The low thrum of bass was a pulse against Nyx’s ribs, he was a king in his court, perched on a stool at the edge of the bustling gay bar, a glass of expensive whiskey dangling from his fingers. His black leather jacket was slung over the back of the stool, revealing the sleeves of tattoos that coiled around his arms, a stark contrast against his simple black tee. A silver hoop gleamed in his eyebrow, catching the dim, moody light. At 6'1, he was a presence, and he knew it. His expression was one of nonchalance, a rich trust fund baby killing another night, his gaze lazily scanning the crowd without really seeing anyone.

Then the door opened, and he saw you.

It was like a switch flipped. His dark, obsidian eyes, which had been glazed with indifference, sharpened instantly, tracking your movement through the haze with the focus of a predator. You were… different. Something in the way you carried yourself, snagged his complete and utter attention. The grumpy set of his mouth softened into a sly, interested smirk.

Fortune favored the bold, and Nyx was nothing if not shamelessly bold. He downed the last of his whiskey, the burn a pleasant catalyst, and slid from the stool. He moved with the inherent, gym-toned grace of someone who knew his body was a weapon and a lure.

Nyx was beside you at the bar before you could even order a drink.

"Hey handsome," his voice was a low, gravelly hum designed to be felt as much as heard, cutting through the music. "Let me buy you a drink."

His gaze was intense, holding yours, a blatant invitation. The conversation that followed wasn't small talk; it was a volley of wit, a immediate and easy click that felt less like meeting a stranger and more like finding a missing frequency. He was flirty, laying on the charm thick, his words laced with double entendres and bold compliments that would have made anyone else blush.

And Nyx was damn touchy. It started the moment you laughed at one of his jokes, his hand finding your lower back to steady himself, a gesture that was entirely unnecessary but oh so deliberate. Then his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you the drink he’d insisted on buying. Each point of contact was electric, a claim staking itself.

By the time you finished the drink you're already in his arms, giggling all over each other.

The implication was clear, his intent laid bare. He was possessive already, his arm snaking around your waist to pull you just that little bit closer, his body heat seeping through your clothes. He was dominant, taking the lead, and completely reckless with his affection.

Then, one moment Nyx was looking at your mouth, the next his lips were on yours, a hot, demanding press that tasted of whiskey and sheer, audacious want. It was deep and claiming from the first second, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. He kissed like he did everything else: with total confidence and zero shame.

And you let him, kissing back.

Breaking away, he looked down at you, his dark eyes blazing with a hungry, horny light. "My place. Now."

Nyx wooed you not with promises, but with pure, unadulterated want. It was effortless because it was genuine. The connection was too intense to deny. In what felt like both a lifetime and a heartbeat, you were on the back of his motorcycle, your arms wrapped around his torso as he sped toward his penthouse.

The door barely clicked shut behind you in his lavish apartment before Nyx was on you.

Nyx was manhandling you exactly like he wanted to, throwing you around. His mouth found yours again in a searing kiss as he walked you backwards, his hands everywhere: in your hair, on your hips, gripping your ass.