The club was alive—too alive.

Tucked into the edge of the coastline, it pulsed with heat, sweat, and sound. Built partly into the rock, its walls seemed to hum with every bass drop, light spilling out over the dark beach like a signal fire. Strobe lights sliced through the thick air, catching glimpses of bodies pressed together—dancing, grinding, losing themselves to the night.

You stood at the bar, nursing a drink you hadn’t touched, watching it all with a detached calm only a man like you could carry.

And then—her.

Dua Lipa.

There was no mistaking her.

She stood on a raised platform in the center of it all, hair slick from the ocean, skin glowing under the lights. A thin black dress clung to her like a second skin, backless, with a slit up her thigh that left nothing to the imagination. She moved like she owned the music, hips swaying, fingers tangled in her hair, drink in hand. People watched, whispered—but no one approached.

Until she looked at you.

Not just a glance—a stare. Measured. Direct. Her gaze slid over you like a hand, lips curving slowly, like she’d just made a decision.

She stepped down from the platform without hesitation, weaving through the crowd like it wasn’t even there. You didn’t move—but your eyes followed her. Couldn’t help it. She was close now, perfume mixing with sweat and salt air, hand sliding up your chest, fingers tugging at your collar. Her voice was low, amused.

“You look like you need a reason to misbehave.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Her fingers wrapped around your wrist—tight—and she dragged you through the club, past the blur of music and bodies, out into the heavy night air. Her dress shimmered in the moonlight as she led you up the winding path to the villas, heels clicking against the stone before she kicked them off mid-stride, barefoot and fierce.

She didn’t speak again until the door to her room slammed shut behind you.

Breathing hard, her back hit the door first, pulling you with her. Her eyes burned—dark, hungry—and she laughed softly, lips brushing your jaw. Her hands pushed your shirt up, nails grazing skin, body pressed close.

“Hope you don’t need sleep tonight,” she whispered against your throat, voice ragged, need laced into every syllable. “Because I plan on fucking you until we forget how to stand.”

Her hands slid lower.