The rhythm of jazz floated lazily through the smoky air, curling around conversations like ribbons of silk. The Paradise Club was packed tonight, alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and the velvety notes of Evelyn Sinclair’s sultry voice. A haze of cigar smoke lingered, mixing with the illicit sweetness of bootleg gin and the powdery bloom of expensive perfume. The night belonged to whispered sins and velvet shadows.

From her spotlighted corner of the stage, Evie’s voice caressed every darkened booth, smooth and sensual, pouring out blues that curled around hearts and loosened inhibitions. Her midnight blue silk dress shimmered under dim lights, beadwork cascading over a drop waist bodice, throwing tiny prisms along her pale shoulders. Sheer stockings hugged her calves, garters flashing with each precise sway. When she lifted her chin to ride a high note, her pearls swung, grazing the hollow of her throat like a promise.

From the stage, Evie’s perspective sharpened on the room. She caught the subtle lean of men in suits pretending not to stare, the whispered envy in women’s laughter, and the hush that settled when her voice dipped low. She felt power in it, the way her song could bend the crowd, loosen collars, draw tears. But her attention had its own magnet, behind the bar. She noticed how Sam moved, sleeves rolled neat, hair damp with the night’s heat. She liked the way he never gawked, never reached with the same hungry eyes as others. Instead, he watched her steady, as though he already knew the shape of her notes. That steadiness sent a pulse of heat through her chest even as she sang, a reminder that her performance wasn’t just for the room, but for him.

Behind the polished oak, Sam Callahan moved with easy precision, pouring rye, cracking ice, sliding glasses across the bar. Still, his gaze circled back to the singer. He told himself it was just habit, like a man keeping an eye on a flame that might flare if ignored. But he knew better. He had memorized the timing of every breath she took, the way she tipped her wrist before a crescendo, the subtle softening of her mouth before a lyric. Some nights, he swore he felt the note before she sang it.

He wasn’t the only one. The front table’s men in tailored suits leaned back as though the sound itself stroked their collars. A lone woman in a feathered headband dabbed at the corner of her eye. But Evie’s glance always came, eventually, to the bar. A gaze of attention. A look that said: I see you.

Her set closed on a low, smoky phrase that seemed to shiver through glass. The applause rose warm and greedy. Evie smiled, not the coy stage smile but something truer, and stepped down into the swell of the room. Silk whispered against silk. Men shifted. Heads turned. Sam already had her drink chilled and waiting by the time she slipped onto the stool at the end, her stool.

He nudged the glass into her hand. “Aviation, with a heavier hand on the violette,” he said, voice pitched for her alone.

“Flattery by way of liquor,” she murmured, lips curving as she took a sip. “How wickedly efficient.”

“Truth by way of craft,” he countered, resting his forearms on the bar. Close enough to smell rain in her hair from the earlier downpour, and beneath it, something skin warm and clean. “You owned them tonight.”

Her eyes lifted, amused. “Owned is such a harsh word for such a gentle crime.”

“You rob them smiling.”

She looked him over—his shirt clinging faintly from the damp, the steady poise in the way he leaned, suspenders snug over his waistcoat. “And you, Mr. Callahan, serve confessions by the glass.”

His mouth curved. “Only when asked politely.” He slid a napkin closer; his fingers brushed the back of her hand. Her pulse leapt. She didn’t move away.

“I came to ask impolitely,” she said, keeping her voice soft, private. “For a favor.” Her gaze flicked to a corner table where a stocky man with a crooked signet ring watched her too closely between sips. “He’s been following me between clubs. Doesn’t say much. I don’t like the way his eyes feel on me.”

Sam didn’t turn to look. He already knew the man. His shoulders squared almost imperceptibly, every sense sharpening, protective instinct rising like muscle memory. “You want the quiet exit or the kind that makes an impression?”

“Tonight?” She tilted her head, pearls swinging. “Quiet. Tomorrow we can discuss impressions.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, a shape of a promise. “You’re off after this?”

“I am if the bartender writes me a note.”

“I’ll be your notary public.” He leaned in just enough that the edge of his breath traced her cheek. “You look like trouble.”

