Chapter 15: The Club
The deal was signed. The Galletti Group and Blackwood Architecture had shaken hands, clinked glasses of prosecco, and smiled for photographs that would circulate through industry newsletters by morning. Adrian had performed flawlessly—firm handshakes, measured words, the controlled charm of a man who had built empires from blueprints and nerve.
But his mind was elsewhere. It was in that kitchenette, on that cold marble floor, in the wet heat of Raven's mouth and the tight grip of her body around his. He could still feel the ghost of her, the phantom sensation of being inside her, and it made every subsequent handshake feel like a lie.
She had been perfect in the boardroom. Composed. Brilliant. She had caught a discrepancy in the contract that the lawyers had missed, a subtle clause about liability that would have cost them millions. Galletti had been impressed. Adrian had been something else entirely.
Now they were in the back of a black Mercedes, gliding through Milan's neon-lit streets. The city had transformed with the fall of night—all shadows and golden light, ancient stone and modern glass. Raven had changed into something that was not business attire. A black dress that clung to her like it had been poured, a neckline that plunged dangerously low, heels that made her legs look endless.
"Where are we going?" Adrian asked, watching the city slide past his window.
"A celebration." Her voice was smooth, unhurried. "You closed a fifty-million-euro deal today. That deserves more than a hotel room and room service."
"I'm not really in the mood for—"
"You're not in the mood for what?" She turned to look at him, and in the dim light of the car, her eyes were fathomless pools. "For a drink? For music? For a woman who knows exactly what she wants?"
He swallowed. "I'm tired."
"No, you're not." Her hand found his thigh, a light touch, but electric. "You're wired. You're thinking about this afternoon. About what we did. About what you want to do next."
She was right. She was always right.
The Milan Club announced itself with a discreet black façade, unmarked except for a small brass plaque. A bouncer in a tailored suit checked Raven's name against a list, then stepped aside with a nod of deference. Inside, the world dissolved into shadow and sound.
The club was a cathedral of hedonism. Velvet booths in emerald and crimson lined the walls, their curved backs offering privacy to the city's elite. A bar of black lacquer stretched along one side, its surface reflecting the amber glow of backlit shelves stocked with rare whiskey and champagne. The dance floor was a sunken pit of writhing bodies, lit by a slowly rotating chandelier that scattered points of light across the crowd like stars falling from heaven.
Adrian orderered a scotch, neat. Raven asked for a martini, extra dry, with a twist. They sat in a booth near the edge of the dance floor, the bass of the music thrumming through the velvet cushions, vibrating against Adrian's spine.
He took a long sip of his drink. "This is a lot."
"This is Milan." She shrugged, her shoulder brushing against his. "You only live once. And you just made a deal that will define your career. Relax, Adrian. Enjoy the moment."
He tried. He watched the dancers, the way the light caught their bodies, the way they moved together in a language of touch and rhythm. Raven sat close beside him, her thigh pressed against his, her perfume a heady mix of jasmine and something darker, something almost animal.
"You want to dance?" she asked.
"I don't dance."
"Everyone dances, Adrian. You just haven't had the right partner."
She stood, her dress flowing around her like liquid night, and extended her hand. There was a challenge in her eyes, a dare that he found impossible to refuse. He took her hand, let her pull him to his feet, and followed her into the crowd.
The music was a deep, pulsing house beat, all thrumming bass and syncopated hi-hats. Raven moved with a natural fluidity that made him feel clumsy, but she didn't seem to care. She faced him, her hips swaying, her hands reaching for his. He let her guide him, let the rhythm take over, and for a moment—just a moment—he forgot about the weight of his choices.
Her body pressed against his, her breasts against his chest, her breath warm on his neck. Her hands slid up his arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. She kissed him, deep and slow, her tongue dueling with his, tasting of gin and something sweet. The world dissolved around them—the music, the crowd, the neon lights—all of it fading into the background of the singular fact of her.
When she pulled back, her eyes were dark, dilated. "I need a drink," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "Stay here. Dance. I'll be back."
