The club vibrated through her bones. Thick bass from speakers she couldn't see pulsed under Elena's skin, shook the champagne in her glass, rattled the ice against crystal. The air was heavy—perfume and spilled alcohol and the warm press of bodies packed too close in the violet dim.

Three days since the sunrise. Three days since she'd sat in his lap on that cliffside terrace and told him she wanted more than a moment. Three days since he'd said he wasn't going anywhere.

And for three days, he'd barely looked at her.

Elena watched from the curved leather booth as Damien laughed at something Jessica whispered in his ear. His hand rested on her bare thigh—Jessica's skirt had ridden up to her hip bone, and she'd draped herself across him like she owned him, honey-brown hair spilling across his shoulder, her mouth too close to his throat.

"Another round?" A waitress appeared at Elena's elbow, cleavage spilling from a sequined top, tray balanced on her palm.

"I'm fine." Elena's voice came out thin. She cleared her throat. "She'll want another." She nodded at Jessica, who was already draining her glass one-handed while her other hand traced patterns on Damien's chest through his shirt.

The waitress left. Elena's fingers tightened around her own glass. She hadn't touched it in twenty minutes.

Across the booth, a stunning brunette in a red dress caught Damien's eye from the edge of the VIP section. He smiled at her—that slow, devastating curve of his mouth—and the woman preened, touching her hair. Then he turned back to Jessica, ignoring her completely. But Elena had seen it. She'd seen which women he looked at. Tall. Curvy. Full-breasted. The ones who knew how to wield their bodies like weapons.

She looked down at herself. The modest navy dress she'd chosen suddenly felt like armor she didn't know how to take off.

"Elena."

Her head snapped up. Damien's ice-blue eyes were on her—finally on her—and something in her chest clenched so hard she nearly gasped.

"You've barely said a word all night." His voice carried over the music, low and smooth, cutting through the bass like a blade. "Everything alright?"

Polite. Distant. The voice he used with strangers.

"I'm fine," she said again.

He held her gaze for a beat too long. Then Jessica's hand slid up his chest, curled around the back of his neck, and pulled his mouth back to hers.

Elena looked away. The ice in her glass was melting. She watched the water dilute the last of the champagne and told herself the burn in her chest was the alcohol.

______

She didn't know how much time passed. Songs blurred into each other. The bass kept pounding. Jessica kept drinking, and laughing, and touching Damien like she was branding him in front of the whole club.

And then Jessica was climbing onto his lap.

Not gracefully. Aggressively. She swung her leg over his thighs and straddled him, her skirt hiking up to her waist, the violet light catching the pale skin of her hips. She ground down against him—deliberate, filthy, her pelvis rolling in tight circles—and Elena couldn't look away.

Damien's hands found Jessica's hips. His fingers dug into her flesh, dimpling the skin through her dress, and he pulled her harder against him. Elena saw the shape of him through his trousers. Hard. Thick. Jessica was grinding directly onto it, her head falling back, a moan escaping her throat that was loud enough to hear even over the music.

"Fuck, Damien." Jessica's voice was a broken whisper, her hands fisting in his hair. "Right there. Don't stop."

He didn't stop. He dragged her closer, her pelvis flush against his, and Elena watched his jaw tighten, watched the controlled way he breathed through the pleasure. Then he bent his head and buried his face between Jessica's breasts.

Elena's glass slipped from her fingers. It hit the leather seat beside her, bounced, landed upright. She didn't pick it up.

Damien's mouth found Jessica's nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. He sucked hard, and Jessica cried out, her back arching, her fingers tightening in his hair. He pulled the fabric aside with his teeth, exposing her—full, pale, erect nipple glistening wet—and took her into his mouth.

"Oh God." Jessica's hips bucked against him. "Yes. Suck me. Please."

He did. Groaning against her skin, his hands gripping her hips to guide the rhythm, his mouth working her breast with a hunger that made Elena's thighs press together involuntarily. Jessica's head dropped forward, her hair falling around them both, and she ground harder, faster, her wetness soaking through his trousers.

Elena's throat burned. She couldn't swallow. She couldn't look away. The jealousy hit her like a physical blow—sharp and hot and shameful, coiling in her stomach, spreading through her chest until she couldn't breathe. She wanted that. She wanted his mouth on her. She wanted him to look at her the way he looked at Jessica right now, like she was the only woman in the room.

But she wasn't. She was the one in the corner, watching, her hands empty, her body still untouched because she was too shy, too scared, too caught up in guilt to reach for what she wanted.

