I clock it all automatically—the way attention follows him, the way he doesn’t slow or soften under it. He doesn’t preen or shy away from it. He simplyexists, confident enough to let the hunger land where it lands.
A guy near the bar nudges his friend and murmurs something I can’t hear. Another watches Luke pass with the kind of look that’s halfway between appreciation and desire.
My jaw tightens before I bother to tell myself not to care.
Luke glances back again, catching me watching the watchers. His smile turns knowing, daring me to do something about it. I close the distance between us with one step, then another, letting my hand settle at his lower back—not possessive enough to cause a scene, but clear. Deliberate. Mine-for-tonight clear.
The looks don’t stop, but they hesitate now.
He leans back just enough to feel it, the corner of his mouth lifting as though he’s pleased with the effect. He likes being wanted.
The dance floor is chaos—sweaty bodies packed tight. Luke moves as though he belongs here, slipping through people with practiced ease, reaching back to drag me with him until we are in the center of the floor.
Hebacks into me without hesitation, the line of his spine fitting against my chest like he was made for me. One hand lifts up and curls over my shoulder, urging me to close the distance more. His long fingers brush the nape of my neck, and a shiver runs through me.
I inhale slowly.
This is what I came for. The bass and crowd eases the pressure. It’s a situation where I don’t have to think—only react.
The music surges, and Luke starts to move, hips rolling back into me in time with the beat. Deliberate. Provocative. Testing my reaction. I place my hands on his waist, firm enough for him to know they’re there. His skin is warm and bare beneath my fingers. I splay them wider, tugging him against me.
He exhales, breath hitching just slightly.
He likes being guided. I can feel it in the way he adjusts without being told, how easily his body responds when I pull him flush against me. There’s no resistance. Just heat, friction—and trust given without question.
That’s the dangerous part.
Carajo.
I lower my head, close enough that my mouth brushes the shell of his ear. “You always dance like you’re ready to be fucked?” I ask, voice steady despite the slow, relentless pull of desire tightening low in my gut, hardening in my jeans.
He tilts his head back, perfectly positioned, his lips grazing my jaw when he answers. “Only when I know I will be.”
I tighten my grip, thumbs pressing into the curve of his hips, setting the pace without thinking. He follows instantly. No hesitation.
My pulse kicks harder at that—at how natural it feels to take control and have him respond without a word.
I shouldn’t be noticing this much.
I definitely shouldn’t be reacting this hard to the way he moves when I guide him—but my restraint slips anyway, slow and deliberate, as if I’m choosing the fall instead of being pushed.
My mouth finds his neck.
I don’t rush it, and it isn’t sloppy. A measured press of my lips just below his ear, where his pulse jumps instantly beneath my mouth. I feel it everywhere, settling heavy and demanding in my jeans. His shoulders melt, his head tipping to the side to give me better access.
Mierda. Maldita sea.
I kiss him again, lingering this time, letting my teeth scrape lightly over his skin before I soothe the sting away with my tongue. His hands come up, reaching back, fingers curling around my neck as best he can. When I draw his earlobe into my mouth, he arches back into me, and the sound he makes punches a low groan out of my chest.
My hands slide over his stomach, beneath the mesh, palms flattening against warm skin. Muscle shifts under my touch as he moves—guiding my hands where he wants them, pressing back into me again and again like he’s chasing the friction.
This is exactly what we’re both here for.
The music bleeds into something slower, heavier. The crowd fades into background noise. All I can hear is his breathing—quick and uneven—and the dangerous, familiar hum of control loosening under my skin.
This is supposed to be simple. One night. No strings. A way to burn it out before tomorrow—before I step into alocker room full of men who will test every boundary I set and expect me to hold the line.
Luke rolls against me again, slower this time, deliberate. His hand slides over mine, fingers grazing my wrist like he’s checking how far he can go.
