Power Play

The club pulsed with heat and desperation, its walls vibrating under the weight of a bassline that felt like it might rip the world in two. Neon lights painted the room in violent flashes of pink and blue, silhouetting bodies tangled in the chaos. The air was thick smoke, tequila, and the sharp tang of sweat and cologne mixed with something darker.

I was twenty, barely more than a kid. My life had already unraveled into a cocktail of shame and anger, stirred by betrayal and spiked with bad decisions.

My dad had been sleeping with my best friend. My mom had disappeared into her drinking. My sister Marisol was spiraling, lashing out at the world because our cousin Xavier had been handed control of Bonita, the family legacy we all pretended to care about. And earlier that night, I'd sniffed into the worst cocaine I'd ever touched-cheap, bitter, and numbing in all the wrong ways.

I wasn't running away from the mess. I was trying to burn through it.

The world felt like one giant pile of men taking what didn't belong to them, and I wanted to disappear into the noise.

Then I saw him.

A stranger. One in a sea of bodies, but something about him seemed different. He was tall, maybe six-four, with a strong jaw and heavy brows over a pair of dark eyes that tracked every movement in the room. His skin was tan, almost olive, and his thick black hair was slicked back against his skull. There was something hard about his mouth, something sharp.

He was beautiful, the kind of man that made you want to crawl onto his lap and wrap yourself around him, even though you knew you'd be ruined for anyone else.

I was drunk. I was angry. I was horny.

I needed a distraction, and this man was trouble.

I wove through the crowd until I reach him, pausing right in front. "You," I said loudly, jabbing him in the chest. "Want to get a drink?"

He blinked, startled, and for an instant, I worried I'd read him wrong. Then he smiled a slow, dangerous smile.

"Id love to," he said.

He followed me out of the club, down the street to the bar tucked away on the other side of the lot. I pushed through the doors and made a beeline for the back corner, slipping into the booth before he could try to take the seat across. He didn't argue, though. Instead, he slid in beside me, close enough to make me feel like the entire world was too small.

"What's your name?" he asked as the bartender appeared. He ordered a whiskey and I ordered a margarita-salt on the rim, extra tequila, lime on the side, please.

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you think that matters?"

He laughed, the sound low and rough. "If I'm fucking you," he said, "I'd like to know your name."

My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept my tone light. "So you're going to fuck me, then?"

He leaned in, his breath hot on my skin. "Would you like me to?"

"I don't know," I murmured. "I guess it depends on whether you're any good."

He slid an arm along the back of the booth, his fingers brushing my shoulder. I could feel his gaze tracing my neck, lingering over the swell of my breasts. "Let's start with this," he said. "Are you here alone?"

I nodded, and he frowned. "Anyone going to miss you tonight?"

I laughed, bitter. "Not a soul."

"Good," he said. His eyes flashed, something dangerous flickering through them. Then he turned, pulling out his phone.

I watched as he thumbed out a text. It was short, barely more than a few words, but somehow, it seemed like a message in code. He smiled again, but this time, there was something cold in his eyes.

"What's that?" I asked.

"A room," he replied.

He stood, holding out a hand. I let him pull me out of the booth, my heart pounding faster as he guided me toward the doors.

The room was in a hotel across the lot, a sleek black building that towered over the club and bar. It had a rooftop bar, the kind that was always full of celebrities and wannabes, and a lobby bar where men came to pick up women.

I wasn't sure which category I belonged in, but I didn't much care.

I followed the stranger into the elevator and up to the twelfth floor. I watched as he swiped a card and pushed open the door.

The room was dim. The curtains were half-drawn against the city glittering below, casting the place in shadow. It was a suite, the kind designed for indulgence and rich men with secrets.

A place for misbehavior and pretenses that none of it counted.

I lingered in the door, suddenly unsure of myself.

"What's your name?" I blurted out.

He turned, his eyes catching what little light there was. "Does it matter?"

I folded my arms over my chest. I was trembling, but I couldn't decide whether it was nerves or something else entirely. "It might," I replied. "I'd like to know what to scream when you make me fake an orgasm."

The corner of his mouth flickered, a hint of amusement before his face shut off again. "Dominic."

"And you?" he asked.

"Elena," I said. "But you won't remember."

He nodded, like he was storing away the fact that I would be just another nameless body, one in a long line of women he'd used and discarded. The knowledge was a slap in the face, but I refused to let him see it.

I stepped closer instead, tipping my chin up in defiance. "Must really suck to hate women because one of them dumped you," I said.

He stiffened. For an instant, I wondered if I'd gone too far, if he would hit me or shove me out of the room. Then he laughed, a short, rough sound that felt like nails on my nerves.

"You think you know me?" he growled. "That you've figured me out?"

