The Invitation

I've always had a knack for throwing parties that teeter on the edge of chaos, where the air hums with possibility and every glance feels like a dare. Tonight's no different. The penthouse I've rented glows with dim gold light, the kind that makes skin look edible. My guests—strangers, old flames, and a few wild cards—swirl around me, their laughter sharp against the thrum of bass-heavy music. I'm in my element, a glass of Pinot Noir in hand, my black dress hugging every curve like it's daring someone to peel it off. I've planned every detail, but I know the real fun comes when it all goes to hell.

I'm leaning against the bar, watching the room, when I see him. Julian. He's not hard to spot—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that falls just messy enough to make you want to run your fingers through it. He's an artist, the kind who paints with his hands and fucks with his eyes. I've heard the rumors: he's a heartbreaker, a man who leaves lovers wrecked and begging for more. Tonight, he's in a white shirt unbuttoned one too many times, sleeves rolled up to show forearms streaked with faded paint. He catches me staring, and his lips twitch into a smirk that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

I don't look away. I never do. Instead, I raise my glass, a silent toast, and he starts weaving through the crowd toward me. My pulse kicks up, a steady drumbeat under my skin. By the time he's close, I can smell him—something sharp and earthy, like turpentine and cedar. Up close, his eyes are a storm of gray, and I wonder how they'd look pinned above me, heavy with want.

"Sasha, right?" His voice is low, rough, like he's already imagining me naked. "Nice party."

"Glad you think so." I tilt my head, letting my hair spill over one shoulder. "You're Julian. The artist."

"Guilty." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "You've got a good eye for chaos. This place is a powder keg."

I laugh, soft and throaty, because he's not wrong. "Chaos is my specialty. Keeps things interesting."

"Interesting's one word for it." His gaze drops to my lips, then lower, tracing the neckline of my dress like he's already undressing me. I don't mind. I want him to look. I want him to *want*.

The moment stretches, thick with tension, until some drunk idiot stumbles into me, sloshing red wine across Julian's chest. The guy mutters an apology and staggers off, but I'm already moving. "Shit, hold on," I say, grabbing a napkin from the bar. I press it to Julian's shirt, my fingers brushing the hard plane of his chest beneath the fabric. He doesn't flinch, just watches me with that same lazy smirk, like he's enjoying this more than he should.

"Guess I'm a mess now," he says, his voice dropping an octave.

"Guess I'll have to clean you up." My hand lingers, the napkin a flimsy excuse as I drag my fingers over the damp spot, feeling the heat of his skin seep through. His breath catches—just a hitch, but it's enough to make my thighs clench. I'm close enough to see the pulse jump in his throat, to smell the wine mingling with his scent. My mouth waters, and I don't know if I want to lick the stain off his shirt or tear it off entirely.

"Let's take this somewhere quieter," I say, dropping the napkin. He doesn't hesitate, following me as I lead him through the crowd, past the swaying bodies and clinking glasses, to a shadowed corner near the kitchen. It's not private, not really—anyone could see us—but that's half the thrill. The music dulls to a low pulse here, and the air feels heavier, charged.

I turn to face him, leaning against the wall, my hips cocked just enough to draw his eye. "Better?"

"Much." He steps in, caging me with one arm against the wall. His other hand hovers near my waist, not touching, not yet, but the promise of it makes my skin hum. "You're trouble, Sasha."

"You have no idea." I tilt my chin up, daring him to close the distance. He does, slow and deliberate, his fingers finally brushing my hip. It's a featherlight touch, but it lights me up like a match to gasoline. I suck in a breath, and he hears it—his eyes darken, predatory.

"Careful," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a lazy circle through the fabric of my dress. "You're playing with fire."

"Maybe I like burning." My voice is a purr, and I press closer, my chest brushing his. The wine stain's still damp against my skin, sticky and warm, and I wonder what it'd feel like to drag my tongue across it, to taste him through the mess. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel every hard line of him—his chest, his thighs, the unmistakable press of something else that makes my core throb.

Our lips are inches apart now, breaths tangling, when a shadow shifts behind him. I glance past his shoulder and freeze. Lena's there, watching us from across the room. My ex. Her red hair glows under the lights, and her smirk is sharp enough to cut glass. She's in a dress that clings like sin, her dancer's body all lean muscle and reckless grace. She doesn't move, just stares, and the weight of her gaze sends a shiver down my spine—half fury, half want.

Julian doesn't notice. His mouth grazes my jaw, a hot whisper of a kiss, and I'm caught between the pull of his lips and the burn of Lena's eyes. My party's barely started, and already it's slipping out of my hands, spiraling into something wild and messy. Just the way I like it.