Chapter 2 The Night to forget

The music in the club pulsed like a second heartbeat, too loud, too alive, Clara tugged at the hem of her dress Elena had insisted she wear. It shimmered under the lights, second -hand but flattering, hugging her hips and dipping dangerously low in the back.

She didn't belong here.

Not among the glittering women with champagne laughs or the tailored men who looked like they'd stepped out of a designer catalogs.

But Elena wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Just one night Clara.Forget the bills. Forget the hospital. Forget everything.

Clara had forced a smile. But it wasn't until she saw him, really saw him, that she forgot how heavy her world was.

He was standing in a private corner, dark eyes watching the crowd like he was bored of everything he saw.

Except her.

Because when their eyes met,something shifted.

Something hot, Dangerous, Irrevocable.

He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just tilted his glass slightly towards her, a silent toast across the room.

Clara's breath caught.

"Elena," she whispered, nudging her friend.

"Mmhmm?" Elena followed her gaze, then gave a low whistle. " Damn. The way he's looking at you, girl.... that is not casual. That's intent."

Clara shook her head. "I'm no..."

" Yes, you are. For once in your life, let someone look at you like that. Like you're not broken. Like you're everything."

The bartender slid a drink her way.A single scotch, neat. Clara frowned.

"From him," the bartender said.

She looked up again.The man didn't look away.

She hesitated. Then picked up the glass, raised it in acknowledgment, and took a slow sip.

By the time she made her way to the dance floor, her cheeks were warm, her nerves calmer

He was already there, waiting.

Tall. Composed. Magnetic.

"I don't usually do this,"she said standing in front of him.

"Neither do I," he said. But his voice was smooth, amused. "You look like you need rescuing."

"From what?"

"Yourself."

She almost laughed. "Then maybe you do know me."

They danced.

Slow. Close. Like the music was background to something much older, much deeper. His hands slid low on her back, and the other brushed lightly along her wrist. Not possessive. Just aware. Intimate.

Clara tried not to breathe too loudly, tried not to shiver every time his gaze dropped to her lips before returning to her eyes.

"You're unusually quiet... Should I be flattered or concerned?" he murmured against her ear, his voice a soft thread of heat.

Clara swallowed, her pulse thudding like a war drum beneath her skin. "I get a little quiet when someone makes my heart race."

"So I do have that effect on you?" he asked, a smug gleam dancing in his eyes.

"Don't let it go to your head," she shot back, but her tone lacked bite.

Nicholas smirked, stepping closer just enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. His presence was a force, a gravity she couldn't quite resist.

"Too late. I'm already dangerously close to thinking you like me."

Her brow lifted, lips tugging into a slow, sly smile. "Dangerously close? That sounds dramatic."

"I don't do halfway," he said, voice unwavering. "Especially not with you."

Her breath caught just a flicker but he noticed. He always noticed.

"You're very sure of yourself," she said, trying to keep her tone level.

"Only when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" she asked, heart skipping.

He leaned in, his voice a velvet tease. "Like you're trying not to fall and failing beautifully."

She laughed, soft and nervous, but didn't step back.

"You're impossible," she said.

"And you're irresistible when you're flustered," he murmured.

"After their dance, they drifted toward the bar.

She downed her second drink.

The third burned a little less.

The fourth slid down like silk.

By the fifth, she was light, weightless.

"You keep looking at me like you're waiting for permission," she whispered, her voice low and daring.

His gaze sharpened. "I'm waiting for a yes."

Her heart pounded. She leaned in, breath warm against his ear. "If I ask you to take me somewhere else... will you?"

He didn't smile.

He just took her hand.

The elevator to the penthouse whispered shut behind them.

Clara barely had time to turn before her back hit the mirror. His hands braced beside her, not touching yet. Not until she looked up at him.

And kissed him first.

That kiss.

God.

It wasn't a question, it was a promise. Their mouths collided in a tangle of breath and hunger and confusion and relief. Her hands slipped beneath his jacket, over his shirt, dragging him closer. He groaned against her lips, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her hip with restraint that was quickly vanishing.

The elevator dinged.

Neither of them moved until it opened.

The suite was carved in shadows and soft light to floor -to-celling windows framing the city like a dream. Clara barely registered the luxury. She barely saw the skyline.

She only saw him.

He untied his jacket. Loosened his tie with one hand.

She stepped out of her heels, her bare feet cool against the marble.

"You're trembling,"he said, his voice low.

I want to forget tonight," she whispered. "Everything but this."

Nicholas came to her slowly, like a man used to waiting. Like he respected the space between them too much to break it unless she did first.

She did.

The dress slipped from her shoulders with the softest sigh of silk. He caught it before it could fall, his movements careful, almost reverent, and draped it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. Then he turned back to her eyes dark, focused like she was the only thing that existed in the world.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw, then the curve of her throat, and finally the delicate hollow of her collarbone, each kiss slow and deliberate. Each touch felt like a vow silent, unspoken, and overwhelming.

Clara's body hummed, alive with sensation. Every brush of his lips, every pass of his fingers along her skin, made her feel unraveled in the most exquisite way. This wasn't just desire it was something deeper. He didn't rush. He didn't ask. He didn't fumble.

He simply was steady, grounded, and achingly present.

When his shirt dropped to the floor, her hands explored him with the same quiet urgency. Fingers traced the lines of sculpted muscle and taut tension, learning him by touch, by feel, by breath. They fell into the bed like gravity had claimed them, like there was never any other direction to go but toward each other.

What followed wasn't frantic.

It wasn't casual.

It was worship.

He took his time devouring her slowly, completely like she was something rare, something sacred. Her legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer. Her hands tangled in his hair, gripped his shoulders, pulled him down into the fire they'd both been trying to ignore.

She whispered his name only once soft, reverent, unsure if it was even real. But it didn't matter. Because what they were building in that bed wasn't about names.

Their bodies moved together, slow at first, savoring the pull, the friction, the growing need that built with every breath, every stroke, every stifled moan pressed into skin. Her nails left trembling trails across his back, marks he didn't shy away from marks he seemed to crave.

When he lost control, his hand braced against the headboard, muscles trembling, voice fractured in her ear.

He murmured something low, raw, and in a language she didn't understand.

But the words hit her like a secret.

Like something she wasn't meant to hear.

Something she'd never forget.

They lay tangled, slick with sweat and heat and silence.

His hand rested on her ribcage. Her head on his chest.

Sleep found her without asking.