There were three things Elle knew for sure that night—even while she was drunk enough to mistake a coat rack for a man she used to date.
ONE. Tequila is the devil's perfume, and she had bathed in it like it was Chanel No. 5.
TWO. Sequins are more powerful than any armor—especially when you're heartbroken, freshly single, and emotionally bankrupt.
And THREE. Oh… fucking angels, no—devils—he was so hot that the sun might as well pack up and file for early retirement.(Which made no sense, sure, but try telling that to Elle's vodka-soaked brain.)
She didn't notice him at first. The VIP room was dim, shadowy, and filled with the kind of ambient music that screamed "I have offshore accounts." Her heels clicked louder than necessary as she swayed in—half-possessed by grief, vodka, glitter, and spite.
Then her eyes landed on him.
And dear god, the audacity.
He was sitting there alone like some Greek tragedy reincarnated as a Calvin Klein ad—arms stretched out on the backrest of the leather couch, dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to violate several moral codes, hair tousled like a forbidden thought, and jawline sharp enough to shave sins off your soul.
Elle pointed a wobbly finger at him.
"Who the hell gave you permission to exist?" she asked, genuinely offended.
The man blinked, clearly confused. "Pardon?"
His voice. Deep. Velvet-smooth. With just a hint of I pay my taxes on time and break hearts recreationally.
Elle, in response, smiled like an idiot and swayed further into the room, like a drunken siren with no concept of personal space. She dropped herself onto the seat beside him with the grace of a tipsy flamingo.
"You're alone?" she asked, voice hushed like she'd just discovered a stray puppy and was already planning to adopt it.
He looked at her. Actually looked. His eyes—icy blue, unreadable, and annoyingly amused—met hers.
"You're drunk," he said.
Elle, with all the wisdom of a woman three shots past common sense, wagged a finger left to right like a malfunctioning metronome.
"No. No-no-no." She leaned in a little closer, whispering with complete conviction. "I am so in love with you."
The silence that followed could have cooked popcorn.
To be fair, she thought it sounded seductive. But in reality, it came out more like a raccoon professing love to a disco ball.
The man blinked. "You don't even know my name."
She sighed dramatically, as if he'd just asked her to solve world hunger. "Then tell me. Preferably while shirtless."
He looked like he was debating whether to call security or let her keep talking just to see where this train wreck ended.
Instead of replying, the man said nothing. He just… smirked.
Not a normal smile. Not a polite nod. No, he smirked like he had a contract with sin and paid taxes in temptation. It was the kind of smirk that had been outlawed in five countries and several religions.
Elle's cheeks flushed pink.
Her heart may or may not have just somersaulted into her shoes.
She saw stars—actual stars. Not from the ceiling lights. Not from tequila. No. These were celestial bodies of lust, spinning in her retinas.
And yet… as she locked eyes with that smirk, Elle flinched.
This man. This man.
He was dangerously sexy.
Like, insurance-companies-won't-cover-his-face sexy. He could accidentally start a fire by existing.
Then—smooth as the devil on a sales pitch—he poured another drink. The crystal-clear liquor swirled in the glass, catching the light like it had its own PR team. He handed it to her with a raise of one devastating eyebrow.
"Would you like one?"
Elle blinked. Her brain had left the building. Her cheeks were still pink. Her dignity was somewhere in the bathroom. But saying no? To him?
She nodded. Because refusing a drink from the hot stranger felt illegal in 49 states.
She took a sip—burning and ice-cold all at once—and he asked, "Did you come alone?"
"Nope." She shook her head like a bobblehead on a rollercoaster. "I came with Luna and the others… we were having a breakup party and then…" Her words slurred like they were on a slip-n-slide. She clutched his arm and dropped her chin on it like he was a pillow and not an actual Adonis. "...I landed here. Hehehe."
The man tilted his head, genuinely curious now. "Breakup party?"
Elle gave a solemn nod, like it was a funeral and not a Thursday night in a VIP lounge.
"Yeah. I am officially single today," she declared proudly. "I hit that bastard right in the middle of the legs and ran. Celebrating freedom with tequila and glitter, baby."
His brows rose a fraction, amused. "Is that so?"
"Oh yes." She leaned even closer now, chin still on his arm, whispering like they were co-conspirators. "It was majestic. Like an Olympic-level escape. I should've gotten a medal."
Then—RINGGG!!!RINGGGG!!!!
Her phone buzzed like an angry wasp in her clutch.
Elle blinked and fished it out. She turned to the man, holding up one finger. "Uno momento…"
She answered. "Yes?"
"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!" Luna screamed.
Elle blinked, completely unfazed. "With a man."
"What?"
"A super hot, absurdly sexy man," Elle whispered, ducking her head dramatically like she was sharing national secrets.
Silence.
Then, Luna's voice came back, eerily calm. "...Alright. Have a great night. Don't get murdered."
Click.
Elle smiled dreamily at her phone, then turned back to Mr. Greek God, beaming. "So… where were we?"
