CHAPTER 1: BREAKING POINT
The fluorescent lights of Martinez Diner buzzed overhead like angry wasps, a sound Natasha Samuel had grown to hate over the past two years. She balanced three plates on her left arm a skill she'd perfected out of necessity while her right hand gripped a coffeepot that was probably older than she was.
"Miss! MISS!" A middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit snapped his fingers at her like she was a dog. "I've been waiting for my check for five minutes!"
Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the response she really wanted to give. It's been two minutes, asshole. Instead, she plastered on the smile she'd practiced in the mirror the one that didn't quite reach her eyes but satisfied most customers.
"I'll grab that for you right away, sir."
She delivered the three plates to table seven, where a family of tourists barely acknowledged her existence, then retrieved the impatient man's check from the register. Her feet ached in the cheap sneakers she'd bought from a discount store, and she could feel a blister forming on her left heel.
"Here you go." She placed the check on his table with practiced efficiency.
He looked at it, frowned, then looked up at her with narrowed eyes. "You charged me for two coffees. I only had one."
Natasha glanced at the check, then at the two empty coffee cups on his table. "Sir, you had..."
"Are you calling me a liar?" His voice rose, drawing attention from nearby tables.
Deep breath. Don't lose this job. You need this job.
"Not at all, sir. Let me fix that for you." She took the check back, her hands trembling slightly not from fear, but from exhaustion and barely suppressed rage.
Behind the register, her manager, Rick a balding man in his fifties who smelled perpetually of cigarettes and cheap cologne gave her a look that said this is coming out of your paycheck.
Great. Just great.
By the time her shift ended at 5:47 PM thirteen minutes late because Rick "needed her to finish up"...Natasha's entire body felt like it had been run over by a truck. She changed out of her uniform in the small, dingy bathroom, pulling on jeans and a sweater that had seen better days.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Jenny: You still coming to Pulse tonight? Please say yes! You need this! 🍸💃
Natasha stared at the message, torn. She had Economics 301 in she checked her watch forty-three minutes. Professor Morrison's class. The one she couldn't afford to miss because he was already annoyed that she'd dozed off during his lecture last week.
Can't. Class until 9. Term paper due Friday.
The reply was instant: NATASHA MARIE SAMUEL. You've been running on fumes for MONTHS. One night. Just ONE. I'll even buy your drinks! Please? 🙏😭
Natasha leaned against the bathroom sink, studying her reflection in the smudged mirror. Dark circles under her brown eyes. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail because she hadn't had time to wash it this morning. At twenty years old, she looked at least five years older.
When was the last time she'd done something fun? Actually fun, not just collapsing in front of Netflix because she was too exhausted to move?
She couldn't remember.
Her phone buzzed again. Jenny, because of course it was: You're 20, not 40. LIVE A LITTLE. Morrison's class is recorded anyway. You can watch it tomorrow. PLEASE. I miss my best friend 💕
Natasha's finger hovered over the screen. She thought about her term paper, only half-finished. About the test next week she should be studying for. About the rent due in six days and the forty-three dollars currently in her bank account.
Then she thought about the impatient customer. About Rick's perpetual scowl. About Professor Morrison droning on about supply and demand curves while she fought to keep her eyes open.
Fuck it.
Fine. But just for a couple hours.
Jenny's response was a string of excited emojis that made Natasha smile despite herself.
Three hours later, Natasha stood in front of her closet in the tiny apartment she shared with Jenny in Queens, staring at her limited options with dismay.
"This is hopeless," she muttered, pushing aside hanger after hanger of practical clothes. Jeans. More jeans. Work uniforms. Oversized sweaters perfect for hiding in the back of lecture halls.
"Move." Jenny appeared behind her, already dressed in a stunning red bodycon dress that hugged her curves perfectly. She shoved Natasha aside with her hip and dove into the closet like a woman on a mission. "You can't wear that to Pulse."
"What's wrong with this?" Natasha held up a simple black dress she'd worn to her cousin's wedding two years ago.
Jenny gave her a look that could wilt flowers. "Babe. No. We're going to Manhattan's hottest club, not a funeral." She pulled out a dress Natasha had forgotten she owned a deep emerald green number that Jenny had convinced her to buy during a sale six months ago. "This. This is the one."
"It's too much ..."
"It's perfect. Put it on. Now."
Twenty minutes later, Natasha barely recognized herself. The dress hugged her figure in ways that made her both self-conscious and oddly confident. Jenny had insisted on doing her makeup smoky eyes, nude lips, a touch of highlighter that made her cheekbones look more pronounced.
