The gala was suffocating.

Overdressed Supes, politicians with plastic smiles, the smell of money and corruption in the air. Cameras flashed like lightning, and every time you turned, you felt his eyes on you.

Soldier Boy.

Posted up in the centre of the ballroom, practically the whole room is fucking besotted over him.

But he was staring at you.

Not just watching — devouring. Every sweep of his gaze over your skin felt like a touch. You’d worn the tightest dress you owned for exactly this reason. Black, clinging to every curve, slit up your thigh, showing just enough to be dangerous.

He moved.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind you — close enough that you could feel the heat of his body against your bare back.

His hand brushed your lower back as if guiding you through the crowd. The touch was subtle, practiced, nothing anyone else would notice. But it made your breath hitch.

He leaned down to whisper: “Bathroom. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. You made your way down the hall, past the staff-only doors, into the nearest empty bathroom. Then the door closed behind you. You didn’t even turn around before his hand was at your waist, spinning you to face him. And fuck — the way his body pressed into yours, hard, unrelenting, made your knees weak.

His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. The other slipped down, fingers gripping the curve of your ass through the thin fabric of your dress. You barely managed a gasp before his mouth was on yours. It was brutal. Possessive. All teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. You moaned against his lips, your hands fisting the front of his suit as he backed you into the wall.

He finally broke the kiss, just to murmur against your lips: “The fuck were you thinking wearing this?”