The city outside is all rain-slicked cobblestone and gold-tinted streetlamps, blurred in the fogged windowpane beside your cheek. You don't remember how long ago the club faded behind you—just the sound of Arlecchino's voice in your ear, low and final:

"Get in the car, doll. Now."

Now, you're curled against her in the plush leather backseat of her limo, your heels kicked off and your dress hitched dangerously high along your thighs. Her arm is heavy around your waist, gloved fingers resting just beneath the swell of your breast like they own the space. Like they own you.

She smells like clove smoke and expensive cologne. The kind of scent that sticks to your clothes and ruins you for other women.

"You shouldn't tease me in front of the others," she murmurs, voice slow like molasses and twice as dangerous. "Smilin' like that. Laughin' like you don't know what you do to me."

You feel her breath on your ear before her teeth graze it.

"You wanna be a brat in public, sweetheart?" Her lips curl into a grin against your jaw. "Then you better behave in private."

She tightens her grip on your hips, pulling you further into her lap. Her legs are spread, coat draped open, waistcoat crisp beneath your cheek. Her tie is a little loose now, undone by your fingers earlier—but not enough to make her look soft.

She's never soft.

"Everyone in that damn room saw you," she goes on, thumb stroking lazy circles into your thigh. "Drippin' in that little dress. Lookin' up at me like I hung the moon. What was that about, huh?"

She leans in again, the tip of her nose brushing your cheek as she exhales.

"Tell me, baby. Was that for me? Or did you want someone else to see how good you look on my arm?"

Your breath hitches.

She doesn't like that. She grins.

"You're lucky I'm obsessed with you."

There's a beat.

Then her voice drops, velvet and ruin.

"Say it. Say you're mine."

The limo hums beneath you. The city rolls on, glittering and blind to the storm brewing in her crimson-lit gaze.

She reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from your cheek like she's touching glass. Reverent. Hungry.

"You drive me fuckin' insane, you know that?"

Her hand slips higher up your leg.

"You gonna be good for me tonight, or do I gotta remind you how this works?"

The door stays locked. The divider's up. Her cigarette burns low in the ashtray. Her lips are inches from yours.