Sin For Him

"You're not wearing that." I looked down at my jeans and Columbia sweatshirt, then back at Luca's horrified expression. My best friend stood in the doorway of my apartment, dressed in tight black pants and a silver shirt that probably cost more than my textbooks.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. Everything was wrong with it, at least by Luca's standards.

"Aiden, sweetie, we're going to Club Eros, not a study session at the library." Luca's ginger curls bounced as he shook his head dramatically.

"Please? I just landed a call-back with the Delacorte Theater. I need to celebrate, and you, my beloved, broody bestie, need fresh air and maybe a reckless kiss. This is a private party for Columbia's elite. You need to look the part."

"I don't belong with Columbia's elite."

"You belong wherever you want to belong." Luca moved to my closet, rifling through my limited wardrobe with the efficiency of a stylist. "Besides, you're brilliant, gorgeous, and you have cheekbones that could cut glass. You just need to stop hiding behind baggy clothes and self-deprecating humor."

I flopped back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. "I don't want to go, Luca. These aren't my people."

"They're not my people either, but that's not the point." He emerged from my closet holding a black button-down shirt I'd forgotten I owned. "The point is that you've been locked in this room for two years, buried in books and trauma. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"

"I have fun."

"Reading Victorian poetry doesn't count."

"It does to me." The idea of walking into a room full of rich, confident people made my skin crawl. I tried to shake it off, but... "What if something goes wrong?"

"What if something goes right?" Luca countered. "What if you meet someone amazing? What if you have the best night of your life?"

I sat up, running my hands through my ash-blond hair. "And what if I embarrass myself? What if I don't fit in? What if..."

"What if you stop asking 'what if' and start living?" Luca stood, holding out the black shirt. "One night, Aiden. Give me one night, and if you hate it, I'll never ask you to go anywhere again."

I stared at the shirt, then at Luca's hopeful expression. He'd been nothing but kind to me since we'd been paired as roommates freshman year. He'd never pushed for details about my past, never questioned why I jumped at loud noises or why I sometimes woke up screaming. He'd just been there, steady and loyal and more of a brother than anyone had ever been.

"Fine," I surrendered, tugging on the black shirt. "One drink, no scandals, home by midnight."

"Midnight?" He scoffed like I'd insulted his ancestors. "Sweetheart, the night doesn't even exhale until two." Luca's grin could have powered the entire city. "You won't regret this."

Two hours later, I was already regretting it. Club Eros was nothing like the dive bars I'd imagined. Located in the basement of a nondescript building in Midtown, it was accessed through a hidden elevator that required a special key card. The moment the doors opened, I was hit by a wave of sensory overload: pulsing music, colored lights, and the intoxicating scent of sweat, alcohol, expensive perfume, and danger.

The club was gorgeous in a way that felt almost sinful. Velvet curtains in deep purple and gold draped the walls, and crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across the crowded dance floor. Private booths lined the upper level, each one occupied by people who looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine.

"This is insane," I breathed, staying close to Luca as we made our way through the crowd.

"This is amazing," he corrected, his eyes bright with excitement. "Look at this place, Aiden. It's like something out of a movie."

He wasn't wrong. Everything about Club Eros screamed wealth and power. The bartenders moved with practiced efficiency, mixing drinks that probably cost more than my monthly food budget. The patrons were beautiful and confident, laughing and dancing with the ease of people who'd never known want or fear. I felt like an imposter in my borrowed confidence and thrift store shoes.

"I'm going to get us drinks," Luca said, leaning close so I could hear him over the music. "Find somewhere to sit. Try to look approachable."

"Wait, don't..." But he was already gone, swallowed by the crowd of bodies moving to the hypnotic beat.

I stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the noise and the press of strangers, before forcing myself to move toward the edge of the dance floor. I snatched a drink from a nearby table and downed it in two gulps because i need a lot of alcohol in my system to be able to get through this night. I found a relatively quiet spot near the bar, close enough to the action to people-watch but far enough away to avoid being drawn into conversation. I was already on my third glass when my veins began to buzz and the music was intoxicating, a deep, pulsing rhythm that seemed to sync with my heartbeat, and despite my nervousness, I found myself swaying slightly to the beat.

