It started harmless.
Luca was the one who pulled them all back to the floor, drunk off his own ego and one-and-a-half espresso martinis. He declared, "We didn't fly from Paris to sip quietly. We came to move."
Renee was already barefoot. Valeria ditched her clutch in a velvet booth and tied her hair up like she was about to commit sin. Elias offered his hand to Eliana with a deep, theatrical bow. She laughed, feeling the weight of champagne in her knees and the glitter of midnight on her skin.
And then they danced.
Together, the six of them moved as a unit—laughing, spinning, swaying, teasing. Eliana found herself caught between Renee's hips and Valeria's perfume, Luca spinning her dramatically, Elias dipping her like she was made of silk.
But it didn't stay light forever.
Not when the music changed.
Not when the beat slowed, the bass deepened, and the air itself seemed to turn thick like syrup.
Not when the others started stepping back, one by one, to grab drinks or flirt or simply watch.
And suddenly—it was just her and Nicky.
Dancing.
Close.
Too close.
She didn't know when it happened. One moment, they were all moving in a circle, laughing. The next, she was alone with him, surrounded by the blur of bodies, her body pulled into the orbit of his without warning.
The crowd pressed in. The music pulsed. And Nicky's hand was suddenly on her waist.
Not light.
Not friendly.
Just there.
Firm.
And then they were swaying together, slow and unspoken, like they'd always danced like this.
Like they were made for it.
His eyes were on hers, but also not—his gaze flickering between her mouth, her collarbone, her lips again. He looked like he wanted to say something but forgot the language.
She turned, back against his chest, her arms sliding up—she didn't know if it was on purpose—and his hands followed.
One at her hip.
The other...
Low.
Too low.
The crowd pushed again. He stumbled forward, and suddenly they were pressed skin to skin, his thigh between hers, his chest to her back.
She inhaled sharply.
And then—
A moan.
Soft. Choked.
Right in her ear.
Her heart exploded.
He didn't even pull away.
His breath was hot against her neck, and his hands—God, his hands—were at her waist, sliding downward with each beat of the song, just barely tracing her curves like he was checking if she was real.
And then—he cupped her ass.
Not fully. Not blatantly. But enough.
Enough to make her knees shake.
Enough to make her head tilt back just a little, her mouth parted.
She should've pulled away. Should've said something. Should've reminded him they were just friends.
But her body leaned back into him like it had its own plans.
And his hand didn't move.
If anything, it tightened.
His lips were still near her ear, and he was breathing like he was drowning.
And she realized—he was just as gone as she was.
They didn't speak. Didn't laugh it off. Didn't even look around to see if anyone was watching.
Because in that moment, the rest of the room ceased to exist.
There was only this heat.
Only this body.
Only this man who had been distant, cold, unreadable for weeks, now holding her like a secret, like a confession, like he wanted to be bad and couldn't stop himself.
And Eliana?
She didn't stop him.
She leaned back further, skin burning.
His hand shifted again, just slightly, dragging over the thin fabric at her hip.
A warning. A promise. A plea.
And then—his mouth brushed the shell of her ear, and she heard it:
"I can't keep doing this."
But his hands didn't let go.
It wasn't supposed to go this far.
Eliana told herself that even as her back pressed harder into Nicky's chest, the beat drilling down into her bones like it had a hand of its own.
But his hands were already there.
On her waist. On her hips. On her.
Gripping.
Guiding.
The crowd was thick, bodies pressing in from every side, the music thick and pounding like sex itself—but they barely noticed anymore. Somewhere along the line, dancing turned into grinding, and grinding turned into a desperate sort of movement that had nothing to do with rhythm and everything to do with want.
Nicky's hand slipped from her waist to the curve of her ass again—but lower this time. His fingers dug in, pulling her hips back into his with a force that made her gasp. She could feel him—hard, hot, and pushing against the seam of her ass like he didn't care who saw.
He didn't say a word. Neither did she.
There was no room for talking here.
Just the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears and the way his body moved against hers like he'd lost the ability to pretend.
Eliana's hands slid down, gripping his thighs behind her as she pressed back, slowly, deliberately, dragging herself along the line of him until she felt the smallest tremble in his breath against her neck.
"Fuck," he muttered, almost too low to hear. His voice sounded wrecked. Ruined.
He grinded forward, catching the shape of her through her dress, like he needed friction. Like he needed her.
His hand slid lower, across her inner thigh, and just hovered there—dangerously close to the center of her heat, fingers barely brushing the edge of her underwear beneath the fabric. She twitched, sucking in a sharp breath.
"You're—" he started, then stopped.
His other hand reached up, sliding along her side, over the swell of her breast, not cupping it—not quite—but pressing enough that her nipple tightened beneath the fabric.
She let out a breath that almost sounded like a whimper.
Everything was too much.
Too hot. Too desperate. Too close.
Eliana rocked her hips back into him again, dragging herself along the thick ridge pressing against her, and Nicky groaned—a raw, unfiltered sound straight into her neck that made her knees wobble.
His hand at her thigh moved again—his fingers under now, slipping between her legs with her dress bunched just enough that it wasn't stopping him. He didn't go under her panties, but it was so fucking close, his knuckles pressing into her heat like a tease, like he wanted to feel how wet she was through the fabric and die knowing.
She could feel his jaw pressed against her temple, clenched tight.
"Eliana," he breathed. "Fuck—this is—"
She arched into him, her breath hitching.
His fingers moved again, and this time, one of them—just the tip—slid along her heat over her panties, slow, dragging. She felt her whole body tighten.
"Nicky," she gasped. Not pleading. Not stopping him. Just saying his name like it was the only thing she could remember.
Then—he froze.
She could feel it—the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught like he'd just realized what he was doing.
His hands pulled back, slow, trembling.
And she turned.
Face flushed.
Eyes wide.
Hair stuck to her neck.
They just stood there, staring, panting, the world still moving around them but nothing else real except what they'd just done fully clothed in the middle of a crowded VIP club.
Her voice came out hoarse.
"We can't."
He nodded slowly, jaw tight, throat working.
"I know."
But neither of them moved.
She finally stepped back—just one step—pulling her dress down slightly like that would fix it. Her whole body buzzed, nerves lit on fire, her underwear wet and clinging, thighs tight from the friction.
She looked at him, really looked.
He was flushed. Eyes heavy. Hard. His pants did nothing to hide the evidence.
Eliana inhaled deeply.
"Let's go back," she said, barely audible.
He didn't argue.