POV: Wet Fantasy (YOUR POV)

I shouldn’t have come tonight.

The bass crawls under my skin the second I step into the club. Lights flash too bright, bodies press too close, and my friends are already lost in the crowd, laughing at nothing. I stay near the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass I barely taste, trying to look like I belong.

Then I feel it.

Your eyes.

I know who you are. Everyone does. The young billionaire, Sean King. The most-sought after bachelor. The one whose name sits on the front of magazines and in the mouths of people who will never touch the kind of money you move without thinking.

You’re standing higher up, glass loose in your hand, half-listening to someone who doesn’t matter. For one second your gaze cuts through the noise and lands on me.

I look away so fast my neck hurts.

I’m the plain one. Black dress because it’s safe. Hair simple. No performance. Men like you don’t notice women like me unless you need a signature. So I stare at my drink and tell myself I’m leaving after this one. I’m not a party girl. I never have been.

I finish the glass too fast and push off the bar, already planning my escape. Bathroom first. Then out.

The hallway is narrower, darker, the music reduced to a distant throb. I keep my head down, one hand on the wall, and walk straight into a solid chest.

Your hands catch my elbows before I can bounce off.

“Shit—sorry,” you say, voice low and close.

I look up and the air leaves my lungs.

You’re right there. Up close you’re worse—dark eyes, that mouth, the faint scent of expensive cologne and something warmer underneath. You’re still holding my arms, thumbs resting just above my elbows like you have every right.

“I…” I start, but stopped.

You don’t let go. Your grip tightens, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep me there. Your gaze drags over my face, slow and deliberate, cataloguing every plain detail.

“You caught my attention,” you say, quiet enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Out there. You’ve been trying very hard not to look at me.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “You’re drunk.”

“Not even close.” Your thumb strokes once over the inside of my arm. “And you’re beautiful. Even when you’re pretending you don’t want to be seen.”

My heart does something stupid and traitorous. I pull back, or try to. You let me go, but the ghost of your hands stays on my skin.

“I have to go,” I mutter, and walk past you toward the exit hallway, pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I make it three steps.

Your hand closes around my wrist and spins me. My back hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me. You step in, one thigh sliding between mine, both hands planting on either side of my head. The space between us disappears. I can feel the heat of you, the solid wall of your chest, the way your breath brushes my mouth.

Up close you’re devastating. The sharp line of your jaw, the dark intensity in your eyes, the way your lips part just slightly like you’re already thinking about what they could do.

“I like you,” you say, voice rougher now. “I don’t say that lightly. One night. Let me have you, and I’ll give you anything you want. Money. Access. Whatever pretty thing your head can invent. Just say yes.”

I should shove you. Should tell you to fuck off. Instead my body betrays me, my nipples tightening under my dress, heat pooling low and sudden between my legs, my breath coming too fast. You smell like danger and money and something darker, and every place our bodies touch burns.

You don’t wait for an answer.

Your mouth crashes onto mine.

It isn’t soft. It’s filthy from the first second, tongue sliding against mine like you already own the inside of me. I make a helpless sound and kiss you back harder, fingers fisting in the front of your shirt. You growl into my mouth and press closer, the hard ridge of your cock grinding against my stomach through your trousers.

One of your hands leaves the wall and drags down my side, over the curve of my waist, then lower until you’re cupping my ass and yanking me tighter against that thick length.

I feel how big you are. How hard. How ready.

Your other hand shoves under the hem of my dress, palm skating up the bare skin of my thigh until your fingers find the edge of my underwear. You don’t tease. You push the fabric aside and drag two thick fingers through the slick mess between my legs.

“Fuck,” you mutter against my lips. “Already this wet for me? You were going to walk out of here dripping and pretend you didn’t want it.”

I whimper when you push those fingers inside me, slow and deep, stretching me open while your thumb finds my clit and rubs in tight circles. My hips jerk. You fuck me with your hand right there in the hallway, the wet sound of it filthy under the distant bass, your mouth never leaving mine.

You kiss like you’re starving—biting my lower lip, sucking on my tongue, breathing hard against my cheek when I clench around your fingers.

“That’s it,” you rasp. “Soak my hand. I want to feel how desperate this pretty cunt gets when a real man finally touches it.”

I’m shaking. My thighs tremble around your wrist. You curl your fingers and find a spot that makes my vision spark white, and I have to bite down on your shoulder to keep from crying out. You laugh low and dark, free hand sliding up to squeeze my breast through the dress, thumb flicking over the stiff nipple.

“One night,” you say again, voice wrecked. “I’ll ruin you for anyone else. I’ll fuck you until you forget your own name, then buy you whatever apology you need in the morning. Just stop running.”

For a second I almost say yes. My body is already halfway there, hips rocking on your hand, mouth open against your neck, every nerve screaming for more. You feel too good. Too sure. Too much.

Then something colder cuts through the heat.

I shove at your chest.

You step back just enough that your fingers slide free of me with an obscene wet sound. I can still feel the stretch of them. My underwear is ruined. My lips feel swollen. My whole body is throbbing.

“I’m not that kind of woman,” I say, voice shaking. “I don’t care how much money you have. I’m not for sale.”

Your eyes are black in the low light, chest rising and falling hard. You look at the shine on your fingers, then deliberately lick them clean while holding my gaze. The sight punches the air out of me all over again.

I turn and walk—almost run—toward the exit, legs unsteady, dress sticking to my thighs. I don’t look back. I can’t.

Outside the night air hits me like a slap. I keep walking, heart still slamming, the ghost of your mouth and your hands burned into every place you touched. I tell myself it’s over. That I’ll never see you again. That men like you move on the second a woman says no.

My phone buzzes in my bag.

I pull it out with shaking hands.

Unknown number.

One message.

[You can run, little rabbit. But I already know how you taste. And I’m not finished.]

I stare at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears, the wet heat between my legs still throbbing in time with the words.