The VIP Encounter

Willa’s POV

Killian Thorne.

The name didn’t just ring a bell; it sounded a goddamn alarm in my head. A cold, heavy weight settled in my stomach, cutting through the haze of the five—or was it six?—tequila shots I’d just downed. I’d heard the stories. Back in Seattle, my friend Sloane had spent plenty of nights over wine telling me about the man who sat at the top of the corporate food chain like some dark, untouchable god. A man who ruled Thorne Enterprises with an iron fist and a heart carved out of glacial ice.

And now, according to the bartender, that very man was currently burning a hole in the back of my head from the mezzanine.

I felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck. I didn't want to look. I wanted to stay focused on the rows of shimmering glass bottles in front of me, but the magnetic pull was too strong. I was drunk, I was hurt, and I was reckless.

I turned around.

The club was a blur of neon strobes and writhing bodies, but my eyes locked onto the balcony instantly. He was there. A silhouette of pure, unadulterated power leaning against the railing. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows, but I saw the glint of a heavy watch—black diamonds, maybe—and the way his large, tattooed hand gripped the edge of the wood. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at the dancers.

He was looking at me.

It wasn't a casual glance. It was the look of a predator who had just spotted something he intended to break.

My skin prickled. I turned back to the bar, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. My hand was shaking as I grabbed the empty shot glass.

"Again," I demanded, my voice sounding more slurred than I wanted it to be. "Another one. Now."

The bartender, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of pity and fascination, shook his head. He didn't even reach for the bottle. "No can do, pretty girl. I’ve been warned. I think you’ve had enough for one night."

I bristled, the alcohol-fueled bravado flaring up. "What do you mean 'warned'? I’m the customer. I’m paying. Give me the damn drink."

He didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head toward the stairs. "You didn't warn me. He did."

I followed his gaze. The balcony was empty. The silhouette was gone. "Bullshit," I scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't see him come down here. He didn't say a word to you."

"He didn't have to," the bartender replied, his smile tight and nervous. "He owns this place, girlie. He’s my boss. And I pretty much value my fucking legs, so no more drinks for you. Unless you want to take it up with him."

The owner of a multi-billion-dollar empire and a luxury club like this? It was more than Jay, my pathetic ex-fiancé, could ever hope to be. The thought of Jay made my blood boil again. I looked back at the stairs, half-prepared to march up there and demand my tequila, but my legs felt like jelly.

I turned back to the bar to argue one last time, but before a word could leave my mouth, a man appeared at my side. He was huge, dressed head-to-toe in a black suit that looked like it cost more than my car, and he was wearing dark sunglasses inside a dimly lit club.

He slid a cold bottle of water across the marble toward me.

"Mr. Thorne would like a word," the man said. His voice was a flat, emotionless drone.

I stared at the water, then up at the sunglasses. "Who the hell are you? And why are you wearing shades at night? You look like a budget Men in Black extra."

He didn't find it funny. "I’m part of his security detail. It’ll serve you well to have some of this water and come with me upstairs. Mr. Thorne doesn’t like to be delayed."

"Of course he doesn't," I laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. I tried to stand up, intending to walk toward the exit, but the man’s hand clamped down on my arm. It wasn't painful, but it was firm—an immovable shackle.

"What the hell? Let me go!" I snapped, trying to wrench my arm away.

He didn't budge. He just stood there, waiting. After a minute of useless struggling, I realized I wasn't going anywhere. My head was spinning, and the room was starting to tilt. If I tried to run, I’d probably end up face-planting on the dance floor.

"Drink," he muttered, unscrewing the cap and setting it back in front of me.

I glared at him, but I took the bottle. I chugged half of it in one go, the cold water shocking my system. It didn't make me sober, but it cleared the static in my brain just enough to realize I was in trouble.

"What now?" I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"You follow me," he said.

