Mister Perfume

CHAPTER 1

Priscilla_Pov

I should never have said yes. But Brenda had already ordered the shots, Cynthia was dancing in place, and me… I just needed to forget.

The club pulsed beneath my heels. Too many people. Too much noise. But at that table, with them, I could breathe. A little.

“To our shitty lives!” Brenda shouted. “And to our hearts on strike,” Cynthia added.

We clinked glasses. The alcohol burned. When I set mine down, their eyes were already on me.

“And you, Prisci? What are you cursing tonight?”

I shrugged. “My mother. As always.”

Brenda sighed. Cynthia winced. I kept going.

“This morning, she went through my stuff. Looking for money. She took some. Then she drank.” Pause. “And she told me I should thank her for not aborting me.”

Silence. Not in the club — in me.

Brenda placed her hand on mine. “You should leave.”

“And go where?” My voice didn’t rise. It sagged.

Cynthia downed another shot. “Tonight, we forget. Tonight, we’re beautiful, we’re free, and we don’t give a damn.”

I smiled — for them. But inside, I knew: I wasn’t beautiful. I wasn’t free. Just here. Borrowed time.

We had a shot. Then another. Brenda was ranting about her latest date — a guy who thought “feminist” meant “anti-men.” Cynthia swore she’d quit her job before the end of the month. Me, I listened. I laughed. A little. And I drank. A little too much.

The third shot slowed everything down. Not dizzy — just suspended.

And then I felt it.

A gaze. Fixed. On me.

I turned. He was there. Leaning against the bar, glass in hand, eyes locked on mine.

He didn’t smile. He raised his glass. To me. Then — a wink.

I froze. Not because he was handsome — though he was. But because of that look. It didn’t say I like you. It said, I see you.

Brenda followed my gaze. Then Cynthia. They exploded.

“Oooooohhh!” “Oh my god, Prisci!”

“Looks like you caught a big one!”

I laughed. But my heart was racing. And I couldn’t look away.

He hadn’t moved. Just stood there, glass in hand, gaze unwavering. That wink — not mocking, not seductive. Just… certain.

Brenda giggled. Cynthia nudged me. “Look at him, Prisci. He’s hot.” “And he’s looking at you like he’s already decided.”

I wanted to laugh again. But my palms were damp.

He left the bar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… fluid.

Each step landed like a weight. Not on the floor. On me.

He stopped in front of me. Not too close — just close enough for his scent to reach me. Woody. Cold. Intrusive.

“Dance?”

His voice was deep. Not soft. Not harsh. Just… steady.

I blinked. Brenda stared like I was insane. Cynthia was already pushing me off the bench.

I stood. No words. No thoughts. He held out his hand. I didn’t take it. But I walked beside him.

And the rest of the world fell away.

The dance floor was packed. Lights flashing. Bass pounding. Bodies everywhere. But I felt only him. Like heat that wasn’t mine.

He stopped in the center. No words. Just a look. Then he moved.

Not like the others. Not to impress. Just… for me.

I followed. My hips found the rhythm. My arms slid down my body. And him — he never looked away.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet. But every move said I could. And every heartbeat answered I know.

Brenda, Cynthia, the crowd, the music — gone. Only him. Only me. And that invisible thread between us.

He came closer. Just enough for his breath to brush my cheek.

“You dance well.” His voice was low. Almost too close.

“I run well.” The words slipped out. I think they surprised us both.

He smiled. Not flirtatious. Just… knowing.

Then his hand found my hip. Light. Present. And I stopped thinking.

Not timid. Not rough. Just… like it belonged there.

Our bodies drew closer. The rhythm stayed slow. My breath didn’t go.

His chest brushed mine. His pelvis pressed into my stomach. And that heat — not from the club. From him.

I felt everything. The fabric. The tension. And what his body no longer tried to hide.

I leaned in. My lips grazed his ear.

I whispered what I should never have said: “I think you’re hard, Mister Perfume.”

He paused. Just a beat. Then that smile — slow, deliberate. Like I’d just won something dangerous.

His hand slid lower. And I kept dancing. As if I hadn’t said a word. As if I hadn’t felt a thing. As if I wasn’t already losing control.

He stayed close. His body pressed against mine. That heat — impossible to ignore.

Then he stopped. Eyes locked on mine. “How about we finish the night at mine?”

I didn’t answer right away. I looked at him. Not to measure. To feel. The weight of that question. The heat behind it. And the part of me that had already said yes.

I tilted my head. Just enough for my hair to slip over my shoulder. “Trying to buy me?” My voice was soft. Sharp.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He waited.

So I did too. Then I smiled. Not to seduce. To warn. “Alright. But I choose the music.”

He didn’t ask if I was sure. He just held out his hand. And this time, I took it.

Brenda gave me a look. Cynthia raised her eyebrows. But none of us said a word.

We walked through the crowd. Slowly. As if the world no longer applied to us.

At the exit, he stopped. Turned to me. His fingers brushed mine. “If you change your mind, it’s now.”

I looked at him. For a long time. Then I stepped through the door. Without a word. Without turning back.

And behind me, the club kept pulsing. Like a heart I’d left behind