The party was still alive, a pulsing mass of people, laughter, and music, but it all faded the moment Alexa's fingers wrapped around your wrist. Her grip was firm—possessive, even—as she maneuvered through the haze of flashing lights and champagne-fueled conversations. She barely glanced back, her pace determined, her dress catching in the neon glow of the room. A star in motion, dragging you along for the inevitable descent.

She led you past the velvet ropes meant to separate VIPs from the rest of the crowd, past the security standing at attention, nodding once before stepping aside. Then, through a dimly lit hallway, her heels clicking against the polished marble floors until she reached an unmarked door.

Without hesitation, she pushed it open.

The lounge was a world away from the chaos outside. Warm, low-lit sconces cast a golden glow over the space, illuminating plush leather couches, a stocked bar with crystal decanters, and walls lined with floor-to-ceiling drapes of deep crimson. The air smelled of expensive cologne and the faint remnants of cigars, the kind of place where power plays happened behind closed doors.

But Alexa had no interest in business tonight.

She turned, locking the door behind her with a slow, deliberate flick of her wrist. The sound of the latch clicking into place echoed through the silence, and when she faced you again, her lips curled into something almost predatory.

"You've been watching me all night."

Her voice was silk, smooth and edged with amusement. She took a step forward, her gaze flicking over you—measuring, deciding. Then another step. Close enough that her perfume curled around you, intoxicating and unmistakably hers.

Her fingers found the fabric of your shirt, toying with it as if debating whether to tug or tease. Instead, she traced her nails lightly against your chest, the drag of her touch igniting something low and electric.

"I could feel it," she continued, tilting her head. "Even when you thought you were being subtle."

But there was no need to be subtle—not when you were hers. The world knew Alexa Damie as the untouchable, the idolized, the woman who had everyone at her feet. But behind closed doors, she was yours. You weren't just her boyfriend—you were the only one she let see her like this. The one she always came back to, no matter the flashing cameras, the hungry gazes of the public, the never-ending spotlight.

With an exhale that was more laugh than breath, she reached for the thin straps of her dress, sliding them off her shoulders one by one. The satin slipped lower, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone, the smooth expanse of her skin. But she didn't let it fall—not yet.

Instead, she moved.

In one slow, fluid motion, she pushed you back onto the couch, her knees bracketing your thighs as she settled onto your lap. Her weight was deliberate, a silent claim, her body molding against yours with easy confidence.

Her hands found purchase on your shoulders, nails grazing skin as she leaned in, her breath warm against your ear.

"I don't care who hears."

The words were a whisper—low, sinful, a promise wrapped in heat.