"See?" Jenny spun her toward the mirror. "You're gorgeous. You just forget sometimes."
Natasha studied her reflection, feeling like she was looking at a stranger. A stranger who looked... good. Really good, actually.
"Now." Jenny grabbed her purse, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Let's go find you a hot guy to make out with."
"Jenny...."
"Kidding! Mostly. But seriously, Nat, you deserve one night where you're not stressed about money or school or work. Just... let loose. Dance. Have fun. Remember what that feels like."
Natasha took a deep breath, her stomach fluttering with nerves and something else. Anticipation, maybe?
"Okay," she said softly. "Let's do this."
She had no idea that in a few hours, her entire life would change forever.
The Uber ride from Queens to Manhattan took forty minutes forty minutes of Jenny chattering excitedly while Natasha's nerves built with every passing block. By the time they pulled up outside Pulse, a sleek building in the Meatpacking District with a line stretching around the corner, Natasha was seriously reconsidering this decision.
"We'll never get in," she said, eyeing the velvet rope and the intimidating bouncer checking IDs.
Jenny just grinned, pulling her past the line toward the entrance. "Watch and learn, babe."
Somehow Natasha suspected it involved Jenny flirting shamelessly with the bouncer and mentioning someone named "Marcus" they were waved inside without waiting. The cover charge made Natasha wince, but Jenny had already paid before she could protest.
Pulse nightclub was exactly as advertised: loud, crowded, and pulsing with energy that Natasha could feel in her chest. The bass from the music thrummed through the floor, and bodies moved together on the dance floor in a mass of color and motion. The space was all dark surfaces and strategic lighting, with a massive bar that glowed blue and a VIP section cordoned off by another velvet rope.
"Drinks first!" Jenny shouted over the music, grabbing Natasha's hand and pulling her toward the bar.
The bartender, a guy with an impressive collection of tattoos and a smile that was probably responsible for excellent tips took their order. Jenny ordered something complicated with vodka and fruit juice. Natasha kept it simple: a vodka cranberry.
"To bad decisions!" Jenny raised her glass when their drinks arrived.
Natasha laughed, clinking her glass against Jenny's. "To bad decisions."
The vodka burned pleasantly going down, spreading warmth through her chest. It had been so long since she'd had a drink months, probably that she could already feel it affecting her, loosening the constant tension in her shoulders.
They danced, losing themselves in the music. Jenny was in her element, moving with the kind of confidence Natasha envied. Natasha felt awkward at first, too aware of her body, of the people around her. But as the alcohol worked its way through her system and the music filled her head, she stopped thinking and just... moved.
It felt incredible.
She didn't know how long they'd been dancing when she felt it, that prickling sensation of being watched. She turned, scanning the crowd, and that's when she saw him.
He stood at the edge of the VIP section, partially shadowed but impossible to miss. Tall, at least six-two ,with dark hair styled back, sharp cheekbones, and a presence that demanded attention even in a room full of people. He wore all black: black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that made her mouth go dry, black pants that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
But it was his eyes that caught her. Even from across the room, she could feel the intensity of his gaze fixed directly on her.
Her breath caught.
He was the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever seen.
And he was staring at her like she was the only person in the entire club.
"Oh my god," Jenny breathed in her ear, having followed her gaze. "Nat. That guy is looking at you."
"I noticed," Natasha managed, her heart suddenly racing for reasons that had nothing to do with dancing.
He didn't smile. Didn't move. Just watched her with an intensity that should have been unsettling but instead sent heat flooding through her body.
"Go talk to him!" Jenny gave her a small push.
"What? No! I can't just..."
But the stranger was already moving. He walked with the kind of fluid confidence that spoke of power, of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted. The crowd seemed to part for him naturally, people stepping aside without even realizing they were doing it.
And he was walking straight toward her.
Oh god. Oh god. What do I do? What do I say?
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Up close, he was even more breathtaking. Dark eyes nearly black in the club's dim lighting that seemed to see right through her. A jaw that looked like it had been carved from marble. Full lips that curved into the ghost of a smile. And that presence god, the sheer presence of him made the air feel thicker.
"Dance with me."
His voice was deep, commanding, with a distinct Italian accent that made her knees weak. It wasn't really a question.
Natasha found herself nodding anyway, her voice seeming to have abandoned her entirely.
He took her hand his palm warm and slightly rough against hers and pulled her closer. The song changed to something slower, more sensual, and suddenly they were moving together. His hands settled on her waist, burning through the thin fabric of her dress.
"What's your name?" he asked, his lips close to her ear so she could hear him over the music.
