Page 4 of Depraved Temptation

Taking a deep breath, I find myself nodding slowly. "One drink," I stipulate, my voice steadier now.

His lips curl into a triumphant smile. "One drink," he agrees.

Without a word, he turns and begins to walk toward the bar, each step radiating an undeniable air of command. I find myself falling into step beside him, my heels clicking softly against the floor as we make our way through the dimly lit space.

He seems to part the crowd effortlessly; people move aside as if instinctively aware of his desire for passage. Even the air around him feels charged, as if infused with his magnetism.

Reaching the bar, he claims two stools with a subtle gesture to the bartender, who seems to recognize him instantly. The bartender sets to work on our drinks without needing to ask what we'll have—it's evident that this is a man accustomed to places and people adapting to him.

As we sit, he turns to face me, his eyes capturing mine once more. "So, Lila," he says, leaning in slightly, "here's to one extraordinary drink."

He takes a sip of his drink, setting it down before leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "That was quite a performance earlier. You have a unique talent, Lila."

"Thank you," I say, my cheeks warming. "Dancing has always been my passion."

He leans in, curiosity etched in his features. "What drew you to Risqué, if you don't mind me asking?"

I hesitate, but something in his eyes encourages me to be honest. "I was classically trained, mainly in ballet. Life took some unexpected turns, and Risqué became a stage for me at a time when I needed it. It's different from what I was used to, but I've grown to love it here."

"An interesting journey," he muses. "It's not every day you meet a classically trained dancer in a setting like this."

"That's true. Everyone here has a story, some more unexpected than others." I pause, meeting his gaze. "You fit right in with the Risqué crowd, but I wouldn't have expected someone like you to be interested in spending time with a dancer."

His eyes sparkle with amusement. "Let's just say I've always appreciated the arts, and tonight, that includes your dance. Beauty has a way of revealing itself in the most unexpected places."

I'm momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity of his words. The conversation between us flows effortlessly, as if we've crossed some invisible boundary into a realm where it's just the two of us, connecting in a way I hadn't thought possible.

"To surprises," I propose, lifting my glass.

"And to extraordinary drinks with extraordinary people," he adds.

We clink our glasses together, sealing a moment that feels both unexpected and yet, somehow, fated. The unsettling churn of unpredictability seems to ease into a gentle current of possibility, and for the first time in a while, I feel a curious sense of hope.

The bartender approaches with an ease that comes from years of experience. He gives me a polite nod but addresses the man beside me. "Can I get anything else for you, Mr. Harrington?"

The name slams into me like a freight train. Harrington. It reverberates through my mind, a name I’ve heard too many times. Visions flood my mind: my ex, Cameron Harrington, the tightness of his jaw when he’d talk about his overbearing father, stories filled with tension and paternal domination.

The Harrington legacy, a monolith I’d thought I escaped, suddenly towers over me again.

The air in Risqué thickens, as if the room itself senses my mounting panic. A chill descends over me, contrasting starkly with the bar's sultry atmosphere. My heart races, the thumping in my chest drowning out the ambient music and murmured conversations. The man beside me—Alexander—isn’t just any Alexander. He’s a Harrington.

He's Cameron’s father.

A split-second glance between Alexander and the bartender feels like an eternity, each tick of the clock stretching out as I come to the stomach-churning realization. My face must betray my thoughts, because I feel a sudden shift in Alexander's gaze, a new scrutiny that wasn’t there before. I'm trapped in a web spun from my own past, and the walls are closing in.

Without thinking, I push myself up, my chair scraping the floor, echoing loudly in the momentary silence. "I have to go," I say hastily, my voice shaky.

But Alexander’s hand closes around my wrist before I can step away. It's a gentle hold, not confining, but enough to keep me in place. He looks puzzled, those once-inviting eyes now clouded with concern.

"Where are you going?" he asks. “What’s wrong?”

Swallowing hard, I manage to find my voice. "You’re Alexander Harrington.”

He blinks in confusion, his head cocking to one side. “And you’re Lila Devereaux. What does that—”

“Your son, Cameron,” I interrupt. “He and I… we have history. It’s not, I can’t, we shouldn’t…” I can’t get the words out, so instead, I wave my hands emphatically at the table, the expensive drinks, and the fiery chemistry between us.

Alexander studies me intently, his fingers lightly brushing my wrist. The weight of the silence is punctuated by the distant hum of the bar's activity. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, composed, but with an underlying current of determination.

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