One night stand with my sister’s fiancé

*Hera* “Drink, drink, drink!” The girls’ chant pounded louder than the bass thundering through the club, the bass echoing in my bones. Daina tipped her head back for her shot while everyone cheered. My laugh came out loose, weightless—vodka numbing the hollow ache Ryan had left behind. My red dress clung to me like liquid fire, but I felt anything but bold. I was no party girl. I was the one who hid in bed with the curtains drawn. Still, they had dragged me here. They said I needed to forget. I needed to prove I was alive after five years wasted on a man who never really wanted me. Ryan hadn’t just cheated. He had humiliated me. I still heard his voice, sharp and cutting: You were just a temporary f**k. Then that smug photo of him kissing her, the girl I had thought was just a friend. All of it posted like a billboard of my stupidity. The vodka clawed its way up. I pushed out of the booth toward the restroom, heels wobbling, head foggy. My chest tightened and I muttered a curse—then crashed into something solid. The glass in my hand spilled, splashing across a crisp white shirt . “s**t,” I whispered, fumbling to wipe the stain. Strong hands closed around my wrists, stopping me cold. My gaze jerked upward—and the air left me. Tall. Broad shoulders. Grey eyes like storm clouds—sharp, consuming, and far too steady for the chaos around us. His mouth curved the way danger did, slow and deliberate. The kind of man who didn’t just walk into a room—he owned it. “Sorry,” I managed, throat tight. His grip didn’t ease. “Sorry doesn’t clean silk, angel,” he said, voice low, a velvet scrape that sank beneath my skin. Angel. No one had ever called me that. Not with such certainty, like he had already tasted my sins and judged them sweet. “I’ll, um—I’ll book a room upstairs. You can… take it off. I’ll wash it,” I stammered, drunk words tumbling out, though his presence sobered me more than water ever could. His lips twitched. “Fair enough.” Before I could second-guess, he threaded his fingers with mine and led me down a narrow hall. My pulse hammered. Every step with him felt like stepping deeper into something I wouldn’t escape. Inside a small lounge off the hallway, he turned. The music outside was muffled now, leaving only a silence heavy with unspoken desire between us. “Hand me your shirt,” I said quickly, needing the distraction. His smirk sharpened. He peeled it off with unhurried ease, like he was undressing for pleasure, not practicality. Tattoos rippled across his chest—inked crowns, words etched in Italian, dark swirls that dared you to stare. I did. “Like what you see?” His voice teased, darkly amused. I rolled my eyes, snatching the shirt, hiding the fact that my mouth had gone dry. In the restroom, I locked the door fast. My back pressed against it, heart hammering. The shirt was ruined—far too fine for my clumsy attempts. Still, I dabbed at it, inhaled without meaning to. God. Even his scent was addictive. Expensive, sharp, threaded with something wild. When I stepped back out, he was waiting on the couch, shirtless, lounging like temptation itself. He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, predatory. My skin prickled. My body wanted to lean into him, but my brain screamed danger. “All done,” I said quickly, extending the shirt like a shield. He ignored it, closing the distance until I was backed against the wall. His hand grazed my cheek, calloused warmth against flushed skin. “What’s your name, angel?” “Hera,” I whispered. My own voice betrayed me, soft and willing. “Hera,” he repeated, savoring it. “Like the goddess.” His eyes gleamed, as though he already knew how my name would sound gasped against his mouth. I nodded, caught in his spell. “My dad named me… said I was too beautiful for anything less.” His mouth curved. “A beautiful name for a woman wasted on weak men.” Heat surged in my chest. My lips parted, but his fingers brushed a stray curl behind my ear, the intimacy undoing me more than his words. “What’s your name?” I asked, though part of me knew I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have wanted to know him. He leaned in, breath hot against my throat. “Names are meaningless. But if you’re going to scream it later, I’ll give you mine. Ace.” His lips ghosted my skin, not quite kissing, cruel in their restraint. Ace. Even the name felt like a game you didn’t win, the temptation stronger than reason itself. His mouth finally crashed on mine. The taste of him was fire and smoke, pulling me under before I could fight. My hands clutched his neck, nails digging, my body betraying every protest. His kiss was dominance, demand, sin. Stop, my mind begged. This wasn’t me. He was a stranger. I’d regret it. But when his hand gripped my thigh, sliding up to the lace of my underwear, the word dissolved on my tongue. I should have pushed him away. Instead I arched closer, desperate for more of his heat. He chuckled against my lips, the sound low and knowing. “That’s it, angel. You’re already mine.” I hated how true it felt. For one fleeting second, Ryan’s voice cut through: You’re not even all that. Shame clawed at me, dragging me back toward reason. I shouldn’t have wanted this man. I shouldn’t have given myself to someone who radiated danger like perfume. But Ace’s touch burned away doubt. His grip was possession and promise all at once. His storm-colored eyes pinned me, daring me to resist. I didn’t. I surrendered. Just one night, one sin, I told myself as his mouth claimed mine again, as if excuses would save me when morning came. Tomorrow I would leave this behind. Pretend it had never happened. But that night, wrapped in his danger, I couldn’t imagine ever letting go.