my lungs with every breath. I guide her through another turn, bringing her back against my chest harder this time.