“I look like a woman minding her business,” she said, smiling without softness. Then, softer, for him: “I might be trouble, if properly asked.”

“Consider yourself properly asked.”

They left it there, hovering. She sipped, and he worked, but his attention tugged back like the pull of the tide. Between orders he drifted toward her, polishing a glass that was already clean.

“Do you dance?” she asked, casual as smoke.

“Not well.”

“Good,” she said, sliding off the stool. “I wouldn’t want you to embarrass me.”

He came around the end of the bar, tossed a nod to Mickey to cover him, and offered his hand. She fit hers into it with a pressure he felt in his spine. The floor was crowded with bodies pressed a little too close for the law. He drew her toward the eddy at the room’s edge, where the brass section softened and the bass thumped like a hidden heart.

“Count for me,” she said, amusement in her voice. “One two three, Callahan.”

“One two three,” he murmured by her ear, and the count became breath. They moved small, contained; her hips guiding, his hand tucked at her back. The silk of her dress snagged faintly under his fingers where beadwork met fabric, and the texture made his palm tingle. She smelled faintly of jasmine and warmth and the faintest clean powder. Her throat worked when she laughed. Once, her mouth brushed his cheek as they turned and he felt the boundary in the room tilt.

“Evie,” he said, and it came out like a fact he’d been postponing.

“Sam.” She glanced up through lashes. “You’re going to ruin my lipstick.”

“I’ll buy you two more,” he said, almost against her mouth.

Her smile opened. “Make it three.” She pressed closer, and for the span of a measure, they moved as though the room had narrowed to only them. She thought of the steadiness of him, the way his hands never shook when he poured. Thought of the shape her name made in his mouth. She wanted to know how he would sound saying yes.

At the corner table, the signet ring rapped lightly on wood. Sam’s eyes cut briefly past her shoulder, all calm gone cold. Evie felt the shift in him, a coiling, protective heat that tightened his fingers at her waist. She covered his hand with hers, squeezed. “Quiet exit,” she reminded.

“Quiet,” he agreed, easing her back toward the bar, away from the line of the other man’s sight. “Finish your drink. Five minutes. Slip behind the end of the bar when I tap twice.”

“Bossy,” she said, not hiding the smile that warmed her. “I like it.”

“Praise me later.”

“I intend to.”

He stepped away, back to work. Evie perched on her stool again, watching him with a slow, private hunger. It had been a long time since she’d let herself want something. The wanting of him felt… clean. Not safe; nothing about Sam’s eyes said safe. But honest. She lifted her glass; the violet-sweet liquor cooled her tongue without quenching anything at all.

They might have reached the back corridor without incident if not for the sudden clamor at the entrance. The heavy slam of the front door made the walls jump. The room’s pitch shifted. A single barked command split the music.

“Police! Nobody move!”

The band faltered. Somebody cursed. Chairs scraped. In the beat of shocked silence before panic, Evie felt Sam’s gaze pin her from thirty feet away. Two sharp taps sounded hard against the bar.

She moved.

Then the room exploded. Shouts. Glass breaking. The feathered woman stumbled and went down. The stocky man from the corner surged to his feet, knocking a table sideways. Sam vaulted the bar with a clean, practiced sweep that wasted no motion. His hand closed around Evie’s wrist.

“This way. Don’t let go.”

She didn’t intend to. Her heels skidded on tile, her pulse hammering in her throat. He dragged her behind the mirrored back bar, fingers finding the seam of the panel that hid the passage. He shouldered it open and pushed her into a narrow passage where the smell of old wood and stale liquor lingered. Behind them, a cop’s voice cracked like a whip: “Hands where I can see ’em!”

They ran. The corridor bent left, then kinked right around stacked crates of gin and whiskey, their sharp fumes burning in her nose. Sam’s breath stayed steady, a metronome to her panic. At the end, he palmed another concealed latch, and the alley’s bruise-colored night rolled in, rain falling heavy and clean. The cold struck like a slap. Evie gasped; silk glued itself to her thighs, the wet fabric clinging between her legs. Heat spiked low in her belly, confusing, unwanted but undeniable. Danger felt too close to lust.

