Intoxicated Instincts

SIENNA'S POV

"Do you think he is going to break up with me?"

My voice cracks into another pathetic sob as fresh tears flood my eyes, spilling over my lashes and ruining whatever makeup I have left.

Viviana wraps her arm around my shoulders and pulls me tight against her side. "I told you three times already, Sienna. He won't. This is just another stupid argument. By tomorrow afternoon, he will pretend it never happened, just like every other fight you two have."

"Other couples do not fight like this, Viv. When Derek and I first started dating, it was once a month. Then it became once a week. Now it is every single day. Before we even left the apartment tonight, he spent twenty minutes mocking my dress and telling me I embarrass him. I can feel it in my gut. He does not love me anymore."

Viviana sets her empty glass on the counter. "Of course he loves you. Why do you do this to yourself every weekend?"

"Because he makes me feel like trash. Look at me. Am I ugly? Did I stop being pretty?"

It sounds ridiculous coming out of my mouth. My face has always been my best feature. The attention I get from men usually stems from my looks, but Derek has a way of stripping away every shred of my confidence until there is nothing left. Nothing I wear looks right to him. Nothing I say sounds smart enough. He picks apart my laugh, my habits, my job, and my body. He makes me feel small, worthless, and completely unlovable. It eats away at me day after day, and I am sick of crying over a man who looks at me with pure irritation. We used to laugh together. We used to be happy. I do not understand how everything turned so sour.

Viviana slides a fresh martini glass across the bar, pushing it straight into my trembling hands. "You are gorgeous, and you know it. Stop talking like a broken girl and drink this right now."

"I really should not drink tonight. My wolf already hates the noise in here, and alcohol makes me reckless. We should just call an Uber and go home. Maybe if I apologize for snapping at him earlier—"

"Go back and do what? Beg on your knees for his forgiveness when he was the one who treated you like shit? Absolutely not." Viviana grabs my wrist before I can slide off the barstool. "Stop being so damn easy. That is the exact reason he treats you like a doormat. Just for tonight, starve Derek of your attention. Do not call him. Do not text him. Let him sit in that dark apartment and wonder where the hell you are. Make him sweat. Let him be the one begging for once in his miserable life."

I stare at the pale olive floating in the crystal glass. A small, rebellious spark ignites in my chest. Viviana is right. Every single time Derek raises his voice, I am the one who cowers. I am the one who says sorry just to keep the peace. Just once, I want him to panic. I want him to realize what he stands to lose.

"You are right. Let him wonder."

I lift the glass to my lips and tilt my head back, swallowing the chilled liquid in three hard gulps. The alcohol burns down my throat, settling like liquid fire in my empty stomach.

Viviana cheers, slamming her palm on the counter to order another round.

One drink turns into two. Two turns into four. By the fifth glass, the world begins to tilt on its axis. My head spins, and a heavy, thick heat suddenly coils low in my belly.

"Viviana, something feels strange."

My inner wolf is pacing back and forth, unusually agitated. My skin feels feverish. A sudden, drenching wetness floods my panties, so intense and heavy that my inner thighs stick together. The club suddenly smells different. I can pick out the sharp, musky scents of aroused men standing around the perimeter, their testosterone hanging thick in the air. A raw, humiliating throb pulses between my legs. My clitoris aches with a sharp, electric friction that makes my breath hitch. I feel an overwhelming, irrational urge to grab the nearest warm body and grind myself against him just to ease the maddening itch inside me.

Viviana grabs her clutch from the bar, entirely unaware of the fire ripping through my veins. "I need to hit the restroom. Stay right on this stool. I will be back in two minutes."

She vanishes into the pulsing crowd before I can stop her.

The bass drops heavily through the speakers, vibrating straight through the floorboards and rattling my teeth. A filthy pop beat takes over the room. The music wraps around my buzzing brain, dragging my unsteady feet off the stool.

I stumble toward the center of the dance floor. Lost in the haze of alcohol and the primal, demanding ache between my thighs, I find myself stepping onto an elevated platform where a polished brass stripper pole stands under the flashing strobe lights.

My sanity evaporates.

I wrap my hands around the cold metal, arch my back, and slide down to my knees. The crowd around the stage roars in approval, but I barely hear them. All I care about is the friction. I press my crotch firmly against the metal pole, rocking my hips forward in an explicit, rhythmic grind. Every rub against the brass sends a jolt of raw pleasure straight to my wet core.

I hook one bare leg around the pole, sliding back up to my feet with fluid, scandalous rolls of my hips. The cheers grow louder, egging me on. Men at the edge of the stage whistle, shoving dollar bills onto the floorboards, but I keep moving like a woman possessed, arching my chest, rubbing my ass against the metal, chasing the friction that barely takes the edge off the heat burning through my underwear.

