The music in the lounge pulsed like a heartbeat—low, sultry, seductive. But Zara wasn't listening.
She sat at the bar in a borrowed dress that hugged her curves like it knew all her secrets—black satin, strapless, and dangerous. Her heels pinched. Her lipstick was flawless. But everything underneath it all was cracked. Not tonight. Not after the betrayal, the shame, the deal that shattered her father's company and reduced her family name to whispers and debt.
She stirred her drink absently, watching the ice swirl, melt, fade.
Much like her.
She didn't belong here.
But then again... she didn't belong anywhere anymore.
"Bad day?"
The voice slipped in smooth and warm, like velvet against bare skin.
Zara didn't flinch. She turned slowly, her gaze landing on the man who'd spoken.
Tall. Sharp-jawed. Tousled hair. A hint of stubble. No tie. No pretension. Just a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves and quiet confidence in his eyes.
He didn't smile. Not like most men did when they approached her.
There was no arrogance. No pick-up line. Just presence.
And somehow, that was worse.
Zara raised an eyebrow, voice low and dry. "You could say that."
He nodded, sipping whatever amber drink he nursed like it was a secret.
"Then we're both running."
She looked away. "From what?"
He paused, watching her like he already knew.
"Expectations."
She snorted softly. "Lucky you. I'm running from reality."
Their silence was loud. Heavy.
But not uncomfortable.
Not anymore.
He didn't ask her name. She didn't offer it.
That made things easier.
Cleaner.
He didn't lean too close.
Didn't touch.
But when he spoke again, it felt like gravity.
"Tell me to leave," he said, voice low. "And I will."
Zara stared at him. There was nothing safe about this. Nothing smart.
But for once, she didn't want to be smart.
She wanted to disappear into someone who didn't expect anything.
Not even a name.
"No," she whispered.
---
🛏️ Later that night…
The hotel door clicked shut behind them, sealing in the tension that had been building since that first glance across the bar.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
Aiden backed her into the wall with one slow, measured step, his hands coming up to cage her body without touching. His breath was warm against her cheek, his lips hovering just close enough to make her dizzy.
Zara reached first, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him closer. Their lips met like a crash. Like a release. The kiss was raw—nothing soft, nothing sweet—just fire and need and escape.
Clothes came off in pieces, frantic hands tugging at zippers, pulling at silk. Her dress slipped down her body with a sigh, her panties sliding off with a growl from him she felt in her chest.
"You're fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice ragged, eyes drinking her in like he was starved.
He dropped to his knees in front of her like a man worshiping something holy, but the hunger in his eyes was pure sin.
Her breath caught.
Then his mouth was on her.
Zara's hand flew to the wall, the other tangling in his hair as he licked a slow, devastating stroke between her folds.
She gasped—sharp and loud.
Aiden groaned like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
"You're so sweet," he murmured, lips brushing her thigh. "So damn good."
He didn't rush.
He feasted.
His tongue circled her clit, then flicked fast and firm, and when she whimpered his name—not even realizing she had—he sucked her harder until her legs trembled.
She came with a cry that cracked through the room, her thighs squeezing around his face, her fingers yanking his hair as her body shattered against his mouth.
And still, he didn't stop.
Not until she was whimpering, too sensitive, too full of pleasure.
Then he stood, wiping his mouth, smirking like the devil in silk.
"Round one," he said, lifting her effortlessly. "Now I want to hear you scream my name for real."
---
The sheets were a tangled mess. Sweat clung to their skin. Her nails had left scratches down his back. His teeth had left a mark on her shoulder.
He was inside her again before she could beg, thrusting deep and slow, like he was writing himself into her body one stroke at a time.
"Look at me," he growled.
She did—and she swore she almost came again just from the way he was looking at her.
"You're mine," he whispered, hips slamming into hers. "For tonight. Say it."
Zara moaned. "Yours..."
And when they came together, it was brutal. Beautiful.
Perfectly wrong.
---
🌅 Morning…
The bed was cold.
The sun was too bright.
And he was gone.
Zara blinked against the light bleeding through the curtains. Her head was pounding, her heart heavier than it should've been.
She sat up slowly, the sheet falling down her bare chest.
No note.
No name.
Just a glass of water on the nightstand…
…and the scent of him still on the pillow.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest like she could stop the memory from crashing through her. What did I do?
What if he was married? Dangerous? What if she never saw him again?
...What if she did?
---