"I think you're predictable." I snapped. "A rich boy with a chip on your shoulder and a hard-on for women. How very original."

The tension between us was like a live wire, crackling with energy.

Before I knew what I intended to do, I shoved at him, my palms connecting with his chest.

He barely moved. He did catch my wrists in his iron grip, though.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Elena," he warned, his tone rough.

"Good," I retorted, yanking free. "I'm so fucking sick of playing safe."

Then I kissed him. Hard.

He froze for an instant before his hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't soft. It was raw, angry, and desperate, a clash of teeth and tongues that tasted like bad decisions and the need to forget.

Dominic shoved me against the wall, his body pressed tightly against mine. The heat of him seeped through my thin dress, making me gasp. He swallowed the sound, his lips moving down to my jaw, my neck, biting hard enough to leave marks I wouldn't be able to hide.

"You want dangerous?" he rasped against my skin. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Then show me," I challenged, my voice breathy, a mix of defiance and desire.

His eyes flashed again, and I couldn't tell if it was amusement or something darker. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head, holding me immobile as he studied me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve.

"Careful what you wish for, Elena," he murmured, his lips brushing against mine, teasing. "You might not like what you find."

"Maybe I will," I whispered, arching against him.

Something shifted in his expression-something feral, unrestrained. He released my wrists and stepped back, his gaze raking over me with an intensity that made my knees weak.

"Strip," he ordered, his voice low and commanding.

I hesitated for the briefest moment, my pulse hammering in my chest. Then, slowly, I reached for the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. I stood there in nothing but my black lace underwear, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin.

His eyes darkened as they roamed over me, lingering on every curve, every line. "Beautiful," he said, almost to himself.

And then he stepped closer, his hands rough as they slid over my body, claiming every inch of me as if he had the right.

For a moment, I let myself forget everything betrayal, the bitterness, the anger. There was only Dominic, his hands, his mouth, and the fire he ignited in me.

Dominic's hands were everywhere, demanding, leaving trails of heat on my skin that burned long after he moved. His touch wasn't tender; it was ownership, control, as if he were staking a claim on something he knew wasn't his to keep.

He grabbed my hips and spun me around, pressing my front against the cold glass window that overlooked the city. My breath fogged the pane as he pulled my hair to the side, his teeth grazing the back of my neck. Every move of his was sharp, calculated, pushing me to the edge of pain without tipping over into cruelty.

"You like this, don't you?" he rasped into my ear. His voice was a growl, low and thick with lust. "Being handled like you belong to me."

I hated how true it was, how my body betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface. I could feel him smirk against my skin, like he could read my thoughts. His hands slid down my body, gripping my thighs, spreading them wider as his weight pressed me further against the window.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice dark, his breath hot against my ear.

"Yes," I bit out, hating myself for giving him the satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise lit a fire in me that I couldn't extinguish.

The tension built like a storm, the kind you couldn't outrun. Dominic was unrelenting, merciless, giving me no room to think, only feel. Every rough kiss, every sharp pull, every inch of him took me higher, until I shattered, my nails clawing at the glass, a scream caught in my throat.

He followed soon after, gripping me so tightly I thought he might leave bruises. His breath was ragged, his movements slowing, but the power radiating off him didn't wane.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I thought maybe he'd stay. Maybe he'd hold me, let me catch my breath, offer something more than the raw, carnal exchange we'd shared. But then he pulled away, and I felt the cold rush in.

I turned, catching him pulling his wallet from his pocket. He slid out a stack of cash-hundreds, maybe thousands-and tossed it onto the bed without a glance in my direction.

"What the hell is this?" I snapped, fury bubbling up to replace the post-coital haze.

"Money," he said flatly, buttoning his shirt like he hadn't just left me shaking against a window. "It'll go on my books as a tax-deductible expense."

"You bastard," I hissed, grabbing the cash and throwing it back at him. It fluttered uselessly to the floor. "I'm not some prostitute you can buy off!"

He paused, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a look that could've frozen fire. "I'm aware of that," he said coldly. "But it's cleaner this way, isn't it? No lingering questions, no confusion. Just... a transaction."

I stared at him, my chest heaving, my fists clenched. "You're a fucking coward," I spat.

Dominic stepped closer, looming over me, his presence still as commanding as ever. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice devoid of any apology. "But I'm also honest. And you should be too. You didn't come here looking for love, Elena. You wanted a distraction."

His words were a slap, but I refused to flinch.

"Keep the money or don't," he said, his tone indifferent as he headed for the door. "Either way, it's done."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing in the dim hotel room, surrounded by the weight of his arrogance and the scattered bills on the floor.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to burn the room to the ground. Instead, I picked up the money, shoved it into my bag, and told myself I'd never let him anyone me feel that powerless again.