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 slowly, heels wobbling beneath her.
Beside her, Jenny didn't miss a beat. She turned, her leather skirt catching the streetlight—slick, bold, dangerous. Her fingers pressed against Naya's arm, firm enough to snap her out of her hesitation.
"Easy, girl. Drop that look," she said, playful but sharp. "We own the night. You promised."
Naya shot her a small, knowing smile—no words needed.
With that, she turned toward the glowing entrance, eyes steady despite the flutter in her chest.
It hadn't even been a week since she landed in Velora—and already, Leon had texted her that long-distance was "unrealistic."
She could've stayed in bed, rereading that cruel little message, picking apart the silence between the lines.
But Jenny wouldn't let her.
She'd shown up at Naya's door with a glittery clutch, a bottle of wine, and that troublemaking grin.
"You didn't move here to cry over weak men. Put on something sinful. We're going out. Let me remind you what magic feels like."
And now, here they were.
Naya took a deep breath, centering herself. The music throbbed through the air, lights flashing across the club like a heartbeat. The heat wrapped around her skin, the bass a steady rhythm under her ribs.
Jenny caught her hand and pulled her toward the bar, eyes gleaming.
"One drink. One dance. Then you can cry to 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 burst out laughing. "Please, babe. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
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, matching the steady pulse of the music and the shifting energy around her.
She rested against the bar, her fingers brushing the rim of her glass. The taste of lime lingered on her lips; salt clung stubbornly to the corners of her mouth. Jenny was nearby, fully in her element—laughing, dancing, alive.
Naya let herself breathe. Just for a second.
The crowd pulsed around her, all glitter and sweat and bodies moving to the bass. She was starting to forget Leon. Starting to remember herself.
Her gaze drifted toward the velvet ropes of VIP... and stopped cold.
He 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 glinted at his wrist, understated but lethal.
Tattoos peeked out faintly from beneath his cuff—just enough to hint at stories she wasn't ready for. His smirk was slow and deliberate, as if he knew the effect he had—dark, devastating, and deeply male. The kind of man her mama had warned her about… and the kind her fantasies had 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.
She clenched her thighs before her knees betrayed her.
Beside him stood another—leaner, but no less magnetic. A denim jacket over a fitted tee. A diamond stud caught the strobe like a wink. His eyes scanned the room with lazy arrogance, but his grin? Pure provocation—cocky, wicked, the kind that spelled trouble and good sex
Naya's breath hitched. Her thumb moved before her brain caught up.
Snap.
The photo caught him Naya started looking at it smiling, her thighs trembling her chest raising.
When she looked back he was staring at her, like he knew she'd taken it.
His eyes drifted to a leaner man besides him their chins drifting towards her.
The tattooed man's smirk deepened—wolfish now.
He pushed off the column with the kind of slow, controlled energy that made her stomach drop. The denim guy followed, laughter still tugging at his mouth.
They were coming over.
Not bottle-service-smug or velvet-rope-cocky.
Predatory. Purposeful. Playful.
Every step rewrote her oxygen.
She shoved the phone away, fingers trembling. "Jenny," she whispered, "we need to go."
Jenny blinked. "What? We just got—"
Too late.
They were already moving. Cutting through the crowd like it parted just for them. The tattooed one—danger wrapped
"Hey," said the one in the denim jacket with the lazy grin. "You two look bored. Thought I'd fix that."
Jenny arched a brow, playful but wary. "Depends on what kind of fix you're offering."
He laughed, the dimple flashing like a secret. Then he turned slightly, facing her with easy charm. "I'm Dante," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "Figured I'd start with names."
His eyes flicked to Naya just briefly—acknowledging her, but clearly letting his friend handle what came next.
Because before either of them could respond, the one Naya had photographed stepped forward. Measured. Unsmiling. Predatory. And this time, he didn't just notice her—he arrived.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice was smooth, low—velvet laced with gravel, a dangerous caress in the dark.
Naya froze. Her heart pounded. Every nerve screamed to flee. But she met his gaze, refusing to look away.
"Why?" Her voice faltered, caught between fear and fascination.
He raised a brow, amused. Like he already knew what she was feeling—and enjoyed pushing her there.
Then his voice dropped, colder now beneath that smooth exterior.
"You took my picture." Not a question. A claim. A challenge.
Her mouth went dry. Words jammed between panic and pounding bass.
"I… I can delete it," she whispered, barely steady.
He stepped in, close enough that the air shifted. His presence thickened everything around her. He tilted his head, dark eyes locking onto hers.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His gaze traveled down her body like a slow burn—appraising, hungry, unapologetic—before snapping back up.
"I want to know why you took it."
Jenny stepped in, her hand brushing Naya's, grounding her. Her eyes searched her friend's face.
Naya inhaled, trembling, and 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 second, neither of them moved. The music thumped around them, but between their eyes, something else pulsed—sharp, slow, undeniable.
"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."