He led the way, his hand hovering near my lower back, guiding me toward the spiral stairs. We climbed, leaving the heat and the pounding bass of the main floor behind. We moved through a series of long, opulent hallways where the carpet was so thick it muffled our footsteps. Finally, we stopped in front of a heavy door with a simple silver plaque: VIP LOUNGE.

The security guard pushed the door open and stepped aside. "He’s waiting."

My pulse was a frantic rhythm in my throat as I stepped inside.

The first thing I noticed was the temperature. The main club had been a sweat-soaked furnace, but it was freezing in here. The air was crisp, clinical, and smelled of expensive cedar and something metallic. My skin broke out in goosebumps. I was wearing a white crop top with the word 'BRIDE' emblazoned across the chest in glittery letters—a pathetic remnant of the bachelorette party I was supposed to be having. The cold air made my nipples harden instantly, straining against the thin fabric.

I didn't have time to be embarrassed.

I turned the corner, and the breath left my lungs.

Killian Thorne was sitting in a high-backed leather chair in the corner of the room. He was exactly as Sloane had described him—broad-shouldered, imposing, and radiating an aura of absolute authority. His legs were spread wide, his posture relaxed and arrogant.

And he wasn't alone.

A girl was kneeling on the floor between his thighs. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair that cascaded down her back, and she was currently occupied. Her head was moving in a slow, rhythmic motion, her lips sealed tightly around Killian’s cock.

My heart stopped. I should have turned around. I should have run out the door. But I was frozen, my eyes wide as I took in the scene.

Killian wasn't even looking at the girl. He didn't seem to care that she was working herself into a frenzy trying to please him. His head was tilted back slightly against the leather, but his dark, piercing eyes were locked onto mine. He was watching me watch him.

The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the wet, slapping sounds of the girl’s mouth and the low, heavy thud of the bass vibrating through the floorboards from downstairs.

Killian’s hands were buried in the girl’s hair, his fingers fisting the strands as he pulled her head closer, forcing her deeper onto him. He didn't make a sound, but the intensity in his gaze was suffocating.

I felt a sudden, shameful surge of heat between my legs. It was wrong. It was disgusting. I was watching a man get a blowjob in a private lounge, a man I’d never met, and yet my body was reacting as if I were the one kneeling there. I shifted my weight, my thighs rubbing together, my breath coming in shallow hitches.

"Leave," Killian said.

His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in my very bones. I nearly jumped, thinking he was talking to me, but he didn't break eye contact.

The girl stopped immediately. She pulled back, her lips glistening, and scurried to her feet. She didn't look at me as she adjusted her dress and hurried out the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silent room.

Now it was just us.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to look away as Killian rose from the chair. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that he was still exposed. He took his time, his movements practiced and calm, as he tucked his cock back into his expensive trousers and zipped them up.

In the dim, blue-tinted light of the lounge, I caught a flash of silver. My eyes dropped before I could stop myself. There, on the underside of his penis, were several silver piercings. The metal glinted for a split second before it disappeared behind the fabric of his pants.

I looked away quickly, my face flushing a deep, hot crimson.

Killian didn't say a word as he began to walk toward me. He was tall—taller than he’d looked on the balcony. Every step he took was deliberate, like a hunter closing in on a cornered animal. I instinctively backed away, my heels clicking on the hardwood, until my shoulder blades hit the cold, hard surface of the wall.

He didn't stop until he was inches away.

He loomed over me, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the room. The scent of him—expensive cologne and raw, masculine musk—wrapped around me, making my head swim more than the tequila ever could.

He didn't touch me. Not yet. Instead, he let his gaze travel over me. It was agonizingly slow. He started at my messy hair, moved down to my flushed face, and then settled on my chest. His eyes lingered on the word 'BRIDE' stretched across my breasts, watching the way the fabric rose and fell with my frantic breathing.

A slow, predatory smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't a kind expression.

"I thought I’d need a little more studying to confirm who you were," he said. His voice was a low, dangerous silk that sent a violent shiver down my spine. "But it appears I have everything I need."

He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing me whole.

"Hello, Willa Sterling."