The heavy, melodic pulse of the R&B track slowed the world down around us. I pulled Sasha into my arms, my hands finding the small of her back where the sheer mesh of her dress met the heat of her skin. We didn't just dance; we occupied a different frequency.

​While the rest of the club was a blur of grinding bodies and strobe lights, we moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness. I looked down into her eyes, and the usual mask of the "Sex Icon" had completely vanished.

​Usually, when women looked at me—especially tonight with Cami and Evelyn—it was with a hunger that was purely transactional or primal. They saw a performer, a thrill. But Sasha was looking at me with something much more dangerous: hope.

​It was in the way she leaned her forehead against mine, her breath hitching not from lust, but from an emotional weight she was struggling to carry. I could feel it in the tension of her fingers as they curled into the hair at the nape of my neck. She looked at me like I was a life raft in a city designed to sink people. She wanted to say it—she wanted to tell me that she didn't want to just be my co-star or my "escort peer," but someone who belonged to me when the cameras stopped rolling.

​"You're far away right now," I whispered, my lips brushing her temple.

​"I'm right here," she breathed, tightening her grip. "I'm just... realizing that for the first time in a long time, I don't want the music to stop. I don't want to go back to being 'Sasha' for Holmes or the fans. I just want to be here with you."

​The vulnerability was jarring. In this den of sin and high-priced flesh, the most provocative thing happening was the raw honesty in her eyes. She was terrified of the feeling, and I could feel her trembling against my chest.

​"You don't have to be anyone else tonight," I told her, my voice low and steady. "Just you and me."

​She looked up at me, her eyes shimmering under the club lights, the words she was dying to say hovering on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to ask me to stay. She wanted to ask me to be hers. But the shadows of Monet and the industry were still lurking at the edges of the room.

I leaned down, my lips grazing the shell of her ear as the bass rumbled through both of our chests. "We're going to make this work, Sasha," I whispered, my voice thick with a promise that had nothing to do with a script. "I don't care about Monet, the contracts, or the noise in this room. You're more than a co-star to me. You're everything."

​As I spoke, my hands moved with a possessive, heavy rhythm, caressing the curves of her body through that dangerously thin mesh. I let my palms slide down the length of her spine, pressing her lower body firmly against mine. I wanted her to feel the physical reality of me, a grounding force against the emotional whirlwind in her eyes.

​She let out a soft, shaky breath, her body molding perfectly to mine. Every time my hands wandered—tracing the swell of her hips or pressing into the small of her back—she arched into the touch, her skin burning hot against my palms. It was a sexually charged claim, a public declaration that while the world might watch her, I was the only one who truly held her.

​The look of hope in her eyes didn't fade; it deepened, sparked by the friction of our bodies. She clung to me, her fingers digging into my shoulders as if she were afraid I'd vanish if she let go. In that moment, surrounded by the peak of Hollywood decadence, we were in a world of our own.

​"Take me home, Druski," she breathed against my neck, her voice trembling. "Before I lose my mind right here on this floor."

​I pulled back just enough to look at her one more time—the shimmering dress, the braless silhouette, the raw vulnerability on her face. I didn't need to see Cami or Evelyn's reactions to know they were watching. I only had eyes for her.

The heavy door of the Cadillac Escalade thudded shut, instantly killing the muffled roar of the Hollywood night. The interior was a sanctuary of chilled air and soft leather, the city lights streaking across the tinted windows like liquid neon.

​"The Peninsula," I told the driver. He nodded, flicking the privacy glass up, leaving us in total darkness save for the dim glow of the dashboard.

​Sasha didn't wait. She climbed onto my lap, her mesh dress bunching up around her hips as she straddled me. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair with a desperate, shaky grip. "I can't wait," she whispered against my skin, her voice thick with a hunger that was different from anything I'd heard on set. "I've been waiting for this all night... all week."

​Then, our lips crashed together.

​It wasn't the practiced, performative kiss of two stars hitting their marks for a camera. This was raw, messy, and heavy with the weight of everything we hadn't said. It was the taste of champagne, high-end weed, and a deep-seated longing. For the first time, the "Sasha" I knew from the industry was gone; in her place was a woman who was letting her guard down completely.

​I could feel her heart hammering against my chest through her thin dress. She wasn't just kissing me; she was claiming me. There was no director shouting for a better angle, no lighting crew adjusting the shadows. It was just us. I felt her tears—just a few—dampening my cheek as she pulled me closer, her body molding to mine with a fierce intensity. She meant it. Every touch, every gasp, every desperate pull was her telling me that I was the first real thing she'd found in years.

​I gripped her waist, my thumbs tracing the curve of her hips as I kissed her back with equal ferocity. The SUV surged forward, weaving through the LA traffic, but for the two of us, time had stopped.

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