Natasha's mind went blank. Something about the way he looked at her, the way his hands felt on her body, made rational thought impossible. She should tell him her real name. There was no reason not to.
But something instinct, maybe, or the alcohol, or the reckless feeling of being someone else for one night made her say, "Kora."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he knew she was lying but found it amusing rather than offensive. "Kora," he repeated, and the way he said it with that accent, that deep voice made her fake name sound like something precious. "I'm Lucian."
"Lucian," she echoed, testing the name on her tongue. It suited him. Strong. A little dangerous.
They danced, and Natasha forgot about everything else. Forgot about her shift tomorrow. Forgot about her unfinished term paper. Forgot about Rick and Professor Morrison and the forty-three dollars in her bank account.
There was only the music, the heat of his body against hers, and the way he looked at her like she was something rare and valuable that he'd just discovered.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, and it didn't sound like a line. It sounded like a fact.
"You don't even know me," Natasha said, though her breathlessness undermined any attempt at playing it cool.
"I'd like to." His thumb traced small circles on her hip, and she had to fight back a shiver. "Tell me about yourself, Kora."
So she did. Or rather, she told him a version of herself. The girl she might have been if life had been different. She told him she was a student that part was true studying business at NYU. She left out the part about working double shifts at a diner. She made herself sound carefree, adventurous, the kind of girl who went to clubs all the time instead of someone for whom tonight was a rare exception.
He listened like every word she said mattered, his attention never wavering from her face.
"And you?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What brings you to New York? You're not from here." It wasn't a question that accent made it obvious.
"Business," he said simply. "I'm only in town for a few days. Flying back to Italy tomorrow night."
"Italy?" Her eyes widened slightly. She'd never been anywhere outside the East Coast, could barely afford the subway fare, let alone international travel. "That's... far."
"Very far," he agreed, and something in his tone made it sound like both a promise and a warning. His hand moved from her waist to cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "Which means we only have tonight."
The implication hung in the air between them, charged and dangerous. This was temporary. He would leave, and she would never see him again. There were no consequences here, no tomorrow to worry about.
Maybe that's what made her bold.
"Then we should make it count," she heard herself say.
His eyes darkened, and that almost-smile became something more predatory. "Yes, we should."
They danced for another hour, or maybe it was two—time seemed to lose meaning. At some point, Jenny found her way over, gave Natasha a thumbs up and a knowing grin before disappearing back into the crowd. At some point, Lucian ordered them drinks something expensive that Natasha had never heard of but tasted like liquid silk.
At some point, his lips found the curve of her neck, and she stopped caring about anything except the feel of his mouth on her skin.
"Come with me," he said eventually, his voice rough with want.
"Where?" she asked, even though she already knew. Even though she'd already decided.
"My hotel. The Plaza." Of course it was The Plaza. This man screamed money and power in ways Natasha couldn't even fully comprehend.
She should say no. She didn't do this didn't go home with strangers, didn't have one-night stands with devastatingly gorgeous men who would be on a plane to Italy in less than twenty-four hours.
But when had doing the responsible thing ever gotten her anywhere except exhausted and broke?
"Okay," she whispered.
His smile was triumph and hunger combined. He laced his fingers through hers and led her out of the club, past the envious stares and the line of people still waiting to get in.
The night air was cool against her flushed skin. A sleek black car was waiting of course it was and a driver opened the door without being asked.
As they slid into the backseat, Natasha caught sight of her reflection in the tinted window. She looked like someone else. Someone braver. Someone who took what she wanted.
For one night, she would be that person.
Lucian's hand found her thigh, and she turned to meet his dark eyes.
For one night, she would let herself have this.
The Plaza suite was obscene in its luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, the city lights twinkling like stars below. Furniture that probably cost more than Natasha's annual tuition. Plush carpet beneath her feet. A king-sized bed with pristine white sheets that looked like something out of a magazine.
But Natasha barely had time to take it in before Lucian's mouth was on hers.
He kissed like a man starving, like he'd been waiting for this moment since the second he saw her across the club. His hands cupped her face with surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones as his lips moved against hers with devastating skill.
Natasha kissed him back with equal desperation, all her stress and exhaustion and pent-up frustration pouring into the press of her lips against his. Her hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt.
He walked her backward slowly, never breaking the kiss, until her legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands slid from her face down to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped at the feel of his body solid, warm, wanting pressed against hers.
"Kora," he breathed against her mouth, his accent making the fake name sound like a prayer.
Some distant part of her mind whispered that it was wrong, that she should tell him her real name. But then his lips moved to her jaw, trailing hot kisses down to her neck, and she stopped thinking entirely.
His fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress, and he paused, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough, "and I will."
Natasha's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. She'd never done this before. Never been in a hotel room with a man. Never let anyone see her like thisvulnerable and wanting and trembling with nerves.
She should tell him. Should explain that she had no idea what she was doing.
But the way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen made her feel brave.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. He drew the zipper down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. The dress fell away, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing in just her underwear plain black, nothing special, bought from Target on sale.
She fought the urge to cover herself, to hide from the intensity of his gaze as it traveled over her body.
"Bellissima," he murmured. Beautiful. Even with her limited knowledge of Italian, she knew that word.
His hands skimmed up her sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kissed her again, deeper this time, more demanding, and she melted into it. His tongue swept against hers, teaching her a rhythm she eagerly followed.
Lucian guided her backward onto the bed, following her down, his body covering hers. The weight of him, the heat it was overwhelming in the best way. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, finding that spot just below her ear that made her gasp and arch against him.
"You're shaking," he noted, his hand stroking down her arm. "Nervous?"
"A little," she admitted, then decided to be honest. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. "I've... I haven't..."
She couldn't finish the sentence, embarrassment flooding through her. God, he probably thought she did this all the time, that she was experienced and confident.
He went very still, then pulled back to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "You're a virgin?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. She nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
For a moment, she thought he might stop. Might change his mind now that he knew how inexperienced she was.
But instead, his hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up until she had to look at him. The expression in his eyes was... different. Intense, yes, but also something else. Something almost reverent.
"Then I'll be gentle," he promised, his thumb brushing across her lower lip. "I'll take care of you."
And he did.
Lucian took his time, his hands and mouth mapping every inch of her skin like he was memorizing her. He kissed down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. When his fingers traced the edge of her bra, she held her breath.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded, and he unhooked it with practiced ease, sliding it off and tossing it aside. For a moment, she felt exposed, vulnerable, but then his mouth was on her breast and she stopped caring about anything except the sensation of his tongue, his teeth, the gentle suction that made her moan.
His hand slid down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear. He paused again, giving her a chance to stop this, but Natasha was beyond stopping. She lifted her hips, helping him slide them down and off.
Now she was completely bare before him while he was still fully dressed, and somehow that made it even more intense.
"Beautiful," he said again, his hand trailing up her inner thigh. "So beautiful."
When his fingers found her center, she gasped at the sensation. No one had ever touched her there she'd barely touched herself there. He stroked gently, watching her face, learning what made her gasp, what made her hips buck against his hand.
"So wet for me," he murmured approvingly. "So responsive."
He worked her with skilled fingers, building a pressure inside her that she'd never felt before. It was too much and not enough all at once. She clutched at the sheets, at his shoulders, trying to anchor herself as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her core.
"Let go," he commanded softly. "Let me see you fall apart."
And she did. The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, making her cry out, her back arching off the bed. He worked her through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until she collapsed back against the mattress, panting.
"That's one," Lucian said with dark satisfaction, and she barely had time to process what he meant before he was kissing down her body, settling between her thighs.
"Wait, what are you ...oh god!"
His mouth was on her, tongue stroking where his fingers had just been, and Natasha thought she might actually die from the intensity of it. This was nothing like the first orgasm. This was deeper, more overwhelming, building and building until she shattered again, his name or rather, his name mixed with incoherent pleas falling from her lips.
Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk on his face that should have been illegal.
"Now you're ready," he said.
He stood, and Natasha watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest that looked like it had been carved from marble. Tattoos she hadn't noticed before decorated his ribs, his shoulder dark ink that only made him look more dangerous. Scars, too thin white lines that spoke of a life she couldn't begin to imagine.
He unbuckled his belt, the metallic sound making her heart race all over again. When he pushed down his pants and boxers, she couldn't help but stare.
He was... intimidating. Larger than she'd expected. The anatomy textbooks in her biology class had not prepared her for the reality of an aroused man who looked like he'd been sculpted by a very enthusiastic artist.
He must have seen the nervousness return to her face because he was back on the bed in an instant, kissing her softly. "We'll go slow," he promised. "If it's too much, tell me. We can stop anytime."
He reached for his discarded pants, pulling out his wallet and retrieving a condom. She watched as he rolled it on with efficient movements at least one of them knew what they were doing.
Then he was above her, settling between her thighs, his weight supported on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her. She felt him there, hard and hot, and her breath caught.
"Relax," he murmured, kissing her temple, her cheek. "Breathe, bella."
She tried to relax, tried to breathe, but when he started to push inside, her body tensed automatically.
"Shhh," he soothed, going impossibly slowly. "You're doing so well. So good for me."
