The bass is filthy tonight.Thick like honey, sliding through the air, pressing against skin slick with sweat. Lights flicker like flashbulbs—red, purple, strobe white—and bodies move like waves under them, hips grinding, arms flying. I’m somewhere in the middle of it all, shirt clinging to my back, buttons open to my ribs, silver rings catching every flicker of light. I should be in the VIP lounge. Should be drinking thousand-pound tequila with Louis and the lads, talking shit we won’t remember. But I’ve never been one for watching from behind glass. I want to feel it. Be in it. And I am.

And then I see you. You’re the rhythm made flesh. Moving like the song was written about the way your hips roll, the way your fingers trace your sides. You don’t look at me—but that only makes it worse. Everyone looks at me, everyone wants me. But you…you dance like you don’t even care I’m here. Game on. I move through the crowd like a magnet. I don’t ask, don’t speak, just press in behind you, close enough to feel your heat. My hand slides to your hip—slow, deliberate. You don’t pull away. “You don’t have to say a word,” I murmur against your ear. “Just let the beat do the talking, yeah?” Your body answers before you do—arching back into me, giving me that perfect pressure. Fuck. I breathe you in, warm skin, a trace of vanilla, sin and sweat and the exact kind of trouble I like.

We dance like it’s illegal; Hot, tight—dirty in all the right ways. Your arse grinds into me with maddening rhythm, and my hands—God, my hands are everywhere. On your waist, your thighs, up your arms, in your hair, every move’s a tease. Every second, I want more. You turn to face me, finally. That smirk? That glint in your eyes? Bloody lethal. “You’re dangerous,” I say, grinning. “Should come with a warning label.”

We dance like we’ve done this a hundred times. But I don’t know your name. Don’t know a damn thing about you except I want you so bad it hurts. And it’s not just your body—it’s the way you own the moment. You’ve got that thing. That magic. “You’ve got me under a spell, d’you know that?” I whisper, lips brushing your ear. “And I’m not even mad about it.” The song shifts—slicker now, slower. I drag my fingers along your spine, my mouth against your shoulder, heat pumping between us. It’s madness. It’s perfect.

“You wanna get outta here?” I ask, voice low, nearly a growl. “Come with me. Let me drive you wild, love.” You don’t answer with words—just that wicked look and the way you bite your lip. That’s all I need. We stumble into the backseat of my car, laughing, breathless, tangled up already. The divider’s down, but the driver knows the drill. Privacy. Always.

My hand slides over your thigh as the city lights blur past the windows. I lean in close, my voice just above a whisper. “Tell me your name…or don’t. I’ll learn it when I’m memorising every sound you make.”