Seduction’s Stormy Edge

The club's a pulsing beast tonight, all sweat and bass and bodies pressed too close, the air thick with the tang of spilled drinks and desperation. I'm leaning against the bar, nursing a vodka soda, the ice melting faster than my resolve after last night's rain-soaked madness with Julian. I shouldn't be here—not after seeing Lena's smirk through the storm, not with my head still spinning from Mara's game—but the quiet of my apartment felt like a cage, and this chaos is at least a distraction. Or it was, until I spot her.

Lena's on the dance floor, a vision in black leather—skirt so short it's criminal, top slashed low enough to tease—and she's not alone. Julian's with her, his hands on her hips, her body grinding against his to the throb of the music. My grip tightens on the glass, cold biting my fingers, and I can't look away—can't stop the heat that flares in my gut, equal parts rage and something uglier, something that twists with every sway of her hips.

She knows I'm here. I can tell by the way she tilts her head, catching my eye across the dim, strobe-lit room, her lips curving into that taunting smirk. This isn't chance—it's a performance, a knife aimed straight at me, and Julian's either too drunk or too stupid to see it. The crowd parts just enough for me to watch her spin, pressing her back to his chest, her ass rubbing against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm that matches the beat. His hands slide lower, fingers digging into her thighs, and I hear his low groan even over the noise—or maybe I imagine it, but it's enough to make my blood boil.

Revenge. That's what this is—Lena's payback for me choosing Julian in the rain, for letting him fuck me against that wall while she watched from the shadows. She's a seductress tonight, all calculated moves and venomous grace, and I hate how it's working—hate how my breath catches, how my thighs clench despite the fury clawing at my chest. I slam the glass down, vodka sloshing over the rim, and push through the crowd, needing to see it up close, needing to feel the burn.

The dance floor's a tangle of limbs and heat, bodies bumping against me as I weave toward them. The music's louder here, a pulsing heartbeat that syncs with the thud in my ears, and I stop a few feet away, close enough to smell her perfume—something sharp and floral, cutting through the sweat. She's facing him now, one leg hooked around his thigh, her hands in his hair as she pulls him down, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger. His hands roam her back, slipping under her top, and the flash of skin—his fingers on her—makes my stomach lurch.

She breaks the kiss, turning her head just enough to lock eyes with me again, and there it is—defiance, triumph, a dare I can't ignore. Her lips are swollen, glistening, and she drags her tongue across them, slow and deliberate, before grinding harder against him. Julian's oblivious, lost in her, his head dipping to her neck, biting, sucking, and the crowd doesn't care—some cheer, some leer, but it's all background noise to the war she's waging on me.

I should walk away. Should let her have this petty win and go home, wash the rain and the paint and her out of my system. But my feet won't move, rooted by the sight of her hands sliding down his chest, tugging at his belt right there on the floor, the zipper's rasp drowned by the music but loud in my head. He groans again, louder this time, and she laughs—that wild, jagged sound I know too well—pushing him back against a pillar, her body pinning his.

The lights strobe, casting them in flickers of red and blue, and she's relentless—hips rolling, hands roaming, turning their dance into something public, primal. His shirt's untucked now, her fingers slipping beneath, and I see the flex of his abs, the way he arches into her touch. She's not just seducing him—she's owning him, marking him where I can see, and the heat in me shifts, burns hotter, a mix of want and wrath I can't untangle.

I step closer, the crowd pressing me in, and she notices—her eyes flick to me, holding mine as she grinds down, her skirt riding up, his hands gripping her ass like he's drowning. "You like this?" she mouths, the words silent but clear, and I clench my fists, nails biting my palms. I don't answer—can't—but my body does, heat pooling low, my breath shallow as I watch her unravel him.

He's close—I can tell by the way his head tips back, eyes half-shut, mouth slack—and she knows it too, pushing harder, faster, the music's pulse matching their rhythm. The crowd's a blur, but I see every detail—her nails raking his neck, his hips jerking, the shudder that runs through him as he comes undone right there, a low curse spilling from his lips. She doesn't stop, just keeps moving, drawing it out, her smirk widening as she stares at me, victorious.

But it's hollow—I see it in the flicker of her eyes, the way her shoulders tense even as she plays the queen. She wanted to hurt me, and she has, but it's not enough—not for her. Julian slumps against the pillar, panting, dazed, and she steps back, smoothing her skirt like nothing happened, her gaze still on me. The crowd swallows them again, the moment breaking, and I turn, shoving my way out, the air outside hitting me like a slap—cool, sharp, cutting through the haze.

I lean against the wall, breath ragged, the image of them seared into me—her defiance, his surrender, the way it twisted me up inside. Revenge burns hot, sure, but it's left her empty and me aching, caught between wanting to claw her eyes out and drag her back into that bathroom like the other night. She's playing with fire, and I'm the one getting burned—but as I light a cigarette, hands shaking, I know this isn't over. Not by a long shot.