8

The club is exactly what I expected: shadows and smoke, red lights pulsing from hidden fixtures, bodies moving on a central dance floor in ways that make my cheeks heat even now. Sasha leads me past the bouncer with a nod, up a spiral staircase, into a hallway lined with velvet curtains.

A waitress in black leather approaches. "Ms. Alexander? The owner asked me to take care of your situation. Mr. Alexander is in Suite Seven. His guest is already seated."

"Take care of it," Sasha says. I nod.

We stop at a door with no handle, just a keypad. The waitress types a code, the light turns green, and she pushes it open. "Wait here. I'll be back with Ms. Jade in two minutes."

I step inside. The VIP suite is all black leather and dim gold light, a curved sofa dominating the center, a one-way mirror covering the far wall. Through it, I can see the entire club below—the dance floor, the bar, the booths. But they can't see me.

I see them, though. Caleb and Jade are on the sofa, his arm draped over her shoulder, but his eyes are distant, fixed on the glass wall like he's looking through it. Jade leans into him, her red dress riding high, her glossy lips moving in a whisper I can't hear.

The waitress enters the suite. She approaches Jade, bends low, murmurs something. Jade's face shifts—confusion, then annoyance, then a flash of anger. She says something to Caleb, and he frowns, but the waitress is insistent. Jade stands, grabs her clutch, and follows the waitress out without looking back.

Caleb is alone now. He stares at the door, running a hand through his hair, the confusion evident in the tight set of his shoulders.

I take a breath. The silk of my dress is cool against my skin. I push open the door.

He looks up. His eyes widen. "Bella? What the hell are you doing here?"

I step inside and let the door click shut behind me. The music from below is muffled here, a low thrum through the floor. "Surprise."

He stands, his hands out like he's trying to calm a wild animal. "How did you—never mind. You need to leave. Now."

"No."

"Bella—"

I reach for the thin strap on my left shoulder. I don't look away from him. I slide it down, slow, deliberate. The silk whispers against my skin. Then the other strap. The dress pools at my feet.

I'm naked beneath it. No bra. No underwear. Just skin, and the memory of his hands, and the furious, desperate need to make him see me.

His breath catches. I hear it—the sharp inhale, the way his jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes trace the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the dark hair between my thighs. He's fighting himself. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his throat works when he swallows.

"Bella." His voice is a warning. A prayer. "Don't do this."

I step closer. "Make me stop, Caleb."

He doesn't move. His eyes lock on mine, and I see the war inside him—the guilt, the want, the fear, the hunger. His hands remain clenched at his sides.

Then he breaks. He crosses the distance in two strides, grabs my waist, and pulls me against him. His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and desperate, and I taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the heat of his body through his shirt. I kiss him back, my hands fisting in his collar, pulling him closer.

He walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the sofa. He lays me down, his body covering mine, and I feel the hard line of his cock through his pants, pressing against my thigh. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard.

"Tell me to stop."

I shake my head.

His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. He takes my nipple into his mouth, and I arch into him, a soft moan escaping my lips. His hand slides down my stomach, between my thighs, his fingers finding me wet and ready.

"Fuck, Bella." He pushes one finger inside me, then another, and I gasp at the stretch. He curls them, finding that spot, and I grab his wrist, my hips bucking against his hand.

"Please—"

"Please what?" His voice is low, rough, his thumb circling my clit.

"Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He works me with his fingers, his mouth on my neck, until I'm trembling, desperate, the orgasm building low in my belly. I come with a cry, my body clenching around his fingers, the waves of pleasure rolling through me.

He pulls his fingers out, brings them to his mouth, and sucks them clean. The sight is so filthy, so intimate, that I feel a fresh pulse of heat between my legs.

"Now you," I say, reaching for his belt.

He lets me unbuckle him. He kicks off his pants, and his cock springs free, thick and hard, the tip glistening. I sit up, curl my hand around him, and lean forward to take him in my mouth.

He groans, his hand finding the back of my head. I take him deep, past my lips, into my throat, adjusting to the stretch. He tastes like salt and skin, and I'm dizzy with the smell of him, the feel of his hands in my hair.

"Bella—" His voice breaks. "I'm not going to last."

I pull back, my lips slick, my eyes meeting his. "Then don't." I stroke him, watching his face twist with pleasure. "I want to taste you."

He groans again, his hips thrusting into my hand. I lean forward and take him in my mouth again, working him with my tongue, feeling his pulse against my lips. It doesn't take long—he comes with a harsh cry, his hand gripping my hair, his cum flooding my mouth. I swallow, every drop, holding his gaze.

When I let him slip free, he pulls me up, kissing me, tasting himself on my lips.

"Jesus," he breathes against my mouth. "You're going to kill me."

I smile, feeling powerful for the first time all day. "Not yet."

He pushes me back onto the sofa, his body covering mine again. He's still hard—or hard again—and he positions himself between my legs, the head of his cock pressed against my entrance, not entering, just there, teasing.

"Not yet," he says, echoing my words. "I want to do this right. In a bed. With time. But I need to feel you first."

He rocks against me, his cock sliding through my slick folds, not penetrating, just sliding, the friction maddening. I grip his shoulders, my thighs clenching around his hips.

"Caleb—"

"I know." He kisses me, deep and slow. "I want you so fucking much it scares me."

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, and we move together, grinding against each other, the pressure building again. His mouth finds my ear, my neck, my breasts. I'm lost in him, in the heat of his skin, in the weight of his body on mine.

Then I look past his shoulder, through the one-way mirror, and I freeze.

On the main floor below, at the bar, I see a familiar buzz cut and broad shoulders. Callum. He's leaning against the bar, a blonde girl pressed against his side, his hand on her waist, his mouth close to her ear. She's laughing, her fingers tracing his chest.

My body goes rigid. "Caleb."