Chapter 13 – After Party Part 2
"Don't you think you've had enough?" Dylan's voice was smooth, edged with something she couldn't quite place.
Anastasia squinted at him, her head tilting slightly. "Listen, Mr. Freshman," she drawled, waving the bottle in his direction. "You might be bigger than me, and yeah, sure, you've got that whole 'Cristiano Ronaldo' thing going on, but that doesn't mean you can tell me what to do."
Dylan smirked, stepping closer, the flickering lights catching the sharp angles of his face. "Oh, is that so?" He had the audacity to look amused.
"Damn right," she said, planting a hand on her hip. "Now, unless you're here to dance with me, move."
Before she could stagger away, his hand caught her wrist, pulling her flush against him. Their faces were close—too close. Her breath hitched, the scent of whiskey and something undeniably Dylan filling her lungs.
"No need to get feisty, baby girl," he murmured, his lips ghosting over her ear. "I'll dance with you. But I take the lead."
A shiver ran down her spine, but before she could overthink it, he was guiding her to the dance floor. The music throbbed, a sultry, hypnotic rhythm that wrapped around them like a silk ribbon. Bodies moved together in the dim lighting, but she barely noticed anyone else. It was just them.
She threw her arms around his neck, letting the beat take over. His hands slid down her sides before settling on her waist, fingers pressing just enough to make her skin prickle. Their bodies melted together, moving in perfect sync, every step an unspoken conversation. The heat of him, the steadiness of his touch—it made the world tilt more than the alcohol ever could.
"Feel the music," he murmured, his lips barely brushing her ear. "Let it move you."
Anastasia closed her eyes, letting herself fall into the moment. Their movements grew tighter, more intimate. Dylan's grip firmed, his fingers skimming the dip of her spine. The world shrank down to just them, the slow burn of tension simmering between every touch, every breath. He spun her, dipping her so low her heart lurched, and when he pulled her back up, their faces were inches apart.
She was drowning in him. In the way his eyes darkened, in the unspoken challenge behind them, in the way his hands gripped her as if he'd never let go.
She wasn't thinking. Not clearly. The alcohol made sure of that.
Before she could stop herself, she pressed her lips against his.
Dylan tensed. Just for a second. Then his hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer. His lips moved against hers, soft at first, then hungry, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through her.
Then—
He pulled away.
"Ana." His voice was raw, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You're drunk."
She blinked up at him, disoriented, heat still buzzing under her skin.
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hands were still on her, but the space between them was suddenly an ocean. "And I'm not the guy who takes advantage of that. Let's get you some air."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to shut up and kiss her again. But her head was spinning, and her stomach twisted uncomfortably.
Fine.
She let him guide her toward the door, her body suddenly feeling too heavy, too uncoordinated. The moment the cool night air hit her, nausea rose like a tidal wave.
"Oh, hell," she muttered before stumbling toward the nearest flowerbed.
Dylan was at her side in an instant, pulling her hair back as she emptied her stomach onto someone's poor begonias. When she finally straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he was watching her with something like amusement and concern.
"Well," he said, his voice annoyingly smooth. "No more drinks for you, baby girl."
Her cheeks burned—whether from shame or the alcohol, she wasn't sure.
"I just need to walk it off," she muttered, stepping back from him, her legs unsteady. "Clear my head."
"Ana, maybe you should—"
"I'll be fine!" She threw a hand up dismissively, already moving down the street. "I just need some air."
She heard Dylan call after her, but she ignored him, her focus set on the pavement ahead. The world wobbled slightly, but she kept walking, determined.
Then—
She stopped.
A figure stood beneath the streetlight ahead.
Watching her.
Her breath hitched. Her blurry vision made it impossible to tell if it was someone she knew or just a trick of the light. She shook her head.
"Damn, I am never drinking again," she muttered, forcing her legs to keep moving. But they felt heavier. Slower. Like the ground was tilting beneath her.
She glanced back.
Dylan was keeping his distance, watching her carefully. Not chasing, but not letting her out of sight either.
She turned back toward the streetlight. The figure was still there. Still staring.
Her chest tightened.
No. It was nothing. Just her drunk mind playing tricks on her.
But her knees buckled.
She reached for the nearest lamppost, gripping it for balance. The street spun violently, the nausea crashing over her again.
She tried to move faster, putting distance between herself and Dylan, between herself and the shadow that might not even be real. She just needed to get home.
"I... I don't feel so good," she slurred, her vision going black around the edges.
The last thing she felt was her body collapsing.
The last thing she saw was a pair of arms catching her just before she hit the pavement.
And the last thing she heard—before the world disappeared—was someone whispering her name.
But it wasn't Dylan.