After several agonizing minutes, a sharp, pounding headache splits my skull. The club spins too fast, and nausea mixes with the unbearable arousal.

I let go of the pole and stumble off the platform.

I need Viviana. I need air.

My feet carry me toward the stairs leading to the upper mezzanine. The crowd upstairs is even thicker, reeking of stale weed, cheap sweat, and raw sex. Couples make out against the velvet railings, hands shoved down each other's clothes. The suffocating stink drives me further down an empty corridor, searching blindly for an exit or a quiet bathroom.

Suddenly, heavy hands clamp onto my waist from behind.

Before I can scream, I am spun around and slammed violently against the drywall. The impact knocks the wind out of my lungs.

A bald man in a dark, expensive suit looms over me. His mouth twists into a sleazy, leering grin, his breath heavy with the sour stench of whiskey and tobacco.

"Come to Daddy, little doll," he slurs, his words coated in a thick, greasy Italian accent. "I watched you on that pole downstairs. Let me show you what a real man feels like."

"Get off me!" I shriek, shoving both hands against his chest.

He doesn't budge. Instead, his heavy hand slides roughly beneath the hem of my short dress, his thick fingers clawing at the soaked lace of my panties.

"Stop! Let me go!" Panic overtakes the lust, and tears spill down my cheeks as I thrash against the wall.

"Let her go. Now."

The voice cuts through the hallway like a crack of thunder. It is deep, venomous, and carrying a terrifying authority that freezes the air.

The bald man stiffens.

Before he can turn his head, a massive fist crashes into the side of his jaw. The wet, sickening sound of breaking bone echoes through the corridor. The attacker stumbles sideways, slamming into the opposite wall and spitting blood onto the carpet.

The bald man looks up, his face pale with rage, and barks a frantic, aggressive string of Italian.

My savior steps forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim hallway lights. He snarls back in fluent, lethal Italian, his tone dropping into a dominant growl that makes the walls vibrate. He points a single finger toward the emergency exit stairs.

The bald man looks into the stranger's eyes, cowers, and turns on his heel. He scrambles down the stairs without looking back, terrified for his life.

My knees give out. I slide down the wall and hit the floor, pulling my dress down to cover my thighs and burying my face between my knees, trembling uncontrollably as the adrenaline crashes through my system.

A rich, intoxicating scent suddenly cuts through the lingering stench of smoke and sweat. It smells of cedar, dark rain, and an overwhelming, magnetic male heat.

Footsteps stop right in front of me.

I lift my head slowly, wiping the wet tears from my cheeks.

A man is squatting down on his haunches before me.

He is stunning. He has high, carved cheekbones, a sharp jawline dusted with dark stubble, and full lips. His jet-black hair is pulled back into a sleek, neat bun at the crown of his head. He wears an immaculate black three-piece suit that hugs the ridiculous width of his shoulders and chest, radiating wealth, danger, and raw power.

"Are you okay, baby girl?"

His deep, husky voice reverberates through my chest.

I sit frozen, staring into his dark, piercing eyes. Derek does not even exist in the same universe as this man.

He reaches out, his rough, warm thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheekbone. "Did that bastard hurt you?"

"No," I whisper, barely able to breathe. "He just... grabbed me."

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Never mind. I have you."

Before I can process his words, his thick arms slide under my back and beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly into his chest. He carries me bridal-style down the corridor as if I weigh nothing at all.

I bury my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his skin. Every brush of his chest against mine sends a jolt through my core.

He kicks open a heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall. We step into an expansive, dimly lit suite furnished with velvet armchairs, a crystal chandelier, and a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over and sets me down gently against the plush mattress.

He does not back away. He stays on the edge of the mattress, leaning over me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, predatory hunger that makes my wet core throb violently.

"I have to say, that little performance on the pole downstairs was filthy. You drove every man in that room out of his mind. Don't pull a stunt like that again, or you will have more than one dog chasing you down the hall."

"You were watching me?"

"I couldn't take my eyes off you." His voice drops an octave, the slight smirk fading into a heavy, serious look. "What is your name, baby girl?"

"Sienna."

"Sienna." He rolls my name over his tongue, his husky tone sending shivers down my spine. "I'm Alessandro."

Alessandro reaches out, his large, calloused palm cupping my jaw. His thumb moves slowly across my lower lip, pressing down just enough to part my mouth.

"I thought you were a hallucination when I saw you on that stage. It feels damn good to know you are real."

My body hums with pure anticipation. My nipples are tight, straining painfully against the thin fabric of my dress, and the space between my legs is burning, slick, and completely exposed to his gaze.

"Can I taste your mouth, Sienna? I have been losing my mind wondering how sweet these lips are."

I do not hesitate. I nod.

Alessandro leans down and smashes his mouth against mine.