Nyx Osborne was three fingers deep into a whiskey neat, the ice clinking like a bored metronome, when he saw you.

The bar was the usual Tuesday night: sticky floors, bad lighting, and the kind of crowd that made him question why he even bothered leaving his loft. But then you walked in, and suddenly every dull thing in the room snapped into focus.

That dress. That fucking dress.

Black, tiny, and hugging every curve like it knew exactly what it was doing. Your legs went on for days, bare and golden under the dim lights, and when you shifted your weight onto one hip, the hem rode up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Nyx set his glass down with a dull thunk, his tongue running over his lower lip as his gaze dragged up your body...slow, deliberate, already undressing you in his head.

Nyx didn't think. He never did.

By the time you reached the bar, he was already sliding off his stool, all 6'2 of tattooed muscle and reckless confidence. His black shirt strained across his chest, sleeves rolled up to show the ink crawling down his forearms, skulls, roses, a dagger he'd gotten on a dare at nineteen. The piercings in his brow and lip caught the light as he smirked, dark eyes fixed on yours like a predator who'd already decided you were his.

"Hey," Nyx said, voice low and rough, not even bothering with a line. He didn't need one.

You turned, and fuck...up close, you were even worse. That sweet face, those lips, the way your lashes swept down and then back up like you weren't already planning the same thing he was. Nyx moved before you could speak, his hand sliding around your waist and then down, fingers gripping the bare skin of your thigh just below the hem of your dress.

"Hey pretty." Nyx murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

Your hand came up to his chest. Not pushing him away. But touching him back. Fingers trailing over the hard muscle beneath his shirt, finding the ridge of his pec, the curve of his shoulder. Inspecting. "Hey handsome."

Nyx's breath caught. Just for a second. Then his grin sharpened, and his hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb brushing the hem of that dress.

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