Part 2: His Voice in the Dark
Lana didn’t sleep that night.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Nathan’s voice sliding down her spine. That velvet tone laced with danger, the promise in his fingertips, the burn in her chest when he said he’d kiss her.
And she’d walked away.
Friday came and went in a blur of meetings and meaningless chatter. But her body remembered. Her mind replayed.
By 9 PM, she was standing outside the same rooftop bar — hair pinned, dress midnight blue, heart pounding louder than the jazz echoing through the open terrace.
She didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just walked in.
He was already there. Same spot. As if he never left.
“You came back,” he said, not smiling — just watching her like she was both the question and the answer.
“I didn’t say goodbye,” she replied.
This time, she didn’t wait.
She stepped into his space, pressed a hand to his chest — warm, solid — and tilted her head up.
Nathan’s hand found her waist. Slowly. Like he was claiming a right he’d waited long enough for.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice a low murmur against her lips.
She nodded. Once.
And then he kissed her.
Not gently. Not sweetly. But like he meant to ruin her.
His mouth was fire — lips, tongue, breath — tasting her with a hunger that made her knees weaken. She gripped his shirt like an anchor. His other hand slid up her spine, tangled in her hair.
The kiss didn’t stop — it deepened, darkened. Her body pressed to his, chests rising fast, heat surging through every nerve ending she’d forgotten she had.
They didn’t speak again until they were in the elevator. Alone.
She looked at him. Breathless.
“Where are we going?”
“My place,” he said.
“Is that a good idea?”
“Not even a little.”
The door closed. The floor count blinked.
Her back hit the mirrored wall. His hands caged her in.
And his mouth found her neck.