The pressure was intense, bordering on uncomfortable. He moved in increments, giving her time to adjust, kissing away the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes.
"I know," he whispered when she whimpered. "I know, bella. Almost there."
And then he was fully inside her, and they both went still. Natasha felt impossibly full, stretched in ways she'd never imagined. It hurt, but not as much as she'd feared. And beneath the discomfort was something else a sense of completion, of intimacy so profound it made her chest ache.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Tell me when," he said. "Tell me when I can move."
She waited, breathing through the sensation, until her body began to relax around him. "Okay," she whispered. "You can... you can move."
He did, slowly at first, gentle thrusts that gradually built in intensity. The discomfort faded, replaced by something warmer, something that made her hips rise to meet his. His hand found hers, fingers lacing together, pinning her hand beside her head.
"That's it," he encouraged, his accent thicker now. "Just like that. You feel incredible."
The praise sent heat through her, and she found herself moving with him, learning the rhythm, the give and take. His free hand slid between them, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and suddenly pleasure was building again, faster this time.
"Lucian," she gasped, not sure what she was asking for.
"I know," he said, his movements becoming less controlled, more desperate. "I've got you. Let go for me again."
When she came this time, it was different deeper, more intense, made more powerful by the feeling of him inside her. She cried out, her body clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge with a groan, his face buried in her neck as he shuddered above her.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, tangled together, hearts racing, breathing hard.
Then Lucian carefully withdrew, disposing of the condom before gathering her into his arms. She should feel awkward, should want to leave, but instead she curled into his chest, exhausted and sated and feeling more content than she had in years.
"You okay?" he asked, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder.
"Yeah," she said, and meant it. "I'm okay."
Better than okay, actually.
He pulled the sheets over them, and Natasha let herself relax into the expensive pillows, into the warmth of his body beside hers.
Just a few more minutes, she told herself.
Just a few more minutes of being Kora, the girl who had adventures with mysterious Italian strangers.
Then she'd go back to being Natasha Samuel, waitress and struggling student.
Just a few more minutes.
She closed her eyes.
When Natasha woke, sunlight was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows with aggressive cheerfulness. She blinked, disoriented, her body aching in unfamiliar places. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
Then the events of the previous night came rushing back in vivid, overwhelming detail.
Oh god.
She sat up quickly, clutching the sheet to her chest, wincing at the soreness between her thighs. The bed beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.
"Lucian?" Her voice came out rough, uncertain.
Silence.
She looked around the suite. His clothes were gone from where they'd been scattered across the floor. His phone she vaguely remembered him checking it at some point was gone from the nightstand.
He was gone.
A note, maybe? People left notes, right? In movies they did. Something sweet, something that acknowledged what had happened between them.
She searched the nightstand, the desk, even checked the bathroom all gleaming marble and expensive fixtures. Nothing.
It was like he'd never been there at all, except for the faint ache in her muscles and the hickey she could see forming on her collarbone in the bathroom mirror. Except for the soreness that reminded her of what she'd given him. Her first time. Something she could never get back.
And he'd just... left.
The clock on the nightstand read 11:47 AM.
"Shit!" She had a shift at noon. She was going to be late, and Rick was already looking for excuses to cut her hours.
Natasha grabbed her dress from where it had ended up on the floor, her hands shaking as she pulled it on. She couldn't find one of her shoes where the hell was her shoe? and her phone was dead because of course it was.
She felt used. Cheap. Like she'd been exactly what she'd feared becoming just another girl in a long line of girls this man had probably charmed into his bed and forgotten by morning.
He'd promised to take care of her. He'd looked at her like she was special.
And then he'd disappeared without even a goodbye.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She didn't have time to cry. She had to get to work. Had to get back to her real life.
As she rode the elevator down, still zipping up her dress and trying to make her hair look less like she'd spent the night doing exactly what she'd spent the night doing, reality settled over her like a cold blanket.
This was who she was. Not Kora, the mysterious girl at the club. Natasha Samuel, the girl who worked double shifts and ate ramen for dinner and apparently was naive enough to sleep with a stranger who would abandon her the next morning.
The doorman gave her a look pity mixed with judgment as she rushed out of The Plaza, and shame burned through her.
Never again, she promised herself as she speed-walked toward the subway, trying to ignore the stares from early-morning tourists and business people in their pristine suits.
Never again would she be that stupid. That reckless.
It was just one night, she told herself as she swiped her MetroCard, grateful it had enough money for the fare back to Queens.
Just one night that didn't mean anything.
She would never see Lucian again.
It was better this way.
Wasn't it?