I had just stepped out of the bar, still buzzing from alcohol, the model’s touch lingering on my skin, when I froze. He was there again.
Leaning against his car, tall and immovable, the masked man looked as though he had been carved from the night itself. My stomach twisted—not with fear this time, but with something far more dangerous.
His head tilted the moment he saw me. He didn’t speak, but I felt the weight of his gaze drag across me, heavy, inevitable. My throat tightened. My body betrayed me with a pulse of heat I didn’t want to name. He gestured for me to come closer.
I hated how quickly my legs obeyed. I should’ve turned away, but shame was already my second skin. I walked to him, trying to read his face through the mask, trying to catch some flicker of emotion. What unsettled
