Devoured by the Syndicate King [18+]

The air in the dimly lit lounge was heavy with heat, bass, and the subtle scent of sweet alcohol when she slipped onto the high-backed stool at the far edge of the bar.

"Nervous?" My voice came out as a low, smooth purr over the thrum of the music. I flashed a slow, deliberate grin, swirling the dark amber liquid over two solid ice cubes in my glass—whiskey, aged and neat. "I was just making sure you weren't holding a spot for a lover, given how relaxed you look over here."

A sudden surge of bold, electric energy spiked between us. She shifted on her stool, letting the bare edge of her thigh brush against the side of my leg.

"Is that right? Do you usually concern yourself with who holds a spot?" she asked, tilting her chin to scrutinize me. I could see her eyes running over my frame—not built like a heavy wall, but sharp, lean, and dangerous in a way that promised speed and absolute focus.

My gaze flicked down to where our thighs met, darkening instantly. The heat off her skin was palpable. My jaw tightened as my fingers gripped the crystal glass until my knuckles turned white. "Rarely. But I figured you might."

"Careful," she murmured, leaning in until I could smell the sharp citrus of her perfume and the warm heat of her breath. "It's risky making assumptions about a stranger from across the room."

My eyes dropped down the front of her low-cut silk jumpsuit, tracking the rise and fall of her chest before locking back onto her eyes with a heavy, knowing glint. "Maybe," I conceded, my tone dropping lower. "It's just not every day a striking woman sits alone, practically asking to be devoured."

She kept her gaze steady, a wickedly amused smile touching her lips. "Tell me... is there someone back at your place who’s going to raise hell because you’re standing here running your eyes all over me?"

I let out a quiet, dark laugh. "Why? Are you worried about a confrontation?"

She raised an eyebrow, her posture oozing pure confidence. "Over a temporary distraction? I'd rather walk barefoot on broken glass."

"Fair enough," I murmured, my lips curving into a slow smirk. "To answer your concern: not a single soul."

"Good to know we're on equal footing," she said, letting her body relax against the counter, her eyes tracing the line of my chest under my unbuttoned collar.

"What do they call you, sweetheart?" I asked, setting my glass on the marble and pivoting my body completely toward hers. My thighs spread slightly, inviting her closer as she took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink.

"Definitely not 'sweetheart.' Sandro."

I repeated it slowly, the rare, distinct Southern Brazilian name rolling off my tongue with a deep, deliberate rhythm. "Sandro... sharp. Sensual."

She laughed softly, her eyes lingering on my mouth. "Don't let the tailored look fool you. What about you? Do you have a name, or should I just guess?"

I closed the remaining distance, sliding my hand up to her nape and lightly brushing a stray lock of dark hair back over her bare shoulder. My thumb grazed the warm pulse point at her neck, feeling her heartbeat skip. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, letting the raw sexual tension hang thick between us.

"If I give you my name," I whispered against her skin, "you have to promise you're walking out that door with me tonight and giving me complete control."

"And if I refuse to make promises?" she asked, her index finger tracing a agonizingly slow path down the center of my chest.

"Then we're wasting perfectly good time, aren't we?" I said flatly, holding her gaze with unyielding hunger.

A low moan nearly escaped her as her eyes flared with heat. She smirked, pulling my collar an inch closer. "I made up my mind the second you crossed the floor. Talk."

A dangerous smile tugged at my mouth as I leaned into her space. "Thiago."

Sandro didn't hesitate. She reached for her clutch, carelessly slapping a stack of crisp bills onto the counter. Standing up on her heels, she bridged the height difference while I remained seated, stepping flush between my open knees until her mouth was right at the shell of my ear.

"Your apartment or mine, Thiago?" she breathed, her hand sliding down my abdomen to rest heavily over the bulge growing behind my trousers.

A raw shiver ran through my gut. I didn't answer right away. I stared at her flushed neck, downed the last burn of my whiskey in one gulp, and set the glass down with a hard, final click.

In one fluid movement, I stood up, wrapped my arm around her waist, and pulled her body tightly against mine. My mouth slammed onto hers in a deep, possessesive kiss, my tongue pushing past her lips to taste her. She gasped into the kiss, her body melting into mine as a low, desperate moan vibrated in her throat.

The heat pooling between us was almost unbearable.

"Mine," I growled against her swollen lips, my hand moving down to cup her hip and squeeze tight.

Sandro nodded, her breath ragged and her eyes heavy with dark promise. I locked my fingers tightly through hers and pulled her toward the exit, ready to undo every clean line on her the second we stepped behind closed doors.