“Head down,” he said, guiding her beneath the overhang. “Stay close.”

They cut left, then right, feet splashing through puddles. Shouts echoed faint through the alley maze, ghosted by rain. Evie’s hat, forgotten on the bar, no longer pinned her hair. Wet curls slapped her temples. The pearls at her throat turned to ice on her skin. Sam’s grip never loosened, his hand locking around hers as though he’d never let go.

A rusted door loomed on their right. He yanked. It stuck, groaned, then gave. They fell into a gloomy warehouse that smelled of damp wood, machine oil, and dust. The door clicked shut, rain dimmed to a drumroll on sheet metal, sirens wailing faint and distant.

They stood breathing like they’d climbed a hill, lungs heaving in the hush after chaos. Evie pressed her back to a stack of crates, the wood cold against her spine. Sam braced a shoulder against the door, as if holding the whole world out. For a count of ten, no one spoke. Only the drumming rain on the roof and the quicksilver race of her pulse filled the silence.

“You alright?” he asked finally, voice low and sanded down by exertion.

She pushed wet curls from her face, fingers trembling, and laughed softly, a raw, ragged sound. “That depends how you feel about felonies.”

“Fond of them, when you’re involved.” His mouth curved, but the humor slipped away almost immediately. His gaze held her, steady and consuming, as though the only important thing in the world occupied a square foot of dim light. It pinned her in place, heat rising through the chill soaking her dress. The pearls at her throat lay like ice against her skin, stark against the warmth blooming under his look.

“Evie.”

“Sam,” she returned, and this time his name really was an answer, pulled from someplace deeper than fear.

He crossed the space between them in four steady steps, something decided in the set of his shoulders. Up close, his shirt clung translucent to the shape of muscle, rainwater tracing lines along his jaw. Droplets clung to his lashes, making his eyes darker, more dangerous. She felt the sharp edge of choice crackle through the air. Wanting and warning collided in her chest.

Her hand rose before she could stop it, reaching for the first button, fingertips shaking with cold and a hunger that had waited too long. The silk of her dress dragged wetly against her skin, heavy at her thighs, making her shiver with both discomfort and anticipation. He caught her wrist—not to stop her but to anchor her, steady as stone.

“If you don’t want.”

“I do,” she said, clear and fierce, threading fingers into his soaked hair, tugging his mouth down to hers. “I’ve been wanting.”

The kiss was a collision and a homecoming, desperate and inevitable. He tasted of rain and a clean sweetness that belonged only to him. He kissed her back like a man who had been careful too long, as though restraint itself had finally snapped. His hands spanned her waist, thumbs pressing into the wet beadwork as if he needed proof she was real. She made a soft noise that was half relief and half dare. He answered it with a helpless groan and crowded her back into the crate stack until the rough wood creaked beneath them.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, mouth sliding to her jaw, then to the shell of her ear. He breathed hot against her skin, and she shivered on purpose because she liked the way his hand tightened at her hip.

“Cold,” she lied, because the truth would have given him too much power too quickly. “And you’re overdressed.”

He laughed, breath ragged, and stepped back just enough for her to tear open his shirt. Buttons gave way beneath her urgent fingers, suspenders slipping from his shoulders. The waistcoat hit the floor with a sodden thud. Heat poured off him, smooth chest beneath a dusting of hair, the solid weight of a man who hauled whiskey crates for a living. She splayed her hand across his sternum, feeling the hammer of his heart.

“Count,” she whispered again, an old game turned new.

“One,” he said, kissing the base of her throat. “Two.” His mouth slid lower, along the pearl-chilled line between her breasts. “Three.” His teeth caught lightly at the edge of silk and she gasped, both hands fisting in his hair.

“Show me how you’ll been careful,” she breathed, craving the slow control of him, and the way it might shatter.

