Claimed By Midnight

The rain descended upon the city, fast, cold, and angry.

Aria Bennett was standing on the sidewalk, frozen. Her cream dress was now clinging to her skin, soaked and wrinkled by the rain. Her heels were probably ruined too. Her makeup had just about given up, melting away from her cheeks and streaking down like a warrior's paint.

For her, none of these somehow mattered. Not the dress, not the rain, and not the cold wind clawing at her exposed arms like retribution.

Tonight, all losses were on her side.

One text had shattered her illusion of being normal. One message, meant for some other girl, but sent to her by mistake:

"She'll be gone in twenty--sneak in then"

Tyler. Her boyfriend. Her safety net. Her liar.

She hadn't confronted him. She somehow didn't need to. In fact, she never needed to. She came in through the apartment door and had her fill of a sight-his shirt lying on the floor, her so-called best friend's heels crooked in the hallway, and carrying with them a moan unmistakably betraying that came from the very bedroom she shared with him half the rent.

Now, maybe it was the cheating. But the worst part, maybe, was her feeling no shock.

Just numb.

That's when Aria walked out: no suitcase, no shouted fight, no tears. Just her phone and purse, and a heart-deep ache that had been lying in wait for, well, maybe forever.

Now she was standing mounted outside Club Lucid, a place she had only heard mentioned in whispers.

This isn't one of those clubs you wait for hours in line or take obsessive pictures for attention. No, this is that kind of place for people who want to go incognito-and know-how pays for it.

The bouncer looked for a moment at her and stood still. She met his hollow and burning eyes. Without speaking, he stepped away and made way for her.

There was not much volume in the music inside: it was nothing short of intimate. It was a slow, pulsing heartbeat that traveled through the floor. The gold glimmered against the dark wood and mirrored walls.

Laughter curled through the air accompanied by low murmurs, much alike smoke.

It smelled like perfume, whiskey, and secrets.

Aria planted herself at the bar with nothing left to cling to.

"One shot of something that burns," she said.

The bartender slid the glass toward her without asking for ID at the kind of place this was.

The glass was dry in one gulp. It went down burning, hard hitting in the solar plexus. She wanted more. Not of the drink-but more of this. More of distraction. More of escape.

The man in his business attire leaned down alongside her. "Rough night?" he asked with an experienced smile.

She gave him a flat look. "Worse now."

His brow lifted slightly, and he moved past her.

Then came another man, cleaner cut and with a flashier air about him. "Can I buy you a-"

"No." Her voice conveyed calm dignity that let no room for argument.

They didn't get it. She was not here to be flirted with. She was here to lose herself-to forget who she was and everything that had torn her apart.

And then she felt him.

Before she saw him, she felt him.

Her eyes searched the room-and finally landed on the man located in the shadows. He was sitting in a velvet booth, sipping on some dark liquor, just glaring into her as if he wouldn't find anything better than to observe all the soaked and broken parts of her."

His gaze was sharp. Intense. Dangerous.

A man who knew all he wanted. And when they looked in each other's eyes, Aria's breath seemed to be sucked away.

She should have looked away. But she didn't.

He gave her the smallest nod-almost just a tilt of his head-and she felt dared, or almost ordered, to do something.

She melted into his arms as if gravity were pouring onto her.

Her heels knocked on marble. Every step seemed to increase her heartbeat. She didn't know this man. Didn't even know his name. But the way he looked at her-like some sort of ownership-sent chills up her spine.

He rose when she reached him, tall even by six-three standards. The man wore an expensive suit, sans tie, an unbuttoned collar on his shirt. Weighty was the presence. He didn't merely walk into rooms; he owned them.

He stayed silent and simply extended one hand.

No games. No introductions.

Her fingers found his, and the heat between them sizzled like static electricity.

He led her by past velvet curtains and guarded doors through a back hallway to a private suite. Not a hotel room, not a club booth.

A den of sin, clad in black silk and dim lighting.

He shut the door behind them.

She slowly turned, suddenly aware of the sound of her own breath. Her soaked dress clung to her thighs. Her heart beat with something very nearly fear.

The stranger drew closer to her.

"You sure you want this?" he asked, his voice low and rough with the contrast of silk.

The flood affected her gaze. Her body was trembling-not from cold.

"Yes," she whispered.

She kissed him.

Her kiss was not tender but hungry. Desperate. A moving agreement between two persons that did not want to be saved.

His hands went to her waist and then to her back, drawing her tightly toward him.

Her fingers found their way into his hair as he forced her against the wall with controlled strength.

Clothes dropped away. Moans escaped. Reason fled.

Every touch wiped away a bit of her memory she wished not to recall.

Every breath just made her crave for more.

She didn't ask for his name, and he didn't inquire about hers.

Because it had nothing to do with who they were.

It was about what they needed.

And tonight-they needed each other.