Empire of Sin: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

Tonight, I’m going to fuck someone.

I don’t care who.

I don’t care where.

I just need to cross it off my bucket list before I disappear.

Good girls like me don’t think about fucking or doing it with a complete stranger. We’re taught to always keep our legs closed, our hearts sealed, and our brains dormant.

Oh, and we don’t get to curse.

We don’t get to live either.

We’re just valuable stock to be used when the opportunity arises.

Good girls like me definitely don’t dress in provocative red dresses that show more cleavage than it hides. We’re not even allowed to buy such things.

But I did. Secretly. When no one was looking.

I’m wearing it now, the red dress that falls amply to mid-thigh and bares half of my back. I improvised and used a dainty chain to attach the straps together at the back and hooking my lucky butterfly motif to it—the only thing my mom left me before she also disappeared to a different place than the one I’ll be going to.

With each move, I feel the soothing coldness of the pendent against my bare back. Normal people hate the cold, but I find solace in it. It probably has to do with my Russian genes. Although I was born in the States and have lived here my entire life, my origins will never change.

I wasn’t even allowed to adopt the normal American lifestyle. Education? Homeschooled. Fun? Security hazard. Friends? What are those? Clubs and bars? Yeah, they’re not an option.

So the fact that I’m in a bar is a miracle that should be engraved in history. It’s called Black Moon and is situated at the end of a backstreet in New Jersey.

It took me so much effort to leave home and come here, which is why my trip has got to bring results.

Truth is, I’m absolutely not an expert on these things, but I did my research and also hacked into their system to get an idea of their security measures and the people who come here.

Judging by the trouble I found with their firewalls, I’d say they’re good enough.

The place has a classy, comfortable atmosphere that I’m drawn to the moment I walk in. The decor is black and dark brown and the lights are dim, giving the patrons privacy and a sense of anonymity.

Perfect for me.

Still, I feel eyes on me. Lots of them. They’re digging into my skull and trying to pull out my true identity—the one that should, under no circumstances, be revealed.

My hand turns clammy and I bring it up, resting it on my chest to calm both its shaking and my heartbeat.

It’s all in your head, Ana. It’s not real.

With a deep breath, I make my way through the tables and try not to lose the confidence I’ve been building for days and planned for weeks.

I’m a planner that way. Nothing ever happens without a plan. Not even the small details as to which bar I’ll go to.

Since Black Moon is a high-end bar, I came a bit early so that I can get in quickly.

I climb onto one of the chairs and sit at the bar, in direct view of the bartender, whose name tag reads Simon. Curly hair falls over his forehead and he’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. When he flashes me a charming grin, I think I have my pick for the night.

A small wave of relief floods me. I don’t have to gather more courage and look for someone else.

“What can I get you, miss?”

“Vodka martini. Make it a double, please.” I try to sound flirty, but I have no clue if it works. I really suck at this.

But it’s not like I’ve had plenty of opportunities before. This is my first time in a bar. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve been outside of the house alone.

This night is a first for everything.

“Right away.” He gets busy and speaks to me over his shoulder, “You like your vodka, I assume?”

“A little.”

Okay, that was a white lie. I never thought I would fit the stereotype of how every Russian loves vodka, but when we celebrated my eighteenth birthday two years ago, I was told I needed to drink it and ever since then, I refuse to consume any other type of alcohol.

A smirk lifts Simon’s lips as if he’s amused by how much I like vodka. “Are you new around here?”

Shit. Shit. He figured me out, didn’t he? Everyone does. It doesn’t matter if I chose a place out of state or that I faked a driver’s license and my age.

One look at me and people know who I am and where I came from. No amount of makeup and red dresses will change what I am.

Who I am.

Maybe I should abort this before it gets too complicated. Maybe I can drive back earlier than planned, and—

I shake my head internally. I worked so hard for this freedom. I’m not going to give it all up now.

So I wear the best smile I can offer as I stare at the bartender for a brief second before I cut off eye contact. “Why are you asking?”

“I just haven’t seen you around, is all.”

My muscles relax when a shaky breath whooshes out of me.

See? It’s nothing. I’m safe here. I made sure no one from my circle comes to this place, after all.

He places the martini in front of me. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

He grins and I know he’s about to strike up a conversation. I can see it in the ease in his eyes and the way his body is leaning toward me.

Learning body language is a given in the world that I’ve lived in all my life. I might be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I recognize these things.

Simon opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted when an intruder slides onto the stool right beside me, even though the rest of the chairs are empty.

Oh, please.

It took me a lot of planning to get to a stage where my brain is willing to take things to the next level. I don’t do well with people around.

They have eyes. And most of them are judgy and critical and are always out to get me.

Okay, maybe they aren’t, but I can’t really rationalize that. Because I feel their eyes again. A pair or maybe two.

