Chapter 11

Emery Quinn

The bass reverberated through the floor, up my calves, and into the cage of my ribs. Each pulse traveled through my bones like a second heartbeat, synchronizing with the rhythm that commanded every body in this dimly lit sanctuary of escape. The sound wasn't just music—it was a physical force, a tangible thing that wrapped around me and pulled me deeper into the anonymity I craved.

The crowd around us blurred—gold lights casting amber halos through cigarette smoke and perfume-heavy air, velvet shadows dancing across faces I'd never see again, moving bodies wrapped in designer fabrics and desperate hope. The club was a kaleidoscope of temporary connections, fleeting glances, and promises that would dissolve with the morning light. I didn't know the name of the song that pounded through the speakers. I didn't care. It was rhythmic and raw and the kind of beat that drowned out thought, drowned out the endless mental loops of spreadsheets and meeting schedules and the weight of perfectionism that followed me everywhere else.

The kind I needed tonight.

My hands were at my sides, fingers barely brushing the silky fabric that made me feel like someone else—someone bold, someone who didn't second-guess every breath. His hands were not so restrained.

One was on my waist, fingers splayed across the curve where my ribs met my hip, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin material like a brand. The touch was confident without being presumptuous, firm without being aggressive—exactly the kind of contact I'd forgotten I could enjoy.

The other had just dipped—lower than it probably should have in polite company—and rested against the slope of my hip, thumb tracing lazy circles that sent shivers up my spine. Each small movement was deliberate, calculated to drive me just a little more out of my carefully constructed comfort zone.

I felt his breath near my neck, hot and damp with anticipation, as he leaned down to say something that would probably be charming and slightly inappropriate in equal measure.

But the music swallowed his voice whole, leaving only the vibration of his words against my skin.

I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of his profile in the strobing lights. "What?"

He smiled, the kind of smile that belonged in cologne advertisements, his lips grazing my ear as he spoke. "You never told me your last name."

The question was simple enough, innocent even, but the way he asked it—like he was collecting pieces of me to examine later—made my pulse quicken. I exhaled a soft laugh, surprising myself with how easy it felt. "It's Quinn."

He let the name roll off his tongue like he was tasting wine, savoring each letter. "Quinn… Sexy. Strong."

Heat crept up my neck at the compliment, at the way his voice dropped an octave when he said it. I deflected with humor, the way I always did when someone got too close to sincerity. "Generic," I teased.

He leaned closer again, lips ghosting across my cheek with the barest whisper of contact. "Not when you wear it like that."

I felt myself flush—both from the words and the heat radiating between us like a live wire. My pulse had started to quicken, not in the anxious, panicked way I felt during endless workdays under fluorescent lights, but in the slow, liquid-thick rhythm of something else entirely. Something I'd buried so deep under professional obligations and personal fears that I'd almost forgotten it existed.

The tension between us had been building from the first sip of that overpriced cocktail at the bar. But now, as our bodies moved in sync to the hypnotic beat, that tension was a live wire crackling with possibility.

His hands had found their confidence—traveling from my hips to my lower back with the kind of slow deliberation that made me acutely aware of every inch of skin beneath the fabric. His fingers pressed into the curve of me like he was memorizing the geography of my body, mapping territories he might never visit again but wanted to remember in perfect detail.

And for once, I didn't stop him.

I didn't think about how long it had been since someone touched me like this—months? A year? The timeline blurred together in a haze of twelve-hour workdays and takeout dinners eaten alone in my sterile apartment. I didn't think about how long I'd kept my body in lockdown mode, storing every drop of desire in a vault sealed tight under layers of fatigue and professional fear.

Tonight, I just moved.

I let myself dance like I meant it, like my body belonged to me instead of to deadlines and dress codes. I let the music take me somewhere beyond the suffocating precision of my daily existence. Let his hand slip just a little lower, testing boundaries I'd forgotten I was allowed to have.

It wasn't love. It definitely wasn't love—I didn't even know his last name. It wasn't even lust, not really. It was something more desperate and necessary than desire. It was release.

And God, it felt good.

Better than good. It felt like breathing after holding my breath for months.

"What's your name?" I asked, turning slightly in his arms so I could see his face properly. In the shifting lights, his features looked like something carved from marble—strong jaw, full lips curved in perpetual amusement, eyes that seemed to catch and hold every bit of light in the room.

