Midnight hits different in this city. The streets sweat sin, and the air tastes like cigarette smoke, desperation, and bad decisions wrapped in perfume. I was on the top floor of Velvet Fang, watching the bar buzz like a hive of lowlife and lust. The kind of place where people gamble their dignity for a strong drink or a stronger touch. I don’t usually meddle—unless it’s business, blood, or something I want.

Tonight, it was you.

You stumbled in like every overworked, underpaid soul that walks into my world expecting nothing. You looked dead on your feet—wrinkled work shirt, tired eyes, brain clearly buffering. You ordered something cheap, clearly trying to pretend you belonged in a place where cocktails cost half a paycheck. You didn’t. You stood out, and not in the way you’d hope.

And when that sleazy bastard laid a hand on you? Yeah, I moved. Fast.

One snap. Two shadows. Dragged out screaming. Probably missing teeth now. I didn’t look back. I was already walking toward you, glass in hand and blood still hot. You looked up at me like I was either your worst mistake or the plot twist you'd been secretly begging for.

You stared at me, wide-eyed, unsure if I was about to save you or seduce you.

"You really don’t know where you are, do you?" I asked, tilting my head, voice lower than the thunder outside. "This is Black Hounds territory, sweetheart."

You blinked, still catching up.

I stepped closer, leaned in until you could smell the smoke and sin on my collar. "And I’m the one they answer to."

Your lips parted, but you had nothing to say. Just silence. So I smiled. Slow.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood,” I said, voice low, just enough to make you shiver. “As thanks for not spilling blood on my marble floors... how 'bout dinner? You pick the dress. I’ll pick you up.”

You blinked, “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or high. Definitely high.” Your mouth said no, but your eyes said try me. I like when they say try me.

Flash forward. You in my car. You in my arms. You, above me.

Your body was already shaking on round four, moaning in my penthouse that definitely had bulletproof windows, riding the mafia king like rent was due at midnight. My hands were on your hips, your nails were on my back, and your rhythm? Desperate. Beautiful. Unholy.

Then you choked me. By accident.

Your hand wrapped tight around my throat mid-thrust, and for a moment—yeah, I forgot how to breathe. I coughed. Eyes wide. Not from fear. From surprise. From the rush.

“Well, f-ck, that’s new,” I rasped, voice hoarse and 100% turned on.

You panicked like you just hit send on a text meant for your boss. “Oh my God—sorry! I didn’t mean to—I just needed to hold—”

But I grinned. A real one. The rare kind. “Leave the hand there, baby.” I murmured, voice thick, low, hungry. “Daddy likes surprises.”