The First Sin: [3rd POV]
Hannah sighed as she ended the call with Nate, the screen of her phone going black like the hole in her chest. She was really looking forward to celebrate with Nate that night. She told herself she’d go home, wait for him like a good girl. She was excited to tell him she finally quit her job and she now belongs to him.
But when she turned around, the air was ripped from her lungs. Vincent stood there, his dark eyes burning into her like he was already undressing her with his gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of rage and something far more dangerous—desire.
“You…” she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His lips curled into a smirk, smug and predatory. “Hannah,” he purred, his voice low and dripping with sin.
Before she could slap him, before she could scream, he closed the distance between them. His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. And then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding, his tongue forcing its way past her lips like he owned her.
Hannah gasped, her hands flying to his chest to push him away, but he didn’t budge. The taste of him was intoxicating—whiskey and danger and something darkly addictive. His kiss wasn’t soft like Nate’s. It wasn’t gentle or patient. It was raw, hungry, starved. It was a fucking wildfire, and she was already burning.
The club around them faded—the thumping bass, the flashing lights, the couples grinding against each other like animals in heat. None of it mattered. All she could feel was Vincent’s heat, his hands sliding down her body, gripping her hips like he was already claiming her.
“No,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice weak, unconvincing. “I’m with somebody.”
Vincent growled, low and feral, and his mouth moved to her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her knees buckle.
“Fuck him,” he snarled, his hands sliding under her dress, his fingers finding swell of her breasts, giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re mine tonight.”
She wanted to fight him. She wanted to scream, to knee him in the balls and run. But her body betrayed her, her hips arching into his touch as his fingers pressed against her clit through the thin fabric. A whimper escaped her lips, and he smirked against her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice rough and filthy. “You’re going to let me ruin you.”
And before she could protest, he was dragging her through the crowd, his hand gripping her wrist like a manacle. She stumbled after him, her heart racing, her body on fire. When they reached the private room, he slammed the door shut and locked it with a click that echoed in the small space.
