Atlas's POV
The VIP lounge is roped off, but Blair doesn't blink. She slips behind a waitress carrying a tray of champagne flutes, dragging me by the wrist like a thief on a mission.
We're in.
Dim lights, leather couches, mirrored walls. There's perfume in the air—expensive, heady—and bottles that cost more than my monthly rent. She doesn't sit. She grabs two shot glasses off a passing tray like she owns the place.
"Here," she says, handing me one.
I take it. It's heavier than I expect. The amber liquid inside smells like fire.
"I've never—"
"I know," she says. Her lips curve. "That's the point."
I hesitate.
"Don't think. Just do it."
I throw it back.
It burns.
It hits the back of my throat like acid and spreads like heat under my skin. My eyes water. My face twists.
She laughs. Loud. God, she's laughing at me.
"That bad?"
I cough. "How do people drink that?"
She doesn't answer. She just leans in closer. Her thigh brushes mine. Her hair smells like cigarette smoke and vanilla shampoo. Her dress is short—tight—and the way she looks at me?
Like I'm something she might ruin just for the thrill.
"You're too used to rules, Atlas," she says, her voice low now, nearly a whisper over the muffled bass. "You don't know what it's like to let go."
"Maybe I don't want to let go."
She tilts her head. "Liar."
There's tension. Thick enough to drown in. Her eyes flick to my mouth. I don't move. I don't breathe.
Then she leans in.
And kisses me.
Soft, at first. Tasting of whiskey and sin and some kind of desperation. Then rougher. Her fingers slip behind my neck, her other hand gripping the collar of my hoodie.
My mind blanks.
I've read a thousand books. Memorized entire case studies. Argued points in front of professors with trembling hands. But this?
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
She pulls back. Just barely. Her lips are redder now.
"That," she breathes, "is how you start breaking rules."
And just like that, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to walk away from her.
---
Her lips are still brushing mine.
She hasn't moved. Neither have I.
We're sitting too close on the velvet couch, my hands clenched on my knees like I'm bracing for impact. Her fingers trail lightly down my chest, toying with the hem of my hoodie. Her touch is lazy, teasing—like she's in no rush, like she knows I won't stop her.
She's right.
"You okay?" she murmurs.
I nod.
Liar.
She climbs into my lap without waiting. Straddling me in this half-lit corner of a stolen lounge like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like she's done this a hundred times, and I'm just another night to survive.
Except I'm not.
My breath hitches.
"Say stop," she whispers, her lips barely touching my jaw now. "Any time."
I don't.
Because I can't.
Because her mouth is on my neck now, and her hands are under my hoodie, and she's not just kissing me—she's wrecking me.
My heart pounds against her chest.
"B-Blair—"
"Shhh," she says, smiling against my skin. "Don't think, remember?"
My hands find her waist. Her dress has slipped up, her skin warm under my palms, and everything about her is messy and dangerous and intoxicating. Her hair falls around us like a curtain. My hoodie is half off my shoulder. I can smell the whiskey on her tongue, the smoke in her hair, and something sweeter—something that's just her.
When she kisses me again, it's hungrier. Deeper. Her hands yank off my hoodie like she's claiming something. And I let her. Because for once in my life, I want to be reckless.
Her mouth moves to my collarbone.
"You taste like innocence," she murmurs.
I grip her hips tighter. "You taste like trouble."
She laughs. But it's a soft, broken sound. Like she wasn't expecting to feel something too.
For one second—one single second—she looks into my eyes like she wants to say something real.
But the music swells. A door slams. And just like that, the moment is gone.
She climbs off, smooths her dress, and picks up another shot from a nearby tray.
"Come on, law boy," she says, throwing it back like water. "Let's burn down the rest of the night."
And I follow her—heart racing, lips bruised, already half-ruined.