"You look lost."

The voice came from behind me, low and rich with just a hint of an accent I couldn't place. I turned around and forgot how to breathe.

The man standing before me was possibly the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. He was tall, at least six-three, with broad shoulders that filled out his perfectly tailored black suit. His hair was dark and slicked back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could have been carved from marble. But it was his eyes that caught me, steel gray, intense, and focused on me with an attention that made my skin burn.

"I'm sorry?" I managed, my voice barely audible over the music.

"I'm Damon." He extended his hand, and something about the gesture felt both casual and commanding.

"Aiden." I took his hand, and the contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. His skin was warm, his grip firm but not aggressive.

"Aiden," he repeated, and something about the way he said my name made my stomach flip. There was possession in it, like he was claiming it.

"Would you like a drink, Aiden?"

I should have said no. Every instinct I'd developed over years of survival was screaming at me to walk away. This man was dangerous, I could see it in the way other people's eyes tracked him, in the subtle deference from the staff, and in the predatory grace of his movements. But there was something else there too. Something that called to the part of me that had been locked away for so long I'd almost forgotten it existed.

"Yes," I said and when his smile widened, I realized I was in trouble.

He moved with the confidence of someone who owned the space, and I watched as the bartender immediately attended to him without being called over. "Whiskey," Damon said, not taking his eyes off me. "Two glasses. Top shelf."

The bartender nodded and poured the drinks without question. I noticed how everyone seemed to know who he was, how they gave him space while still trying to catch his attention.

"This is your club," I said as he handed me the glass. It wasn't a question.

"What makes you say that?"

"The way people look at you. The way the staff treats you. You don't just look comfortable here, you look at home, like you belong in a way that goes beyond familiarity."

"Very observant." He moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my head spin. "Come, let's find somewhere quieter to talk."

He led me to one of the private booths on the upper level, away from the main crowd but with a perfect view of the dance floor below. The booth was intimate, with curved seating that encouraged closeness and dim lighting that created the illusion of privacy. As we settled in, I felt the whiskey burn pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

"Tell me about yourself," he said, shifting closer. His proximity made my pulse race.

"There's not much to tell." I shrugged, but I could feel my defenses rising. "I'm a student. I study literature. I don't go to parties like this."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't belong in places like this."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. The touch was gentle but possessive, and I shivered despite the warmth of the club. "You belong wherever you choose to be. What makes you think you don't belong here?"

"Look around," I said, gesturing to the luxurious surroundings. "This is a world for people who were born with silver spoons in their mouths. I grew up in foster care."

Something shifted in his expression, not pity, but understanding. "Foster care," he repeated, his voice softer.

"Yeah. Not exactly the typical background for Columbia's elite social scene."

"Maybe that's what makes you interesting."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm not interesting. I'm just... damaged."

"We're all damaged, Aiden. The question is what we do with our scars."

He looked at me with such intensity that I felt like he could see right through me, past all the walls I'd built to protect myself. There was something in his eyes that resonated with my own pain, a darkness that recognized darkness.

"What do you do with yours?" I asked quietly.

"I use them," he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I let them make me stronger. Harder. More focused."

"And does it work?"

"Most of the time."

"What about the rest of the time?"

He leaned closer, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. "The rest of the time, I find beautiful boys in crowded clubs and try to forget."

My breath caught in my throat, and I felt heat pool low in my stomach. "Is that what this is?"

"I don't know yet." He traced the line of my jaw with one finger, and I couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through me. "What do you want it to be?"

The whiskey was making me bold, loosening the tight control I usually kept on myself. "I want..." I swallowed hard, meeting his intense gaze. "I want to feel something new."

"I can help with that," he said, and then he kissed me.

His lips were soft but demanding, his hands strong as they tangled in my hair. I'd been kissed before, awkward, fumbling encounters that left me feeling more confused than aroused, but this was different. This was fire and electricity and the feeling of coming alive after years of merely existing.

I kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed me, pressing closer until there was no space between us. He tasted like whiskey and danger and something indefinably male that made my head spin.