Before he could respond, she slipped away, disappearing into the crowd toward the bar. Adrian watched her go, the sway of her hips hypnotic, the curve of her ass a promise he couldn't stop thinking about. He turned to the music, closed his eyes, and let the bass wash over him.
That was when he saw the man.
He was tall, dark-haired, with the olive skin and sharp features of a Mediterranean god. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that could have been carved from bronze. He had approached Raven at the bar, said something Adrian couldn't hear, and she had laughed.
Laughed. That warm, musical sound that Adrian had thought was reserved for him alone.
Adrian watched as the man leaned in closer, his lips brushing Raven's ear. She didn't pull away. She said something back, and the man's hand came up to rest on her lower back. The casual intimacy of it—the possessive curl of his fingers against the curve of her spine—sent a shock of ice through Adrian's veins.
He should walk away. He should leave the club, get a taxi, go back to his hotel, and forget this entire mess. He could still salvage something of his sanity, his marriage, his carefully constructed life.
But he didn't move.
The man led Raven to the dance floor, not far from where Adrian was standing. Raven followed without hesitation, her eyes meeting Adrian's for a brief moment as she passed. There was a glint in them—a challenge, a promise, a threat. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She turned to face the man, and they began to dance.
It was slow, intimate, two bodies moving as one. The man's hands found her waist, sliding down over her hips, pulling her closer. Raven's head fell back, her throat exposed, her body arching into him. The music seemed to wrap around them, cocooning them in a private world that Adrian couldn't enter.
The man's hands moved lower, cupping her ass, squeezing. Raven didn't resist. She pressed closer, her body grinding against his, her mouth finding his ear. She whispered something—Adrian couldn't hear the words, but he could see the way the man's eyes darkened, the way his hands tightened on her.
Adrian's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. The scotch in his glass sloshed, forgotten.
She was putting on a show. He knew that. She was watching him watch her, feeding on his jealousy, his hunger. But knowing that didn't stop the acid burning in his stomach, didn't stop the possessive rage rising in his chest.
The man turned Raven around, her back against his chest, his hands coming up to cup her breasts. He was tall enough that his chin rested on her shoulder, his lips tracing the curve of her neck. Raven's eyes found Adrian's across the crowd, and she smiled.
It was a cruel smile. A knowing smile. A smile that said, Look what I can do. Look what you're missing.
The man's hand slid down her body, over her stomach, between her thighs. He cupped her there, pressing against the fabric of her dress, and Raven's lips parted in a sound that Adrian couldn't hear but could imagine all too clearly.
He wanted to cross the dance floor, to pull her away from this stranger, to claim her in a way that left no doubt whose she was. But the thought was immediately followed by a sick wave of disgust. He didn't own her. She wasn't his. He had a wife. A life. A lie he had been living for months.
"Enjoying the show?"
The voice came from beside him. Adrian turned to find a woman watching him, a glass of champagne in her hand, a smirk on her lips. She was beautiful in a sharp, predatory way—blonde, alabaster skin, eyes the color of glacial ice.
"I don't know what you mean," Adrian said.
"The brunette." The woman gestured with her glass toward Raven. "She's good. I'll give her that. You're practically vibrating with jealousy, and she knows it."
Adrian didn't respond. He turned back to the dance floor. Raven had wrapped her leg around the man's hip, her dress riding up to expose the pale skin of her thigh. The man's hand disappeared beneath the hem.
"I could help with that," the blonde said, her voice dropping to a purr. "If you're looking for a distraction."
"I'm not."
"Your loss." She shrugged, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
Adrian finished his scotch in one burning swallow. He set the glass on a passing tray and pushed his way through the crowd toward Raven. She saw him coming. The smile on her lips deepened, and she said something to the man, who glanced over his shoulder at Adrian with an expression that was equal parts amusement and contempt.
"Raven," Adrian said, his voice cutting through the music.
She tilted her head, playing innocent. "Yes, Adrian?"
"I want to go."
"Go, then. I'm having fun."
"You're coming with me."
The man laughed, a dark, rich sound. "She seems pretty happy where she is, amico. Don't want to be rude, but she's with me tonight."
Adrian's eyes didn't leave Raven. "Is that true?"