Damien released Jessica's nipple with a wet pop. He kissed up her throat, slow and deliberate, and then his mouth was on hers again, devouring her, his tongue sliding deep as his hands kneaded her hips, guiding her grinding.

Jessica moaned into his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling, desperate. "I'm close," she gasped against his lips. "I'm so close, Damien—"

"Not here." His voice was rough, strained, but controlled. He gripped her hips, stilling her. "Later."

Jessica whined. But she nodded, her chest heaving, her lips swollen and wet. She stayed in his lap, pressed against him, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Elena's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the leather booth and tried to steady her breathing.

Jessica turned her head, still draped across Damien's chest, and looked at Elena with hooded, satisfied eyes. "You okay, E?"

"Fine." The word came out strangled. "Just—need some air."

She slid out of the booth before either of them could respond. Her legs felt unsteady as she pushed through the crowd toward the bathroom, the bass pounding in her skull, the image of Damien's mouth on Jessica's breast burned into the back of her eyelids.

______

She stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes. Splashed cold water on her face. Stared at her reflection—pale, wide-eyed, the ghost of a girl who'd thought she could resist a man like Damien Blackwood by thinking about it hard enough.

When she came out, Jessica was on the dance floor.

She'd found a spotlight somehow. A circular patch of flashing color where she moved like she owned it—hips swaying, arms above her head, her body a weapon she knew exactly how to use. Men watched her. Women watched her. She didn't care. She was dancing for one person, and Elena knew it.

She made her way back to the booth, her heart hammering with every step. Damien was still there, lounging against the leather, a fresh glass in his hand. His eyes found her immediately. Tracking her. Waiting.

"Feeling better?" he asked as she slid back into her seat.

"Yes." She settled against the booth, as far from him as the curved seat allowed. "Just needed a minute."

He hummed. Took a sip of his drink. And then, without warning, he shifted closer.

His thigh pressed against hers, heavy and warm, pinning her against the leather. The heat of him enveloped her—his cologne, the alcohol on his breath, the faint salt of sweat from the dance floor. She was trapped between his body and the booth, and every nerve in her body fired at once.

"You've been quiet all night." His voice was low, meant only for her, the music swallowing it from every other ear. "Is something wrong?"

Elena's throat closed. "No."

"Liar." He said it softly, without accusation, his eyes searching hers in the violet dark. "You've barely looked at me since the sunrise."

The sunrise. The word hit her like a punch. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

She swallowed. His thigh was still against hers. His hand was on the leather beside her hip, close enough to touch. "About what happened. About—" She glanced at the dance floor, where Jessica was still moving, oblivious. "About her."

"Jessica." He said the name flatly. "What about her?"

"She's my best friend. And you're—" Elena stopped. The words tangled in her throat. "You're sleeping with her."

Damien didn't flinch. "Yes."

The honesty stunned her. She stared at him, waiting for an excuse, a deflection, a lie. He offered none.

"And you kissed me," she whispered. "You touched me. You told me you weren't going anywhere."

"I meant it." His voice dropped lower, rougher, the velvet edge of it brushing against her ear. "I'm not going anywhere, Elena. But I'm not going to pretend I don't have needs."

"Needs." The word tasted bitter.

His hand moved. Casually, like he was reaching for his drink. But instead it landed on her thigh, fingers spread, palm hot through the thin fabric of her dress. Elena's breath caught.

"I'm a patient man," he said, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her inner thigh. "But I'm not a saint. You told me you needed to think. So I'm giving you space to think. But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit in a corner and wait with my hands folded."

Her skin burned where he touched her. Her dress had ridden up when she sat down—she was wearing a modest cut, but his fingers were at the hem now, teasing the edge, not pushing past it.

"I can't—" She stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. You. Her." She gestured at the dance floor, at Jessica spinning in the flashing lights. "I don't know how to share."

He leaned closer, his mouth brushing her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Then don't share. Take what you want."

Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. His hand was still there, between them, his fingers resting at the crease of her hip.

"I want—" She stopped. Her voice broke.

"What do you want, Elena?"

The question hung between them, heavy and charged. His eyes held hers, patient, waiting, a predator who had all the time in the world.

"I don't know," she whispered.

It was a lie. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted his hand higher, inside her, claiming her. She wanted to stop being the girl in the corner who watched and wanted and never took.

But she didn't say it. The words wouldn't come.

And then someone was there.

A woman—gorgeous, Latina, with curves that belonged on a magazine cover—slid into the booth beside Damien like she'd been invited. She wore a tight black dress that hugged every inch of her, her large breasts spilling over the neckline, and she smelled like vanilla and cigarettes.