He grinned, the kind of smile that said he'd been waiting for the question, building anticipation like a skilled performer. "Zayn."

"Zayn," I repeated, letting the syllable linger on my tongue like I was learning a new language. The name suited him—exotic enough to be intriguing, simple enough to remember. "You look like a Zayn."

"Is that a compliment?"

I pretended to consider, tilting my head with mock seriousness. "It's not an insult."

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and pulled me closer until there was barely an inch of space between us. "I knew there was a reason I let you cut the line."

"And here I thought it was my charming personality."

His eyes traveled deliberately down my body and back up again, lingering just long enough to make me feel exposed in the best possible way. "I think we both know it was the dress."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at my lips.

His hands tightened just a little more, thumbs tracing the line where fabric met skin at my waist.

The song changed—something slower, bass-heavy, hypnotic in its rhythm. The kind of music that was designed for bodies to move together, for inhibitions to melt away like ice in whiskey.

Zayn didn't miss a beat. He swayed me in time with the new rhythm, his hands firm on my waist, guiding my movements with the confidence of someone who'd done this dance before. My back was to him again, his front pressed against me from shoulder to thigh, solid and warm and reassuring. His breath trailed down my neck like heat made tangible, and his voice was a whisper that somehow cut through the wall of sound surrounding us.

"You move like you've done this before."

There was a question hidden in the statement, curiosity wrapped in casual observation. I felt mysterious, desirable, like the kind of woman who had secrets worth discovering. "Maybe I have."

"And maybe you haven't had anyone do it right."

The words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. His voice carried promise and arrogance in equal measure, the kind of confidence that should have been off-putting but instead made me want to discover whether he could back up his claims.

His fingers flexed against my waist, thumbs brushing my sides with deliberate slowness, then tracing—too slowly, with maddening precision—over my ribcage. I could feel the weight of every touch, the pressure building between us like steam in a closed room. Each point of contact burned through the silk like he was touching bare skin.

I leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut for half a second, and just… let go.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I stopped thinking. Stopped calculating risks and analyzing consequences. Stopped being the perfect assistant who never made mistakes and never caused problems.

It wasn't about him, this stranger with gentle hands and dangerous smiles.

It wasn't about attraction, though that certainly hummed between us like electricity.

It was about forgetting.

For once, I wasn't a shadow in a pristine office, invisible until needed, silent unless spoken to. I wasn't Killian Vale's efficient assistant, the woman who anticipated his needs before he voiced them and solved problems before they became crises.

I was just Emery.

A girl in a hot dress. On a dark floor. Letting herself feel something that wasn't work, or exhaustion, or the constant fear of doing everything just right only to have it still not be enough.

I tilted my head back, resting it lightly on Zayn's shoulder, feeling the solid strength of him supporting me. The music wrapped around us like a cocoon, insulating us from the rest of the world.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured, his lips brushing my ear.

"Yeah…" The word came out breathier than I intended, heavy with weeks of suppressed longing for exactly this kind of mindless pleasure.

I smiled, really smiled, for what felt like the first time in ages.

Zayn's hands were steady on my hips, anchoring me to the moment as his body pressed close behind me. We swayed in time with the slow, hypnotic beat that seemed to pulse in sync with my accelerated heartbeat. Around us, the club blurred into shadows and lights and heat—velvet red banquettes, gold fixtures catching and scattering light like stars, a hundred dancing silhouettes lost in their own temporary escapes. A world completely detached from deadlines, from corporate silence, from power suits and the suffocating pressure of constant vigilance.

This world was noise and sweat and neon-bright laughter that meant nothing beyond the joy of the moment. It was fleeting smiles and flirtation that carried no weight except for how it felt right now, in this instant, with this person who might disappear forever when the sun came up.

And right now, it felt incredible.

Better than incredible. It felt like salvation.

His hand slipped a little lower on my waist, settling firmly at the edge of my hip where silk met skin. I didn't flinch. Didn't pull away or make excuses or apologize for taking up space. It was the first time in weeks—maybe months—that I let myself just be touched without consequences, without guilt, without the endless mental calculations of what it might mean or where it might lead.

I leaned back slightly, letting myself move with him like we'd been dancing together for years instead of minutes. Zayn kept pace effortlessly, his fingertips dragging slowly over the fabric of my dress like he was testing it for softness, memorizing the texture and the way it moved over my curves.