And they’re watching me. Closely. Intently. As if they can rip open my façade and peek inside the shell I’ve surrounded myself with.

“Macallan, neat.”

My fingers tighten around the martini, then I empty half of it in one go. That deep, low voice with the calm undertone is the reason I feel the watchful eyes. I can sense it deep in my heart that’s never steered me wrong.

Is it one of the bodyguards I overlooked in my plan? No, that’s not possible. They think I’m sick and sleeping in my room so no one will disturb me until the morning.

Using my hair as a curtain, I tilt my head to the side to get a better look. I try not to be obvious about it, try to pretend my legs aren’t shaking and my flight mode isn’t kicking me to move my butt and bolt out of here.

The man who’s sitting beside me has a presence as deep as his voice. There’s an unnerving quality to him, even though he’s just sitting there.

His physical appearance has something to do with it. He’s handsome, shockingly so. Unfairly so. Probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—and that includes actors and super models. He has the type of physical perfection that makes you stop and stare.

As if that’s not enough, he’s tall, his legs look long even when sitting, and his shoulders are so broad that the jacket of his Armani suit molds to his developed muscles.

Muscles that could easily overpower me if he chooses to. I shouldn’t be thinking about that option. Hell, I should be apprehensive about it, considering all the men in my life, but I can’t overlook the fact that this particular man could and would overpower me in a heartbeat.

A sudden flush of heat coats my thighs and I have to clench them together to chase away the sensation. I need to focus on something else, anything but the liquid fire that I shouldn’t be feeling.

But I’m slammed with something worse.

His face.

It’s a force that hits you out of nowhere. There’s a hardness in it, a zing of electricity that’s about to electrocute whoever is near.

A volcano that’s on the verge of erupting.

I’ve never found male beauty to be dangerous, and that’s saying something considering who I am and whom I encounter on a daily basis.

But his is different. It’s not supposed to be dangerous, I realize. His beauty isn’t there to teach a lesson or bash someone’s head in. He’s wearing a designer suit and is drinking Macallan for God’s sake, which means he’s some sort of a businessman. His thick Swiss watch that’s strapped around his wrist must’ve cost a small fortune. It’s luxurious.

He is luxurious. And not in a dangerous way like all the men in my life.

Instead, it’s in a powerful, neat way. Like his whiskey. So why is there danger emanating from him?

His hair is light, but not as light as my platinum blonde that’s almost white. His is somewhat chestnut, somewhat sandy, and it’s styled, which showcases his forehead and killer cheekbones. He has a straight nose and a square jaw that gives him a sharp type of masculinity.

Then I find it.

The reason I associated him with the people from my life.

It’s his eyes.

They’re greenish with a golden ring, or maybe they’re hazel and the lack of light is making me see otherwise. Either way, those eyes are too intense for someone who should be nothing more than a businessman.

There’s a fire in them.

A lulling element that appears dormant but could combust at any second. A current that’s building in the background. A predator who’s watching from the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And they’re staring right back at me.

Shit.

I quickly drag my gaze back to my martini and finish it off. When I spot Simon close by, I blurt, “Vodka, neat. Make it a double. Actually, a triple.”

The last part is whispered, as if I’m ashamed of my drinking habits. And maybe I am a little. I started the night with sophistication and martinis, but now, I just want my vodka, because something alien happened to me just now.

I made extended eye contact with a stranger. A stranger. What the fuck?

Maybe I need to run now.

Maybe I need to disappear without carrying out this stupid part of my plan.

What was I thinking anyway? Me, a one-night stand? I must’ve overestimated my abilities.

Simon flashes me a small smile before he goes to get me the drink. When he hands it to me, I finish half of it, then stare intently at the other half.

Mainly to stop myself from stealing peeks at the stranger next to me who’s leisurely sipping from his own drink. His movements are smooth, too smooth, like a lion who’s lounging on his throne while watching the peasants.

“You can watch. I don’t mind.”

British. The accent that’s spoken near my ear is sinfully British, and now, I’m about to choke on my spit because no one has ever been this close to me aside from my family.

No one.

But instead of bolting, I freeze. Or, more like, I’m frozen by the sudden attack. Logically, I realize this isn’t in fact an attack and that I’m exaggerating, but my brain doesn’t recognize that. It’s trapped in a static state and all I can do is slowly lift my head.

I’m not ready for how impossibly close he is, how those eyes are shining, more inwardly than outwardly. And why is he so close, again? Or maybe I’m imagining it because my heartbeat is throbbing in my throat. “Excuse me?”

“I said you can watch, beautiful. I’m better to look at than your drink.”

Arrogant. Okay. One point to deduct from the perfect score.

Though he really shouldn’t have called me beautiful with that illegal accent of his. It might have added a few more points that even I don’t approve of.