He obeyed. He gathered her dress, wet silk resisting before it yielded upward, inch by inch. He knelt as he bared her thighs, palms smoothing water from her stockings. The garters gleamed in the dim light. He kissed the strap pressed to her skin and watched her shiver. His mouth traced the inside of her knee, the tender muscle that jumped when he did nothing more than breathe on it. His hands slid under the clinging hem, found the heat where silk had soaked through. He looked up from his knees, eyes black as spilled ink. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He smiled like a man disarmed. “Bossy,” he murmured, and pressed his mouth to her through the damp fabric.

Her head fell back with a startled, raw sound. He licked slow at first, teasing pressure through the wet silk, forcing her to grind against rhythm instead of friction. She made helpless little movements, hips seeking, breath catching. He held her steady by her thighs, drawing patient circles with his tongue until she cursed him softly. He laughed against her, the vibration making her knees weaken.

“Sam,” she warned, already frayed.

“Say it,” he coaxed, lifting the hem fully over her hips, baring her. He took a moment to look—honest, hungry—and the sight of his slicked hair, his reverent stare, undid her. He hooked two fingers beneath the ribbon of her knickers and tugged them aside. Cool air kissed heat. Her breath snagged.

“Please,” she whispered, the word knocking the fight out of both of them.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her, slow and filthy, tasting her like a stolen thing he meant to savor. His tongue stroked unhurriedly at first, mapping her, then circled more firmly, greedy for the way her hips jerked against his mouth. He licked and sucked and slid, patient and shameless, eating her like he had been starving every night across that bar. Her hand clamped at the back of his head. He hummed, pleased, and the sound shot through her like electricity.

“God—yes, there,” she gasped, ankles flexing in soaked heels. He anchored her with a firm grip at her hip and drew her clit between his lips, nursing gently until she trembled. When he pushed a finger inside, slow, careful, thick, she moaned, breath splintering. He added another, stretching her, curling just right. He worked her with that steady bartender rhythm, tongue and fingers syncing, building heat in tight measured rations that made her curse his name.

“Sam, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“Let go for me,” he rasped against her, voice roughened by focus. “Come, Evie.”

She did—sharp and helpless, pleasure clawing up her spine and breaking open like summer thunder. She cried his name, one hand clamped over her own mouth to smother the sound, the other tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt. Her body arched and bucked against his mouth, thighs trembling violently as her climax tore through her. He felt her clench tight around his fingers, pulsing in hot, desperate waves that squeezed his knuckles with every contraction. The slick heat of her flooded against his tongue, her taste richer, wetter, intoxicating as he drank her down. He groaned against her, lips and chin wet with the proof of her pleasure. He licked her through it, softening his pace only when her shaking ebbed into twitching aftershocks. He pressed one last kiss to the swollen ache he had made, so tender she wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.

He rose, mouth wet, eyes blown wide. She dragged him up by his suspenders, tasting herself on his tongue as she kissed him messy, grateful, greedy. She wanted him everywhere. She wanted him inside where the heat still rippled.

“I need you,” she said against his mouth, not coy now. “Inside me. Now.”

“Say it again,” he asked, voice rough, a plea for permission wrapped in demand.

“I need you inside me.” She caught his belt, yanked the leather free with trembling urgency. “Sam. Please.”

“Christ.” The word spilled out of him like confession. He freed himself and she took him in hand, the thick weight hot and hard against her palm. Her fingers curled around the velvet skin stretched over rigid heat, marveling at the size and heft. She stroked slowly, feeling the way his flesh pulsed with restrained need, slicking as her thumb dragged over the broad head. His eyes went unfocused for a heartbeat, jaw clenched, a hiss escaping his teeth.

“Feel what you do to me,” he ground out, covering her hand with his to guide the rhythm. His hips surged helplessly into her fist, pushing deeper into her grasp, making her wrist strain with the strength of him. She tightened her grip, fascinated by the way he throbbed under her strokes. He swore softly, forehead dropping to hers. “Turn around,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Hands on the crates.”

She held his gaze a beat, heat and challenge crackling between them. Then she turned, set her palms on rough wood, arching her back so the dress bared her. She heard him make a strangled sound, felt the heat of his stare on her exposed thighs. His hands slid over her hips, thumbs circling just inside her garter straps, a mix of claim and coaxing.

