The Billionaire Sinful Pact (The Club Seduction)

Mira pov

The bass thrummed through the marble floor, up my heels, settling somewhere deep in my chest. The Obsidian Club didn’t pulse with music—it breathed. Dim light caught the edges of cut crystal, the gleam of a stranger’s watch, the wet curve of a lip glossed mouth. I’d come here to forget. The whiskey in my hand was three fingers of smoky regret, and I’d planned to nurse it until last call. The velvet ropes, the whispered names at the door, the way the air smelled of expensive cologne and something darker—none of it was meant for someone like me. But tonight, I didn’t care. A hand settled at the small of my back. Warm. Confident. The kind of touch that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer. I turned. He stood close enough that I caught the cedar and leather of his skin before I saw his face. Dark suit, no tie. Stubble that looked deliberate, not lazy. His eyes were the color of a storm at sea—gray-green, with something shifting beneath the surface. “You’ve been standing alone for forty-three minutes.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. Not a question. “You’ve been watching me for forty-three minutes?” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Seventy-two, actually. I rounded down to seem less interested.” I should have walked away. Everything about this man screamed complication. The cut of his jaw, the way he held his glass—like he owned not just the room but the air in it. Instead, I took a sip of whiskey. “And are you?” I asked. “Interested?” His hand was still on my back. He let it stay there, a deliberate pressure that said I’m not going anywhere. “I’m Elias.” He didn’t offer his last name. Billionaires never did. They assumed you already knew. “I didn’t ask.” “No.” His smile widened, just a fraction. “But you will.” My breath caught. Arrogant. That’s what he was. The kind of man who walked through life expecting doors to open, bodies to part, rules to bend. I hated that it worked on me. “Let me buy you another drink,” he said. Not a request. “I haven’t finished this one.” “You will.” His eyes dropped to my lips, held there a beat too long. “Then I’ll buy you another.” The whiskey burned going down. I finished it. His smile deepened, and something in my chest tightened. Danger, I told myself. This is danger. But I didn’t step away. He took the empty glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. The contact was brief, electric, and when he turned toward the bar, I followed without deciding to. The bartender knew him. Of course she did. She poured without asking, a dark amber liquid that caught the light like melted gold. “Sazerac,” he said, sliding it toward me. “New Orleans recipe. You’ll like it.” “Assuming I trust your taste?” “You will.” He leaned against the bar, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. “Everything I touch turns out exactly the way I intend.” Arrogant. The word echoed again, but this time it came wrapped in something else. Curiosity. Heat. I lifted the glass. The first sip was smoke and spice and a sweetness that lingered. “Good?” he asked. “Better than good.” “I know.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The sheer audacity of the man was absurd. “You’re insufferable,” I said. “Frequently.” He tilted his head, studying me. “And you’re here alone, dressed like you’re trying to disappear in plain sight. Black dress, no jewelry, hair down. You want to be seen, but you’re terrified of what happens when someone actually looks.” The laugh died in my throat. He saw too much. Way too much. “I should go.” “You should stay.” “Why?” His hand found my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, feather-light. “Because I’ve been looking at you for seventy-two minutes,” he said, his voice dropping to something raw, intimate. “And I haven’t finished yet.” The world narrowed to his eyes, his touch, the space between us that kept shrinking. “Elias…” “Say my name again.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “I want to hear how it sounds when you’re not pretending to be unimpressed.” My heart hammered. This is insane. This is reckless. This is— “Elias.” His pupils blew wide. Then his mouth was on mine. Not gentle. Not asking. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back as he took the kiss deeper. His tongue swept against mine, tasting of whiskey and something darker. I gripped his jacket, pulling him closer, and he made a sound—low, rough, hungry—that vibrated through my chest. The club faded. The music, the voices, the clink of glasses—all of it blurred into white noise. There was only his mouth, his hands, the solid wall of his chest pressing me against the bar. He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Not here.” I couldn’t speak. Could barely think. He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “Come with me.” I should have asked where. I should have pulled back, thought clearly, remembered all the reasons this was a terrible idea. Instead, I said, “Yes.” The private elevator was all smoked glass and polished brass. He pressed a button without looking, and the doors slid closed, sealing us into a silence that felt electric. His hands found my waist. Pulled me against him. “Last chance,” he murmured against my hair. “You can walk out right now. I’ll have a car take you home, and you’ll never see me again.” I tilted my face up, meeting those storm-colored eyes. “I don’t want to walk out.” Something flickered in his gaze. Satisfaction? Hunger? Both. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open onto a penthouse that belonged in a magazine—floor-to-ceiling windows, a city of lights spread beneath us like scattered diamonds. But I barely registered it. His mouth found my throat. I gasped, my head falling back as his teeth grazed my pulse. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me backward until my spine hit a cool glass wall. “Look at me.” I did. “Tell me you want this.” The words came without hesitation. “I want this.” His hands slid down, gripping the hem of my dress. Lifting it. The fabric rose over my thighs, my hips, and then his fingers found skin. “Tell me again.” “I want this, Elias.” His smile was dark, devastating. “Good.” Then he dropped to his knees.

Mira pov

His hands found the hem of my dress. Slow. Deliberate. The black fabric gathered in his fists as he lifted it higher, baring my thighs to the cool air of the penthouse. I watched him through half-lidded eyes. Elias on his knees. A billionaire at my feet. The sight sent heat spiraling through my chest. “You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough, “what I’ve been thinking about for the past seventy-two minutes.” “Show me.” His smile was sharp. Devastating. Then his hands slid up my bare thighs, pushing the dress higher, exposing the black lace beneath. My breath caught. He leaned in, his mouth pressing against the inside of my thigh. Not quite a kiss. A promise. His stubble scraped my skin, and I felt it everywhere—a phantom friction that made my fingers grip the glass behind me. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” “I don’t.” His tongue traced a line higher. Slower. The heat of his breath against the lace made me tremble. “Elias…” “I told you,” he murmured against my sk