“I happen to love my vodka, but thanks for the offer.” I sound confident and in my element, when I am, in fact, shaken to the bones by his presence.

His infuriately attractive presence.

The bottom of my belly contracts in short intervals, and I’m going to bet it’s not due to the alcohol.

“Does that mean I have to compete with your drink?” There’s a unique quality to the way he speaks, a bit amused, a bit flirtatious, and so assertive, I hate him a little for it.

Why do some people get to play the social game so well while others, like me, can barely get words out?

“Why would you?”

“Why do you think? For your attention.” His voice drops at the end and so does my stomach. The sensation is so novel that I can’t fathom it.

My neck and cheeks heat and the butterfly pendant feels like lava on my skin. “You want my attention?”

“Amongst other things.”

“Like?”

He takes a sip of his whiskey, but his intense eyes haven’t left mine long after his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow. I can’t help gulping the saliva gathered in my mouth as well, then taking a drink. Either the alcohol is loosening my nerves or there’s something wrong with me since I can’t stop staring at him.

At the way he seems confident in his own skin, unlike me, or the way he takes each action with a simmering control that I feel but can’t see.

After he’s finished, the British stranger places his elbow on the bar, which allows him to get close. So close that I smell his cologne. A mixture of lime, clean laundry and male musk. It’s not strong, but it’s as lulling as his presence, trapping me in the confinements of its walls.

The space between us becomes nonexistent when he turns sideways and his breath skims the shell of my ear. It takes everything in me not to go into flight mode, considering how much of an expert I am at that.

But not tonight.

Tonight is different.

“Like making you squirm.” The whisper of his words makes me shudder. It’s a full-body one that I can’t suppress, despite my attempts.

I don’t know where I get the courage to ask, “That’s all?”

“Oh, I can do so much more.” He licks the shell of my ear and I bite my tongue to suppress a moan.

Holy shit. It’s like I’m on an aphrodisiac. One touch and I melt. One touch and I’m wiggling and clenching my thighs in search of something. What, I have no clue.

Due to being hidden my whole life, everything feels heightened and unreal. As if I left my own body and I’m existing in a different reality.

Just like I planned for this night to be.

“How old are you?” His question is sensual, low-pitched, and makes me shudder again.

“Twenty-three,” I lie, because he looks to be in his early thirties and I don’t want to appear too young.

“Hmm.” There’s a vibration in his voice as his tongue lowers to the hollow of my throat. And holy hell, it’s like he licked my pussy, because it’s wet now. My pussy, not my neck.

Okay, maybe my neck, too, but it’s my core that’s throbbing for more.

As if knowing exactly what that does to me, he flicks his tongue across the same spot and bites down.

Oh, fuck.

I jam my legs shut, afraid that he’ll see how desperate I am for this. How much I need it before I disappear.

It’s my “fuck you” to the people who intended to use this part of me to marry me off to the first influential man who comes knocking on our door.

He continues his assault on my throat and his hand skims to my back, my bare back. His skin is similar to fire. A scorching one and he’s about to melt me with it, maybe scathe me, maybe drag me to the pits of hell.

“W-what about you?” I ask, assuming that’s what’s expected in these types of conversations.

Though this can hardly be called a conversation now that his fingers are toying with my butterfly pendant and my flesh at the same time.

“Twenty-eight.”

A shudder zips down my spine and it has less to do with his age and more to do with his touch and his voice. Seriously, no voice should be as sinfully attractive as his.

It’s like the devil’s—whispering and lulling me to my damnation.

“What’s your name?” His hot breaths against my throat and his possessive hold on my back send sparks through my whole body.

I’m tingling, throbbing, and aching for something I’ve never experienced.

Something I never thought was possible in my life.

“No…names,” I manage to say in an airy voice I didn’t think I was capable of.

“Why?” He bites down on a spot on my neck and it’s hard enough that I wince. It’s hard enough that I’m clenching my soaked thighs.

“Because anonymity is thrilling.”

I expect him to argue, to demand that he know my name, and I have a fake one for that, just in case, but he does something entirely different.

Something that makes my toes curl and my heart hammer.

He laughs, the sound low and sinister and so damn delicious against my neck. When he pulls back, his intense eyes have darkened. They’re amused now. Or maybe it’s sadism that I’m staring at.

Usually, I can’t maintain eye contact for more than a second, but I’m trapped in his.

I can’t look away.

I won’t.

Because there are words and phrases in that gaze. A book, maybe, and while I’m not able to delve into all of its pages and decrypt its code, I can at least try.

Trying is the first phase of anything.

But I can’t figure out the reason behind his reaction, so I ask, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because I just made a decision, beautiful.”

“Which is?”

“I’m going to fuck you.”