Velvet Sins

I watched him walk in.

He moved like he owned the room-and maybe he did. In this city, men like Lucien Moretti didn't walk, they prowled. The kind of man who didn't ask permission. Who took. Who devoured.

The club pulsed around me, bass thumping like a heartbeat too fast to control. Shadows swallowed the corners, lights sweeping over sin in every shade of desire. Red velvet booths. Black marble bar. Bodies pressing together like they were already undressing each other with their eyes.

And then there was him.

Lucien.

No suit tonight. Just tailored black trousers hanging low on his hips, the lines of his body all lean muscle and dangerous elegance. He was shirtless, of course he was. And as he turned, the tiger inked across his back rippled, alive in the light, predatory and perfect.

I swallowed, reminding myself why I was here.

This wasn't about heat. It was about justice. About control.

Even if my body didn't get the memo.

He hadn't seen me yet-just another face in the crowd, high heels crossed, martini untouched, mask still on. But I'd seen him. For weeks. I'd memorized every report, every blurred photo, every surveillance clip with that arrogant smirk and jaw carved from shadows.

Lucien Moretti.

Money launderer. Murder suspect. Criminal prince of the city's underworld.

My assignment. My target.

And the man who'd just stolen the breath from my lungs.

He moved to the bar, and I slid from the booth, heels clicking against polished floor as I followed. Slow. Controlled. I could do this. I'd faced worse.

But as I drew near, I felt it-the shift in the air. That magnetic pull that wrapped around my spine like silk and steel. And when he turned, when his eyes landed on me for the first time, it hit like a body blow.

God help me.

His eyes weren't just dark-they were knowing. Like he'd already read every lie I'd rehearsed. Like he could strip me bare without lifting a finger.

"Looking for someone?" His voice was low, smooth. A knife wrapped in velvet.

I forced a smile. "Maybe."

He took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze never leaving mine. "Then let me save you the trouble. You found him."

Cocky bastard.

"I didn't say I was looking for you."

He grinned, slow and devastating. "No. But your eyes did."

Damn it.

I laughed, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "And what if I said I was looking for something dangerous?"

He leaned in, breath brushing my ear like a promise. "Then, sweetheart... you're exactly where you're supposed to be."

I should've walked away.

Instead, I stayed.

He offered me a drink. I accepted. We talked-if you could call it that. Words laced with implication. Questions that felt like foreplay. He didn't ask what I did for a living, and I didn't tell him he was under investigation by the Financial Crimes Unit.

But beneath the heat, the game ticked on. I watched how he moved. Who nodded to him. Who avoided his gaze. Every glance told a story, and I collected them like ammunition.

Then, just when I thought I had the upper hand, he said it.

"You're not like the others."

My spine stiffened. "Others?"

"Girls who come here. Women who want something from me." His head tilted. "You don't want anything... but you're still watching. Like you already know who I am."

I froze. One heartbeat. Two.

Lucien smiled, slow and sharp. "So tell me, cop-what's your angle?"

I kept my smile in place, but my pulse kicked up.

He said it so casually-cop-like he wasn't sure, but also like he didn't care. Like he was toying with the possibility, already amused by the idea of being hunted.

"What makes you think I'm a cop?" I asked, voice light, almost teasing.

His eyes dragged down my body, slow and unhurried, before returning to my face. "For starters, that dress. Sexy, but too calculated. Your posture-military straight. You keep checking every exit. And then there's the way you look at me."

I raised a brow. "And how exactly is that?"

"Like you want to fuck me..." He leaned closer, his mouth a breath from mine, "...and arrest me. Question is, which would come first?"

The truth? I didn't know anymore.

I laughed, but it came out low and tight. "You think too highly of yourself."

Lucien's smirk returned, slower this time, more dangerous. "Maybe. But I'm usually right."

He sipped from his glass again, then extended it to me. "Try it."

I hesitated. But refusing would be obvious. Too obvious.

I took the glass, watching him. No sign of suspicion. No hesitation. I lifted it to my lips and drank. Whiskey, smooth and sharp, burned its way down.

"You're good," he said. "But not good enough."

That line? That smirk? It was a test. He was poking the beast, trying to draw blood.

I set the glass down, closer to him than necessary. "So are you."

Our eyes locked again, and something passed between us-something unspoken but undeniable. It wasn't just heat. It was war. Lust tangled with purpose. Power dancing with danger.

And neither of us would back down.

He leaned in again, so close his breath warmed my cheek. "Walk with me."

I hesitated, but I followed. Through the crowded club, past guarded doors, into a back hallway lined with velvet wallpaper and low gold lights.

He unlocked a room with a thumbprint.

Inside: a private lounge. No windows. A fireplace glowing low. A long leather couch. One camera in the corner, deliberately aimed away from the room's center.

Of course.

"You bring all your enemies in here?" I asked, arching a brow.

He stepped behind me. "Only the interesting ones."

I turned to face him-and caught my breath.

The lighting hit his bare chest just right, every muscle carved and shadowed, the tiger tattoo stretched across his back like a warning and a promise. Strong. Beautiful. Dangerous.

"I should arrest you," I said, half to remind myself.

He smiled. "Then why haven't you?"

Because I couldn't. Not yet.

I needed more. I needed access. Evidence. Leverage.

But deeper than that, something primal rooted me to the floor. Something that had nothing to do with duty-and everything to do with him.

He moved closer. One step. Then another.

"You're here because you want to be," he murmured. "Even if you lie to yourself about why."

I swallowed hard. "This is a mistake."

"Most good things start that way."

His hand brushed my hip-light, but firm. I didn't move.

"You're not afraid of me," he said.

I looked up into his eyes. "Should I be?"

He leaned down until our lips were a breath apart. "Yes."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was fire, teeth, hunger wrapped in silk. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, and my body betrayed me-arching, craving, answering every demand. My fingers found his hair, and I kissed him back like I'd been waiting my whole life to lose control.

It should've terrified me.

It thrilled me.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless.

"This doesn't change anything," I said.

Lucien's voice was velvet and smoke. "It changes everything."