“Tell me if you want slower,” he rasped, the last of his control gathered in the words.

“I want you to ruin me for anyone else,” she said, fierce in her need, and heard him break on an exhale.

He pushed in, thick and inexorable, the stretch a wide, blazing ache that blotted everything else out. She cried out, low in her throat, and rocked back to take him deeper. Her walls gripped him tight, her body straining to open for the invasion. He held her there, buried to the hilt, both trembling with the shock of it. “God, Evie.” His hands bracketed her ribs; his mouth found the nape of her neck. “You feel,” He broke off, starting to move.

He fucked her slow at first, long deliberate strokes that dragged friction across every raw, woken nerve. She clung to the crate edge, knuckles white, breath breaking in curses. The rhythm built, rain on the roof, wood creaking beneath their bodies, her heart thundering as he drove into her again and again. He shifted his angle and she gasped, knees threatening to give, pleasure detonating inside her with each thrust.

“Right there,” she choked. “Sam, right there.”

He stayed on it, relentless, each stroke measured to that spot until she was clawing the wood, her voice unraveling into wrecked moans. His hand slid lower, fingers finding her clit, circling with filthy precision. The combination made her see white. She sobbed his name, pushing back against him greedily, chasing the edge he held her on until she begged shamelessly.

“Come again for me,” he demanded, voice a whip and a plea, threaded with praise. “Let me feel you.”

The second orgasm hit harder, ripping through her until her knees buckled. She bent forward with a cry she couldn’t contain, her body convulsing around him in tight, grasping pulses that dragged a savage curse from his mouth. She felt herself gush around him, wetness slicking his cock, running down her thighs. He groaned as her walls clamped, milking him, and fucked her through the shuddering storm, rhythm faltering as his own control frayed.

“Look at me,” he rasped, hauling her back against his chest, one arm locking under her breasts, the other still circling her clit. She turned her face, cheek brushing his, vision blurred. He kissed her, deep and dirty, swallowing her broken sounds as he drove into her with a hungry rhythm that said the end was close.

“Inside,” she gasped, dizzy with the fullness of him everywhere. “I want it. I want you.”

His jaw tightened, eyes wild. “Evie—”

“Yes,” she insisted, fierce and breathless. “Please.”

He shuddered with a guttural sound that vibrated through her body, thrusts turning rough and erratic. He buried himself deep and hard, every muscle locking as her tight walls squeezed him mercilessly. The fierce clench of her body tore his climax from him, each pulse dragged out by the wet, molten grip that milked him without mercy. He spilled hot seed inside her in deep, flooding waves that made her moan, the sensation overwhelming them both. He felt her slick heat coat him as he emptied, the raw ecstasy of it blinding. He clung to her, forehead pressed to the damp curve of her shoulder, voice unraveling in curses and her name as he surrendered fully into her.

For a long moment they didn’t move. The warehouse hummed with the steady drum of rain, the world outside held at bay. The smell of them, salt, musk, and Violette, hung warm and heavy in the cold air. Her thighs still trembled, the inside of her stockings damp where he had filled her, a slow heat trickling that made her shiver all over again. His chest pressed to her back, heartbeat pounding hard enough for her to feel it in her spine.

Slowly, he eased out of her, both groaning softly at the parting. He caught her dress and smoothed it down with careful hands, the gesture tender and futile, as though decency could be stitched back into place. He turned her gently, kissed her mouth with the hunger of apology and promise all at once. She tasted herself on his lips, mingling with his breath, the intimacy making her dizzy.

“You good?” he asked, thumb brushing the corner of her swollen lip.

She smiled, boneless and wicked, eyes still glittering with aftershocks. “I’m ruined, remember?” Her laugh came soft, almost giddy, breaking against his shoulder. “I’m very good.”

“Praise accepted,” he murmured, amusement tangled with reverence. He kissed her again, slower this time, hand splayed warm and certain at the back of her neck, grounding her in the storm of what they’d just done.

The thud on the warehouse door came like a gunshot. “Open up! We know you’re in there!” Boots pounded. The wood shuddered.