The man's hands had settled on her hips again, possessive and casual. Raven leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. "He's very charming," she said. "Very attentive. And he doesn't have a wife waiting for him back home."
The words hit Adrian like a physical blow. He felt the blood drain from his face, the eyes of the surrounding dancers turning toward him with morbid curiosity.
"Raven, please."
"Please what?" The cruelty in her voice was edged with something else—something that looked almost like pain. "Please chose me? Please be the man I want him to be?"
The man looked between them, a slow grin spreading across his face. He had the look of a predator who had stumbled into someone else's kill and was perfectly happy to feast on the remains.
Raven turned back to the man, dismissing Adrian entirely. Her arms twined around his neck, her body pressing full-length against his. "Take me somewhere private," she said, her voice loud enough for Adrian to hear. "Somewhere we can be alone."
The man's answering smile was a slash of white in the dim light. "With pleasure."
Adrian watched them go. Raven's hand in the man's, her hips swaying as they walked toward the back of the club, toward a door marked with a glowing green sign. Toward a private room, or a bathroom, or any one of a hundred places where they could be alone.
His blood roared in his ears. His vision narrowed to a pinprick.
He didn't think. He moved.
He crossed the club in a few long strides, his hand reaching out to grab Raven's wrist just as they reached the door. She turned, startled, her eyes widening—not with fear, but with something like triumph.
"Adrian—"
"Not him." His voice was low, rough. "Me."
The man laughed, stepping forward. "Hey, man, she's with—"
Adrian's fist connected with his jaw with a sound like a gunshot. The man stumbled back, tripping over a stray chair, crashing to the ground in a heap. A woman screamed. Someone shouted in Italian. The music faltered, stumbled, kept playing.
Adrian didn't wait to see what happened next. He pulled Raven through the door, down a narrow corridor, past a startled waiter, into the first room he could find.
It was a storage closet, cramped and dark, filled with boxes of liquor and folded linens. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in a cocoon of shadow.
Raven's laugh was a low, breathy sound. "That was -"
Adrian didn't let her finish. He pushed her against the wall, his mouth crashing into hers, his hands everywhere at once—in her hair, on her ass, hiking her dress up around her hips. She moaned into his mouth, then pulled back just far enough to speak.
"Jealousy is a good look on you."
"Shut up." His hand found the wet heat between her thighs. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Of course I did." She gasped as his fingers slipped inside her. "I wanted to see how far I could push you."
"Well, congratulations." He pulled his hand away, brought his fingers to his mouth, tasted her. "You pushed me."
He spun her around, bent her over a stack of boxes. Her dress was already ruined, hiked up to her waist, exposing the bare curve of her ass. No panties. Again.
She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming in the dark. "Then do something about it."
He did.
He tore at his zipper, freed himself, and drove into her with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. She cried out, a sound that was equal parts pain and pleasure, her hands scrambling for purchase on the boxes in front of her. He set a brutal rhythm—hard, punishing, each thrust a declaration of ownership.
"You like that?" he growled, his fingers digging into her hips. "You like making me watch? Making me—"
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, Adrian. Don't stop. Never stop."
His hands slid around her. One gripped her hair, pulling her head back. The other found her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he continued to pound into her. She was slick, soaked, her body gripping him like a fist.
"Is this what you wanted?" His voice was ragged, desperate. "Is this enough?"
"More," she breathed. "Fucking hell, Adrian, more."
He gave her more. He lost himself in her, in the impossible heat of her, in the way she moaned and writhed beneath him. The closet was suffocating, black as pitch, filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together and the smell of sex and sweat.
She came first, her body shuddering around him, her cries muffled by her own hand. The feel of her clamping down on him was too much. He followed seconds later, emptying himself inside her with a groan that was almost a scream.
They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, shaking, trying to remember how to be separate people. Adrian pulled out, stumbled back, leaned against the wall. The darkness pressed in around them.
"I hate you," he said, his voice hoarse.
Raven's laugh was soft, satisfied. "No, you don't."
He couldn't argue with her.
Because she was right. Again. And again. And again.
He was in too deep to argue with anyone—least of all himself.