"F*ck," he breathed against my mouth, and the crude word sent heat straight to my core.

"Damon," I whispered, and he groaned like I'd said something profound.

"Say it again."

"Damon."

He kissed me harder, his hands moving to my waist, my back, everywhere he could reach. I felt drunk on sensation, on the way he touched me like I was something precious and disposable at the same time. The world around us seemed to fade away until there was nothing but the taste of him and the heat between us.

"Come with me," he said against my ear, his voice rough with want.

"Where?"

"Upstairs. I have a suite."

I should have said no. I should have remembered that I didn't know him, that he was dangerous, that this was moving too fast. But the whiskey was singing in my veins, and his hands were on my skin, and I'd never wanted anything more in my life.

"Okay," I breathed.

He stood, pulling me with him, and I followed him through the club like a man in a dream. The music seemed louder now, more hypnotic, and the lights blurred together in a kaleidoscope of colors. I was dimly aware of people watching us, but I didn't care. Nothing mattered except the feel of Damon's hand in mine and the promise of what was to come.

We took a private elevator to the top floor, and the moment the doors closed, he was on me again. He pressed me against the wall, his mouth finding mine with bruising intensity. I could feel the hard length of him against my hip, and it made me dizzy with want.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his lips moving down my throat. "So perfect."

"I'm not perfect," I gasped, but the words were lost as he found the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.

The elevator dinged, and we stumbled out into a hallway that screamed luxury. Damon fumbled with a key card, and I realized with a thrill that he was as affected as I was.

The suite was incredible, a floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that probably cost more than my education, and a bed that dominated the space like an altar. He crossed the room in three strides, his hands framing my face as he kissed me again. This time it was slower, more reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of me.

"I want to see you," he whispered, his fingers finding the buttons of my shirt.

I let him undress me slowly, his hands reverent on my skin. When he pushed the shirt from my shoulders, I shivered, not from cold but from the way he was looking at me, like I was art in a museum.

"Christ," he breathed, his fingers tracing the lines of my chest, my ribs, my stomach. "You're incredible."

I reached for his jacket, my fingers clumsy with want and whiskey. He helped me, shrugging out of his clothes with the same careful attention he'd shown me. His body was a work of art, all lean muscle and golden skin, with scars that spoke of a life lived dangerously. He kissed me again, and this time there was no hesitation, no careful exploration. This was need and want and the collision of two people who'd been alone for too long.

But as his hands moved lower and the world narrowed to just the two of us, something felt wrong. The room was spinning more than it should have, and my limbs felt heavy, uncoordinated. The whiskey had been strong, but this felt like more than alcohol.

"Damon," I said, but my voice sounded strange, slurred.

He pulled back, looking down at me with a very heated gaze. "I know, baby. I know."

"No, something's wrong." I tried to push myself up, but my hands wouldn't obey. "I don't feel right."

His face came into focus above me, and I saw confusion there, then real concern. "Aiden? What's wrong?"

"I don't know, I..." But I couldn't finish the sentence. The world was going dark around the edges, and Damon's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. Panic clawed at my chest as I realized I was losing consciousness.

"D*mn. Aiden, stay with me."

I tried to answer, tried to tell him that something was very wrong, but the darkness was pulling me under. The last thing I remembered was the feeling of strong arms catching me as I fell, and the sound of Damon's voice, sharp with what sounded like genuine alarm, calling my name.

The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows felt like a spotlight on my confusion. I sat on the edge of Damon's bed, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, acutely aware of how little I was wearing and how much had happened in a single night.

"You're thinking too hard," Damon said from his position by the window. He'd pulled on a white dress shirt but left it unbuttoned, and I found myself staring at the defined planes of his chest before forcing my eyes away.

"I'm trying to piece together what happened." I ran my hands through my ash-blond hair, wincing as the movement made my head pound. "Everything after the club is... fuzzy."

"That's the rohypnol." His voice was calm, but I caught the underlying fury that seemed to radiate from his entire being. "Whoever drugged you used just enough to make you compliant, not enough to knock you out completely."

"Compliant for what?"

"That's what I intend to find out." He moved away from the w