"Can we talk?" Eliana's voice was tight, breathless.
Nicky's eyes snapped to hers. He looked like he was still trying to slow his breathing from the dance floor—like he hadn't recovered from the way her body had been grinding against him like they were lovers.
But he nodded.
Wordlessly.
She grabbed his hand. Not gently.
They slipped out the side door of the club, past velvet and marble, past the lounge's mirrored glitz, until the music faded behind them. The alley was dimly lit, private enough for a secret but not hidden enough to be safe. The air was cooler, but her skin still burned.
She turned to face him, heart pounding.
"We need to—"
But she didn't finish.
Because he kissed her.
Or maybe she kissed him.
They collided like lightning hitting gasoline—a crash of mouths and teeth and breathless desperation. There was no pause. No hesitation. Just fire.
Eliana's back hit the cool brick wall, her hands fisting into the collar of Nicky's shirt, dragging him in harder. His mouth was hungry, open, devouring her, tongue sliding deep like he needed to know her from the inside out.
It was her first time kissing him.
And God, he kissed like he meant to ruin her.
Their lips clashed again and again, frantic, messy, perfect. She moaned into his mouth and he swallowed it whole, his hands gripping her waist like anchors, thumbs digging into the curve of her hips.
Then higher.
Too high.
Fingers skating under her top, sliding up her ribs, just below her bra—touching her skin like he couldn't help himself. She arched into him, her body screaming more, more, more.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to look at her. "You're—"
She surged up, grabbing his face, kissing him again, mouth open, wet, tongue meeting his in a hot, filthy rhythm. Their teeth clashed once. Neither of them cared.
His hands were in her hair now, yanking gently to tilt her head, and he kissed her like a man starved—like he didn't know what self-control was anymore. One of his thighs pressed between her legs, and she rocked against it like she couldn't stop.
He felt it.
He groaned into her mouth, deep and broken.
Her hand slid under his shirt, nails dragging across his stomach, feeling the way his muscles clenched under her touch. He hissed. His whole body shuddered.
"Eliana," he gasped into her neck, kissing her there now, biting, licking, teeth scraping her skin until she whimpered.
"Tell me to stop," he growled. "Say it. Please. Or I won't."
But her answer was a kiss—wild, needy, biting his bottom lip until he moaned, until his hands grabbed her ass and pulled her up against him like he couldn't take it anymore.
Everywhere they touched, they burned.
Her leg wrapped around his hip, her dress sliding up her thigh, and his hand didn't stop—it gripped her bare skin like he owned it.
She was gasping now, mouthing at his jaw, kissing along his cheekbone, lips trembling with need.
He tasted like alcohol, heat, and something uniquely Nicky—dark, clean, addictive.
It was just a kiss.
But it felt like a fucking war.
Like a dam bursting.
Like every almost they'd ever ignored was finally unleashed.
He kissed her so hard her back arched off the wall, his mouth sliding down to her throat, licking into the hollow there, groaning like he was losing his mind.
His hips rolled once against hers—grinding—and she cried out into his mouth.
"Eliana," he whispered again, forehead pressed to hers, panting. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know," she gasped. "But I don't want to stop."
His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her flushed cheeks.
Then they kissed again—slower this time, but deeper, like they knew it wasn't enough, like their tongues were writing love letters in secret.
She could barely breathe. Barely think. Her hands were under his shirt again, roaming, gripping, clutching.
The music behind them pulsed like a heartbeat. Distant. Faded.
But out here—in the darkened alley under the city's glittering skyline—there was only them.
And their mouths.
And the way Nicky kissed her like he needed it to breathe.
Eliana had never been kissed like this. Not in her entire life.
There was nothing soft about it. Nothing slow. He kissed her like he was angry she hadn't let him do it sooner. Like his mouth had been waiting years to crush into hers.
Her back was flush against the brick wall, the coarse texture scratching her spine through her dress. She didn't care. Not when Nicky's hands were gripping her waist like he didn't know how to let go.
He kissed her deep, tongue sliding against hers in wet, open strokes, his teeth scraping her lip until she whimpered into his mouth.
Then—he groaned. Loud. Raw.
Like he couldn't fucking take it.
And he wasn't even touching her the way he had on the dance floor.
Not yet.
"Eliana," he growled against her lips, voice thick with hunger. "I can't stop."
"Then don't," she breathed, already rolling her hips forward into him.
That was it.
That broke him.
His hands slammed down to her thighs, gripping tight, dragging her leg up around his waist. His pelvis pressed into her core—and when their hips met, she let out a sharp, broken moan that echoed off the alley walls.
They started grinding like it was instinct.
Like they couldn't not.
Nicky rocked into her, slow and deliberate, his hard cock pressing against her through his pants—just friction, just heat—but it felt obscene.
Too intimate. Too dirty for two people still technically clothed.
She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, her head falling back against the wall as he ground up into her, their bodies rubbing together in a filthy rhythm.
"Fuck," he hissed against her throat, licking down her neck. "You feel—so good."
She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe.
His hands moved again—up her thighs, under her dress, palming her ass, squeezing it so tight she arched off the wall into him.
She writhed. Rubbed. Her clit was catching perfectly against the seam of his pants and her own soaked underwear, every thrust making her thighs tremble.
Nicky kissed her again—messy, needy, mouths colliding over and over like they were trying to get drunk on each other. His tongue slid against hers like it knew what she tasted like now and refused to forget it.
Then she moaned—loud, from deep in her belly—and his hips stuttered.
"Eliana," he said again, voice strangled. "We have to stop."
But his body didn't move. His hands kept gripping her, pulling her into each roll of his hips like he couldn't help it.
"I can't stop," she gasped. "Nicky—"
Her arms wrapped around his neck, holding on like she was falling. Their bodies slid together, over and over, pressure building in slow, unbearable waves.
"You're driving me insane," he whispered, forehead pressed to hers, panting. "You're not even trying and I can't—fuck—I want you so bad."
She whimpered.
His mouth found hers again, swallowing the sound, kissing her with open desperation—no rhythm, just lips and tongue and teeth and need.
It was filthy.
His cock was hard, grinding between her thighs, his hands gripping her ass like she was something he bought and paid for. Her body burned, every nerve ending alive with the promise of what they weren't doing but almost were.
They were dry humping in a goddamn alley like it was their last night alive.
Eliana couldn't stop.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't care.
Her nails dug into his back, her moans muffled into his mouth, her hips chasing every roll of his until she felt herself—trembling, tight, wet, so fucking close to—
"Stop," Nicky gasped suddenly, wrenching his mouth from hers.
They both froze.
Breathless. Shaking. Ruined.
His forehead pressed to her collarbone. His hands still on her ass. His cock hard and twitching behind his pants.
They didn't speak for a full minute.
Just breathed.
Hard. Shallow. Desperate.
And then—
"We can't go back in like this," she whispered, voice shaking.
"No," he agreed, eyes still closed.
But neither of them moved.
Neither of them said the obvious.
That they'd just crossed a line they couldn't ever uncross.