Dominic's POV
The club pulsed like a heartbeat.
Low lights. Slow jazz. Sin dripping from every curve of the walls.
Dominic Wayne didn't belong here.
But here he was—suited in black, jaw locked, jawline sharper than a goddamn knife.
He stood near the back of the dim lounge, the heavy scent of whiskey and perfume coiling around him like a lover's whisper. All around, men lounged with cigars, women fluttered in silk and lace, and the singer's voice floated across the room in a sultry rhythm.
He hadn't heard the name when Ivan brought him the intel.
Just the place.
A lounge downtown. A hidden bar in the basement of an art deco hotel. Alisha sings there sometimes under a fake name.
Dominic didn't think twice.
He came.
And now…
Now he regretted nothing.
Because she was on the stage.
Alisha.
Only… not the girl he remembered.
This Alisha was wildfire incarnate.
She stood at the mic like she owned the air. Her red dress was a crime - red silk that clung to every inch of her like a second skin, slit up one thigh like temptation itself, the neckline a dangerous promise.
Her hair fell in loose curls, just wild enough to suggest how she might look under him, flushed, gasping, undone.
Dominic's fingers curled at his sides.
She opened her mouth, and the room changed.
Velvet vocals. Raw, low, sultry.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't understand why the hell his pulse was reacting like he was some lovesick teenager.
He didn't do this.
He didn't feel.
And yet every damn nerve ending in his body was tuned to her.
Every note, every sway of her hips, every glance she threw the crowd was a direct assault on the walls he'd built his entire life around.
Then she looked up and saw him.
Right there.
Back of the room.
Tall. Stone-faced. Uninvited.
Her breath caught.
Her voice trembled, just slightly but she didn't falter.
No, Alisha Brandon met his gaze like a dare and sang harder.
Hotter.
Dominic's jaw clenched.
She was playing with fire.
And she didn't even know he was the fire.
---
He stayed until the end of her set.
The crowd roared. She bowed once and disappeared behind a velvet curtain.
Dominic was already moving.
He didn't ask the bouncer.
He didn't wait for permission.
He followed her scent down a back hallway, passed the dressing rooms, ignoring the startled stares from staff.
He found her just as she slid off her heels in a narrow, dimly lit green room.
She didn't scream.
Didn't flinch.
She just… looked at him.
Like she expected this.
Like she knew.
"You followed me," she said, voice low.
Dominic leaned against the door, his suit still perfect, his eyes lethal.
"I did."
"Are you going to tell me why?"
He exhaled, slow. Like if he didn't pace his breath, he'd say something dangerous.
"I don't chase women."
"Clearly."
"You're not the exception."
Her brow arched. "Could've fooled me."
A tense silence.
He looked her over, really looked and nearly swore aloud.
"Where did you get that dress?" he asked, voice darker now, laced with something possessive.
She smirked. "A thrift boutique on 6th. Why?"
"Because it should be illegal."
"Dominic Wayne concerned with modesty? That's rich."
His jaw ticked. "You're enjoying this."
"Maybe."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
His eyes burned into hers.
"Because I don't do this, Alisha."
"Do what?"
"This." He stepped closer, slow, stalking. "Wanting. Thinking. Feeling. You are a problem. A glitch in my system."
"Sounds personal," she said, but her voice was breathier now.
He was close.
So close she could smell the citrus and dark musk of his cologne, feel the heat off his chest, see the vein ticking in his neck.
"You poured coffee on me."
"You deserved it."
"You danced with another man at my gala."
"You ran like a coward."
That hit.
Hard.
His hand reached out before he could stop it. Fingers brushing her waist, just barely, just enough to test if her skin burned like his own.
She gasped.
And he hated that he liked that sound so much.
"I'm warning you," he growled.
She tilted her chin, breath shallow. "Or what?"
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His mind was split down the middle. One side screamed to leave. To crush this distraction. To fuck someone else and forget.
But the other.....
The other side wanted to pull the zipper down that criminal red dress.
Wanted to ruin her in ways that would make the devil blush.
---
"Why are you really here?" she whispered.
"I should be asking you that," he replied, still so close their mouths nearly touched. "Who are you really, Alisha? You're not just some waitress. You're not just some girl who sings in hidden clubs and reads romance novels it's early in the morning."
She gasped. Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"Because I make it my job to know things. And you're... unfinished business."
"You mean a complication."
"Yes."
"And you hate complications."
"I do."
"Then leave."
He didn't.
Neither did she.
Their breathing synced, ragged, unsteady, charged.
Dominic's hand came up slow, reverent and brushed a curl from her face.
Her eyes fluttered shut at the contact.
"You're doing something to me," he said, voice hoarse.
"I'm not doing anything." She looked at him like his crazy.
"That's the problem."
She opened her eyes again.
And that's when it snapped.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't sweet.
It was war.
Teeth. Tongue. Heat.
His hands slid into her hair, pulling her close. Her back hit the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist like instinct.
The dress rode up her thigh.
He didn't care.
Neither did she.
His lips trailed down her neck, biting softly, making her moan.
Then he stopped.
Pulled back.
Breathless. Cursed.
"Fuck."
"Dominic…"
He stepped away.
Ran both hands through his hair, pacing like a man on the edge.
"This can't happen," he snapped. "I don't want this."
"Then why are you this way?" she asked.
He glared at her.
That wicked red dress.
Those swollen lips.
That smug, knowing smile.
He was losing it.
"I have a girlfriend," he muttered.
"Then go to her."
He didn't move.
Alisha crossed her arms, her own breath uneven, her pulse racing like a war drum. "Go ahead. Go back to the woman you don't love. Let her warm your bed and leave your soul cold."
His eyes burned into her.
"Don't make me want you," he said.
"You already do."
He stared.
Then walked to the door.
Paused.
Then looked back, voice low. Dangerous.
"This isn't over."
She smiled softly. "No. It's just beginning."
---
Outside, Dominic entered his blacked-out Bentley and slammed the door behind him.
His driver didn't speak.
Smart man.
Dominic leaned back, closing his eyes.
The ghost of her lips was still on his mouth.
Her laugh echoed in his ears.
Her red dress was seared into the back of his skull like a brand.
He hated this.
Hated her.
And he was going back again.
No matter how much he tried to deny it...
He wanted more.
He wanted her.