Evie’s eyes flew wide, adrenaline flooding back through pleasure, sharp and cold. She snatched up her fallen knickers, stuffing them hastily into the beaded clutch still absurdly looped on her wrist. Sam had his trousers up and buckled in seconds. He caught her hand, squeezed once. “Back door,” he said, voice low and certain. “Stay with me.”

They moved quickly through the aisles of crates, guided only by thin stripes of streetlight falling through the high windows. Behind them came the splinter of wood, heavy boots pounding, voices barking orders. The rear door loomed, rusted and stubborn. Sam threw his shoulder into it. Metal shrieked as it gave, the sound too loud in the night. Cold rain slapped their faces as it swung open.

“Go,” he whispered, pushing her ahead into the alley.

They ran again, shoes slapping wet stone, rain pelting down, laughter threatening at the edges of panic because the absurdity of it. Their bodies still humming from release while the city tried to cage them. Her thighs ached, every stride a reminder of what he had just done to her, heat still lingering between her legs. Sirens swelled, echoing through the maze of alleys, then began to thin to a far-off thread.

Sam yanked her into a recess between buildings, a narrow alcove that smelled of iron and wet paper. He pressed her back gently to the wall, one hand braced above her head, scanning the mouth of the alley. Nothing but rain. His shoulders dropped a fraction, though his grip on her wrist stayed firm.

Evie’s breath came hard, chest heaving. She reached up and smoothed a line of water from his cheek with her thumb, her fingers trembling with leftover adrenaline. The gesture felt indecently tender.

“You alright?” he asked, voice still husky, but warm again, the rasp turned to care.

“Better than alright,” she whispered, borrowing a breath of him. “You?”

He huffed a laugh, relief breaking loose. “Never better.”

He kissed her forehead, an old-fashioned sweetness that undid her, and then her mouth. This kiss was different: slower, sated, quiet, rain dripping into the heat of it. He held her like someone he meant to keep, the city’s chaos roaring just outside their stolen pocket of calm.

“What now?” she asked, aware of how small the question was for how large it loomed.

“We keep running,” he said, but the grin that followed took the danger’s teeth out of it. “Together. Tomorrow we talk impressions.”

She hooked a finger in his suspenders and tugged, smiling up at him. “Make it three lipsticks, remember?”

“I remember everything,” he said, and the way he said it made her believe him.

They slipped back into the night, hand in hand beneath the soft hammer of the rain. The city steamed and sighed around them, alleyways spilling secrets into gutters. Somewhere, a new Paradise Club struck up a song as if nothing had broken. Evie felt her life tilt on a hinge.

At the corner, where the street opened wide, they paused. A cab rolled past, its passenger drowsy, uninterested. Sam turned to her. “My place is four blocks,” he said. “You don’t have to. I can get you safe to your building.” Plain words, no pressure, the restraint of a man who had already given her choice twice.

She considered, rain prickling her scalp, pearls cool at her throat. She thought of the signet ring at the club, the way a man’s gaze can hurt. She thought of Sam tasting her like devotion, always asking, never taking. Heat stirred low and deep, need twined with trust. She slid closer and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Four blocks,” she said. “But we’ll walk slow.”

They took the long way, avoiding squad cars that crawled like beetles on the main drag. He told her about the first time he heard her sing and how his hands shook pouring drinks. She confessed she hated the club’s back stair for its stink of stale beer. Their small truths braided together.

His apartment was a narrow stoop and a door weathered by time. Inside, the space was neat, sparse, the order of a man who owned little and cared for it. He fetched towels and an oversized shirt that swallowed her curves. She dried her hair, laughing when he wrung rain from his suspenders beside her.

They curled beneath a worn blanket, watching rain glaze the streetlamps. When sleep tugged at them, she tucked her face into the warm hollow of his shoulder and felt, for the first time in years, the rightness of wanting something that wanted her back.

The city could raid again tomorrow. Tonight, they had a room, a storm, and a vow.

“Together,” she whispered into the quiet.

“Together,” he answered, and the word settled between them like a promise kept.