"You look lonely," she said to Damien, her voice accented, sultry. Her hand landed on his chest. "But I think that's a choice."

Elena stared. The woman's manicured fingers were tracing the outline of his pectoral muscle through his shirt. Damien didn't push her away.

"I'm not lonely," he said, but he was smiling—that slow, dangerous smile—and the woman leaned closer.

"Then maybe I am." Her hand slid down his chest, over his stomach. "And I think you can help with that."

Elena's jaw tightened. Her thigh was still pinned under his. His hand was still on her leg, but his attention had shifted entirely to the woman beside him.

The woman pressed her body against his arm, her heavy breasts squashing against his bicep. "I'm on vacation. My friends are boring. And you look like a man who knows how to have fun."

Damien laughed. Actually laughed—a low, rich sound that made something twist in Elena's chest. "What's your name?"

"You can call me whatever you want." The woman pulled out her phone, typed something, and pressed it into his hand. "Your number. In case your friends get boring too."

She looked pointedly at Elena, then back at Damien, and smiled—a slow, knowing smile that said she'd done this before and she'd win.

Damien took the phone. His fingers brushed hers, entering his number in it before returning back.

The woman leaned in and kissed his cheek—lingered, her lips soft against his skin—and then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.

Elena was breathing too fast. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the leather and tried to find her voice.

"Did you—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Did you just—"

Damien turned to her. His face was calm, unreadable. "She wanted me to give my number."

"I saw that." The words came out sharper than she intended. "You gave it."

"I did."

She stared at him, waiting for an explanation, an excuse, anything. He offered nothing.

"You're unbelievable." Her voice cracked. "You kissed me. You told me you weren't going anywhere. And now you're—" She gestured at the booth where the woman had been sitting. "You're collecting numbers?"

He leaned back, his thigh still against hers, his hand still warm on her leg. "I told you I was patient. I didn't tell you I was monogamous."

The word hit her like cold water. Monogamous. He'd never promised it. She'd never asked for it. But somehow she'd assumed—hoped—that what had happened on the terrace meant something exclusive.

"I need to go." She tried to slide out of the booth, but his hand clamped down on her thigh, firm, holding her in place.

"Not yet."

"Let me go."

He didn't. Instead, he leaned closer, his mouth brushing her ear, his voice dropping to that velvet register that made her knees weak. "I asked you what you wanted, and you couldn't tell me. That's fine. I can wait." His hand slid higher on her thigh, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. "But I'm not going to pretend I'm something I'm not. You should know exactly what you're getting into before you decide."

Elena's breath was shallow, ragged. His hand was so close. She could feel the heat of his palm through her panties, could feel how wet she was despite everything—the jealousy, the anger, the shame.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.

"Then don't." His thumb traced the edge of her underwear, not crossing, just teasing. "But I'm not going anywhere. Whenever you're ready—whatever you decide—I'll be here."

She looked at him. His ice-blue eyes held hers, patient, steady, utterly certain.

"One walk," he said. "Tomorrow evening. We can watch the sunset together, just the two of us. No Jessica. No distractions." His hand finally stilled, resting warm and heavy on her thigh. "What do you say?"

Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear the music. Every instinct told her to say no—to protect herself, to preserve whatever was left of her guilt, her hesitation, her illusion of control.

But looking at him—feeling his hand on her thigh, remembering his mouth on hers—she knew she'd already lost.

"Okay," she breathed. "Tomorrow."

He smiled. A slow, satisfied curve of his lips that made her stomach flip. Then he stood, pulling his hand away, leaving her skin cold where he'd touched her.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll get Jessica."

He stepped onto the dance floor, and Elena watched him move through the crowd—confident, unhurried, every eye following him. He found Jessica in the flashing lights, pulled her against him, and began to dance.

Their bodies moved together like they'd been doing it for years. Jessica's back against his chest, her hips rolling against his thigh, her head tilted back against his shoulder. His hands on her hips, guiding her, owning her.

And then, over Jessica's shoulder, his eyes found Elena's across the room.

The violet light crossed between them, dancing with the beat. The crowd shifted, bodies parting and reforming. But his gaze held hers, unbroken, a dark thread pulling taut across the distance.

Elena couldn't look away. She didn't want to.

His fingers curved into Jessica's hip, possessive, claiming. But his eyes were locked on Elena, blue against blue, a conversation happening in silence across the pulsing room.

She pressed her thighs together, the ghost of his hand still burning on her skin, and felt the last of her resistance crumble into ash.