Chapter 7
1069 Words
Chapter 7
Fiona’s POV
I wasn’t supposed to look back. But I did. And the moment our eyes met, the air in my lungs vanished.
Him.
For just a second, his stoic mask cracked. His throat bobbed in a slow, deliberate gulp.
I had seen this look before—but never directed at me. Raw. Intense. Hunger.
Not the usual irritation or disdain I expected from him, but pure, unfiltered desire. Like I was something he was starving for, something he was restraining himself from devouring. My breath stuttered, my fingers curling around the fabric of my dress.
I forced myself to look away, whipping my head toward Amy, pretending to be invested in whatever mundane conversation was happening at our table.
The event ended soon after, and as expected, the night was far from over.
The younger crowd—us included—was heading to the after party. Amy, in her usual fashion, pushed me toward Richard, forcing me to share a ride with him while she and the rest of the group took another car.
At least Richard was easy to talk to. Charming, funny, engaging. We swapped stories—universities, degrees, work—and somewhere in between, I even let out a few laughs. By the time we arrived at the club, we had already exchanged numbers, and I promised to meet up with him later.
Walking into the club, I instantly knew this wasn’t my scene.
The bass thundered through my chest, the neon lights flickered in wild colors, and the air smelled like sweat, expensive liquor, and reckless decisions.
Amy and I found our group in the VIP section, but as soon as we sat, I felt it.
Again.
That same heavy gaze.
My pulse quickened.
I didn’t even need to look.
I knew who it was.
And when I finally dared to glance his way, there he was.
Him.
Lounging in his seat, long fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of whiskey, legs spread like he owned the damn world. And that smirk.
Dark. Knowing. Wicked.
Like he had already decided how this night would end. I sucked in a shaky breath, tearing my gaze away. But of course, Amy noticed. And Amy, being Amy, started walking toward them.
I nearly choked. “Amy, no.”
She didn’t listen. She didn’t go to him, though—she went to the other one.
Surprisingly, he was welcoming. From where I sat, I could see them laughing, exchanging shots, the atmosphere between them already crackling with something flirtatious.
And him?
He didn’t join in.
He just watched.
Not them. Me.
Like he was waiting.
Amy turned, locking eyes with me, then beckoned me over.
I shook my head. No chance in hell.
Her eyes narrowed, and before I could react, she marched back, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me toward them.
I shot her a glare, but she just winked.
John smirked. “And who do we have here?” Amy answered for me. “Fiona.”
“Fiona,” John repeated, his tone smooth. “Beautiful name.”
He said nothing.
But his eyes… God, his eyes.
They burned into me like a brand.
I could feel them tracing every inch of my body—the exposed skin of my back, the slit of my dress, the curves it hugged.
Amy pushed a shot my way. “Drink.”
“I’ve had enough,” I murmured.
She ignored me, still too busy laughing with John, the two of them edging closer, the air charged between them.
I exhaled, rubbing my temple.
And then—
A deep voice beside me.
“You don’t belong here.”
A shiver danced down my spine.
I turned my head slowly, meeting his gaze up close this time.
Dave.
His voice was low, rough, dangerous.
“Excuse me?” I shot back, tilting my head.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he stated, eyes locked onto mine. “You don’t like clubs. The noise, the crowd, the attention.” He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint mix of whiskey and expensive cologne. “So why are you here?”
I clenched my jaw. “Because I can be.”
His lips twitched. “Cute.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His gaze flickered over my lips. “You just are.”
My breath hitched.
I hated how my body reacted to him.
How every word from his mouth felt like a challenge, a temptation, a dare.
The tension thickened.
And before I could think twice, I said, “You’ve been watching me all night.”
His eyes darkened. “Observing.”
“There’s a difference?”
His voice dropped to something lethal. “Yes. Watching is casual. What I’m doing? Not casual at all.”
My stomach flipped.
His fingers ghosted over the rim of his glass. “Tell me, Fiona…” His gaze slid to my lips again. “Are you going to keep pretending you don’t feel it?”
I swallowed hard.
“Feel what?” I whispered.
Dave smirked. Dangerous. Decadent. Sinful.
“You know exactly what.”
I did.
God help me, I did.
And that was how it started.
A few more drinks. A few more words, laced with heat and provocation.
A brush of fingers.
A dare.
And then—
His mouth crashed onto mine.
And I let him.
The kiss was hungry, commanding, devastating.
He kissed like he owned me, like he had already claimed me the second our eyes met at the gala.
And I let him take.
Because for one night, I wanted to be reckless.
For one night, I wanted to know what it felt like to burn.
---
The Next Morning, the first thing I felt was warmth, the second thing I felt was him. Dave’s arm was draped over my waist, his body flush against mine, his breathing deep and even.
He was still asleep.
I turned, studying him.
Even in sleep, he looked powerful. Dominant. Untouchable.
And yet, I had touched him.
I swallowed, a strange mix of emotions tightening in my chest.
I had given him something last night. Something I had never given anyone.
And now…
I had to leave.
Carefully, quietly, I peeled myself away from his warmth.
I gathered my dress, slipped into my heels, and without a single glance back—
I left.
- Writer