The man calmly placed his drink on the table. His expression softened just a touch—still unreadable, but warmer now. "I don't spend the night with drunken women."
Elle blinked. Once. Twice. "But I'm not drunk."
He tilted his head. "You're slurring."
"Okay. Maybe I'm, like, 80% drunk. But! That means I'm 20% sober," she declared proudly, like that math solved everything.
He chuckled. Actually chuckled. The kind of laugh that made her knees threaten mutiny. "That's not how sobriety works."
"That's exactly how tequila works," she replied, poking him gently in the chest with one glittery finger.
His eyes glinted with amusement. "Still… no."
Elle pouted like a rejected Disney princess. "You're cruel. You're so pretty, and you won't even let me kiss you once? Not even a forehead kiss?"
"Nope."
"...Not even a nose boop?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and gently took her by the arm. His grip was firm but polite—like a gentleman attempting to extract a drunken kitten from a chandelier.
"Let's go. I'll drop you home."
She stood up, wobbled once—okay, twice—and caught herself with both hands pressed flat against his chest.
(God bless that chest. Truly. The abs of Olympus. The pecs of prophecy.)
Her fingers might've lingered a little too long. Who could blame her? His shirt felt expensive. Like it had never met a washing machine. Like it had been hand-woven by Italian tailors trained in the lost art of seduction-fabric.
Then she looked up.
She squinted slightly and mumbled under her breath. "You're like… six feet of problem."
The man—whose mouth still held the ghost of a smirk—didn't say anything. Instead, one strong arm slid around her waist, catching her before she could teeter into disaster. His hand rested at the small of her back, warm and steady, as if gravity had been replaced by him.
Their bodies, accidentally pressed together, were… warm. Too warm.
Like the air had just thickened into something syrupy. Electric.
Elle's breath caught.
They didn't speak. Didn't blink. They just looked at each other—her dazed and flushed and still 80% drunk, and him cool as a glacier with fire under the surface.
And then—oh, dear God, then—the moment got stupidly romantic.
Something slow and stupid and sweet unfurled in her chest like a balloon on fire.
And what did Elle do?
What any freshly single, heartbreak-glittered, 20%-sober woman in four-inch heels and a revenge dress would do:
She crouched slightly for height adjustment… and kissed him.
A messy, impulsive, drunken, soft-lipped kiss. Right on the mouth.
He froze.
She panicked.
Time slowed.
But then—
His lips moved.
Slowly at first, like he was testing the temperature of sin. But then—boom. Passion caught like gasoline. His hand slid from her back to her waist and then down lower, pulling her closer until there wasn't even a molecule of space between them.
Elle gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that as an invitation—because, oh boy, suddenly he was kissing her like he'd invented kissing. Like his mouth had its own PhD in making women forget their middle names.
It was hot. Like romance-novel-cover, fan-yourself, sin-on-a-weeknight hot.
Her fingers slipped up into his hair, clutching just a little because her knees were jelly and her soul had momentarily left her body to scream from the ceiling.
He pressed her gently against the wall. The kiss turned deeper—darker. His tongue slid against hers with slow, devastating precision. His breath was warm, his cologne smelled like expensive rebellion, and—
—Oh, hello—
His hand was moving.
Lower.
Trailing down her back.
Gliding with sinful intention toward the hem of her sequined skirt…
Elle's breath hitched. Her skin tingled, nerves singing like struck chords—and yet—
"Wait… hold up." She huffed, palms bracing against his chest (still annoyingly firm, still illegally sculpted).
The man paused, head tilted ever so slightly, those molten eyes never leaving her flushed face. "Why?" he asked, voice rough velvet. "Are you regretting it?"
And then—he smirked.
That same slow, devil-may-care smirk that should come with a warning label.
"Don't forget, little rabbit… it was you who kissed me first."
Elle flinched. Her heart did a weird, traitorous backflip.
"Don't call me that," she muttered, flustered. "I just—needed to take a moment. To breathe. Oxygen is still a thing, you know."
He leaned in, the scent of whiskey and want curling around her like smoke. "A moment of breath, hm?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Good…"
His arms slid back around her waist, pulling her close enough that her legs wobbled again.
"Because I can't stop now," he whispered. "You succeeded, little rabbit. You've seduced me."
Elle barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on hers again—rougher this time, more desperate. The kiss turned hungry, addictive, like they were both falling into something neither of them had names for.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp as he tilted her head for deeper access. His lips moved with infuriating skill, tongue teasing, demanding, devouring.
Every inch of her body ignited under his touch.
She melted into him like wax to flame.
There was no past, no future.
Just the taste of sin and heat, of temptation wrapped in silk.
The sequins of her dress sparkled under dim light as his hands slid down her waist—firm, deliberate—like he already knew every inch of her, like this wasn't the first time they'd touched, but the hundredth.
Their breathing was uneven, their hearts pounding in synchrony, and as the world around them blurred.
Elle didn't pull away.
She kissed him harder.
And he kissed her like she was something worth burning for.