Naya Brooks adjusted her short black dress as the Uber pulled up outside Club Lure 47, one of Velora's most exclusive nightspots. The fabric hugged her curves just right, making her look prettier than she felt. She stepped out carefully, heels unsteady on the cracked sidewalk.
Next to her, Jenny moved with effortless confidence. She turned, her leather jacket catching the streetlight as her fingers pressed against Naya's arm—firm enough to shatter her hesitation.
"Chill, girl. Drop that look," Jenny said, playful but sharp. "We own the night. You promised."
Naya smiled faintly, exhaled, and turned toward the glowing entrance.
It hadn't even been a week since she landed in Velora—and already, Leon had dumped her, calling a long-distance relationship "unrealistic."
She could've stayed in bed rereading that cruel little goodbye message, but Jenny had shown up at her door with a glittery clutch, promising her a night full of magic.
"You didn't move here to cry over weak men, Naya," she'd said, dragging her out of bed. "You moved here to live."
And now, here they were.
Music pulsed through the air, lights flickering like a heartbeat across the club. Heat wrapped around her skin, the bass a steady rhythm beneath her ribs.
Jenny caught her hand and pulled her toward the quieter side of the bar, near the tasting counter—sleek, low-lit, with glass displays and trays of deep reds and chilled whites.
"One drink. One dance. After that, you can drown in your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, rolling her eyes. "But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave—and you."
Jenny grinned, her laugh slipping out like silk. "Please, babe. You won't even remember his name after this round."
She motioned to the bartender and slid a tequila toward Naya—no lime, no salt, just heat. Then she perched beside her for a beat—long enough to make sure Naya drank—before rising and drifting toward the tasting bar.
Wine was more her thing anyway.
Naya didn't answer. She just picked up the shot glass and threw it back, letting the fire do the talking.
The first tequila burned sharply. The second dulled the edge of her nerves. By the third, her body relaxed, and the tightness in her chest eased.
Her laughter came more easily now, syncing with the rhythm of clinking glasses and murmured flirtation, with Jenny just steps away, swirling something dark and expensive in a crystal glass.
She rested against the bar, her fingers circling the smooth rim of the shot glass. The warmth of the tequila lingered in her chest like fire.
Naya let herself breathe. Just for a second.
Around her, the club moved in its own rhythm—low music, muted clinks of glass, the scent of spiced cologne and expensive perfume hanging in the air. She wasn't exactly smiling. But she felt steadier.
She was starting to forget Leon.
Starting to remember herself.
But just as she started to breathe again, her gaze slid toward the velvet ropes of VIP—and froze.
A man was leaning against a column like he owned the oxygen around it. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a midnight-black suit tailored to sin. No tie. The top button of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to whisper danger. A gold watch gleamed at his wrist—understated, but lethal.
Tattoos teased the edge of his cuff, hinting at stories she wasn't ready for.
His smirk was slow. Deliberate. Like he knew exactly what he was doing—dark, devastating, unapologetically male. The kind of man her mama had warned her about… and the kind her fantasies never quite let go of.
Naya felt her temperature spike.
She'd seen fine men before, but this one?
This one rewired her damn nerves.
Her hands curled into fists. Her knees wobbled.
Her breath hitched. Her brain stalled.
Her thumb moved on its own.
Snap.
She stared at the photo. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Her thighs clenched.
Her chest rose and fell like she'd just run a race.
Then—something shifted.
She looked up.
And froze.
He was watching her.
Not just glancing—watching. Like he'd felt the weight of her gaze and turned to claim it.
His eyes pinned her in place—slow, unflinching, amused. A little cruel.
Like he knew exactly what she'd just done.
Like he liked it.
His mouth curved—half challenge, half invitation.
Then his gaze flicked to the man beside him. Their heads tilted toward her in perfect, wordless sync.
The tattooed man's smirk sharpened—no longer lazy, but deliberate. Like a predator who'd just picked his mark.
He pushed off the column with smooth, coiled grace that made Naya's chest tighten. Every movement was precise. Controlled. Dominant.
She felt it—every step sending a pulse racing through her.
Her fingers fumbled with her phone. She shoved it into her clutch, hands trembling.
"Jenny," she whispered, sharp and low.
Jenny, swirling dark wine in a crystal glass, caught the tension in her voice and leaned in.
"What?" she asked, barely turning.
Too late.
They were already there.
The tattooed man stopped just short of touching distance, his gaze steady and low—like he'd already undressed her with a look and found something he liked.
The second man slipped smoothly into the space Jenny had just vacated. His smile was slow, laced with both mischief and command.
"Mind if we join you?" he asked, voice smooth as velvet.
Jenny raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking between them. Playful. Wary.
"Sure," she said.
He smiled wider, turning to her like he'd just accepted a challenge.
He smiled deeper, voice smooth and low as he turned to Jenny.
"I'm Dante. Thought I'd start with names."
His eyes flicked to Naya—just briefly. Acknowledging her, but clearly letting his friend handle what came next.
Before either of them could respond to Dante, the one Naya had photographed stepped forward. Measured. Unsmiling. Daring.
"Enjoying the view?"
His voice was smooth, low—velvet laced with gravel. A dangerous caress in the dark.
Naya froze. Heart pounding. Every nerve screamed to flee.
But she held his gaze, refusing to look away.
"Why?"
Her voice faltered—caught between fear and fascination.
His brow lifted. A slow smile played at the edge of his mouth, like he'd expected that response.
Then his voice dipped—still smooth, but colder now. Steel beneath silk.
"You took my picture."
Not a question. A claim. A challenge.
Her mouth went dry. Words jammed somewhere between panic and pounding bass.
"I… I can delete it," she whispered, barely steady.
He stepped in.
Close enough to shift the air between them.
His presence thickened everything.
He tilted his head, dark eyes locked on hers.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His gaze dipped—down her body like a slow burn.
Appraising. Hungry. Unapologetic.
Then back up, sharp and focused.
"I want to know why you took it."
Jenny stepped in. Her hand brushed Naya's—subtle, grounding. Her eyes searched her friend's face.
Naya inhaled, trembling.
Then gently pulled away from Jenny's touch.
And something inside her—something tired of playing safe—whispered:
Answer him.
She let the tequila speak.
"I guess I needed proof," she said.
For a moment, no one moved.
The music thumped around them, but the room had narrowed to just that space between his eyes and hers.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
His gaze sharpened—eyes narrowing like he was seeing her for the first time, like her honesty had reached beneath whatever armor he wore.
He studied her, visibly surprised. Not because she'd said it—but because she meant it.
And for a second, the air between them changed. No bass, no flashing lights—just the hum of something raw. Real.
Then he leaned in, just a fraction—close enough for his cologne to wrap around her like sin made scent. Spice. Smoke. Something expensive.
"Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."