O'Malley's Bar was a pressure cooker at midnight—sweat-slick dancers grinding under erratic strobes, bass vibrating bones, air saturated with spilled tequila, cheap cologne, and sizzling fryer grease from the kitchen. Laughter clashed with shouts; a bachelorette party shrieked karaoke in the corner. Celine collapsed onto a scarred barstool, conquest buzzing from her shin-smashing victory over the creep. Tequila tsunami—fifteen shots? Twenty?—swirled her world into euphoric blur. Legs numb as noodles, inhibitions vaporized. Jamal's pencil-dick humiliation? Faded to punchline. Celeste's betrayal? Fuel for her throne.She fanned her neck, crop top damp against curves, jeans riding low—unaware of the spotlight she'd claimed. Until one gaze seared hotter than the rest. From the plush VIP booth shrouded in shadow, he'd tracked her all night: dance-floor domination, bar-fight glory. Now, he unfolded—six-foot-three of coiled power gliding through chaos like smoke. Idris Al-Miraj, 32, enigmatic owner of Al-Miraj Grand Palace, shedding boardroom armor for anonymous thrill after a cutthroat investor call. Black linen shirt molded to broad chest and ripped abs, sleeves rolled exposing veined forearms inked subtle; dark jeans hugged powerful thighs, boots polished lethal. Hazel eyes burned under arched brows, full lips curved knowing, trimmed beard framing a jawline sharp as obsidian. Oud-spiced cologne sliced the dive's funk.He materialized beside her, presence electric, voice a deep timbre laced with exotic lilt. "Mind if I sit?"Celine's head snapped up, drunk haze crystallizing on perfection. Holy shit—god carved from marble. Eyes that undressed, shoulders broad enough to break her fall. "Hell yeah," she slurred, patting stool sloppy. "Sit. Drink. Entertain me."Idris eased in, thigh grazing hers—spark. He nodded to Mick; scotch on rocks materialized, ice clinking seduction. Talk sparked instant: her venomous ex-roasts ("Pencil-dick clowns couldn't find the spot with GPS!"), his laughter rumbling chest-deep, vibrating her bones. "Firecracker like you," he murmured, gaze devouring lips, throat, cleavage, "belongs in spotlights, not shadows."Emboldened, she bantered—hotel hell ("Mopping suites for ghosts; owner's probably a fossil hermit"), twin treachery, eviction threats, kick triumph. Idris leaned closer, questions velvet traps: dreams stifled by grind? Passions buried? His accent wrapped words like cashmere—hints of dunes, mystery. Proximity intoxicated more than booze; knee nudged knee deliberate, fingers brushing hers on glass. Heat pooled low; her laughs turned husky, his smirks promising sin.1:27 AM. Inn alarm blared mental—pre-booked dump to dodge apartment poison. "Peacin' out," she mumbled, lurching up. Vertigo hit; Alicia swallowed by dance horde. Heels betrayed; floor, meet face.Iron arms encircled waist—Idris, steady as rock. "Steady now. I've got you." Warmth seeped through fabric, scent enveloping: spice, leather, man."Fankyou," she garbled, melting into support. He navigated exit gauntlet—dodging grabs, silencing whistles with glare. Night assaulted: cool gust whipping curls, stars spinning carousel. SUV loomed—obsidian beast, tinted void. Gentleman door-open; she tumbled in, leather cradling like throne.Purr of engine soothed as streets blurred neon streaks. "Your address?" Idris queried, one hand wheel, other relaxed potent."Neeearest inn," she yawned, eyes drooping. "Anythin' close. Nigh'..."Oblivion took; Idris stole glances, braking at Starlight Inn's garish glow—budget trap with vacancy neon sputtering. Her face transformed: tension melted, lips bee-stung parted on sighs, lashes fanning golden cheeks, curls riotous halo. Breathtaking vulnerability pierced him. Fingertip ghosted hair from forehead, tracing jaw soft. "Beautiful," he whispered husky, resolve fraying. Carrier instinct surged; he circled, lifting bridal—effortless, her body fitting puzzle-piece against chest. Head nestled crook neck, breaths feathering skin.Lobby reeked bleach/mothballs; pimpled clerk jaw-dropped at Adonis hauling drunk Venus. "Premier suite," Idris commanded crisp, slapping crisp bills—hundred overflow. "Absolute privacy. No knocks." Keyring jingled conquest; stairs conquered two-strides, her weight feather.Room 12 sanctuary: king sleigh bed drowning in starched white, AC whispering chill, motel potpourri battling faint mildew. Idris deposited her reverent—pillow fluffed under head, sheet draped modest. Shrugged jacket; exit stage left. No villain here.Delicate vise snared wrist. Celine roused, gaze foggy fire, hauling insistent. "Spend... night," slurred siren song, nails raking forearm. "Pay top dollar. Pleeease."Throat bobbed; battle internal. "Can't. Drunk haze—morning you'd curse me."Pout lethal weapon. "Regret nothin'." Giggle dissolved to growl, collar fisted, dragging down. "Just. Sex." Palms framed bearded face—electric touch—and lips pulverized his. Tequila-wild, desperate hunger.Restraint shattered. Idris groaned primal, yielding torrent. Fingers knotted curls possessive; he ravaged back, tongue breaching velvet heat, tangling duel savage. Her flavor detonated—lime-sweet, untamed need. Tongues warred slick; hands roamed ravenous: hers shredding shirt buttons, his palming waist flare to thigh.Massive 3500 words
