Villain Ch 1970. Thrilled

Mila held Allen's waist tight as the motorcycle roared through the streets of the city. The wind whipped at her hair, her dress fluttering against her thighs, her cheek pressed to the back of his leather jacket. Her heels tapped against the side of the bike every now and then… awkward, unfamiliar, but thrilling. She'd never ridden a motorcycle in her life. But now?

Now she didn't care.

The city lights blurred past them like streaks of neon and gold. Skyscrapers gleamed like silver towers under the moon, and the deeper they went into the city's belly, the more everything pulsed like a living thing. Horns, laughter, music leaking out of car windows and open balconies, it was chaotic, alive, and romantic in its own strange, urban way.

Her hands slid just a little tighter around his waist.

Maybe she was reckless. Maybe he was dangerous.

But for once?

She didn't feel like being careful.

She could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat through his back. Steady. Confident. Allen wasn't just driving. He was controlling everything—the pace, the turns, the feel of the ride like he owned the night. And did he smell good. That impossible mix of clean musk and faint spice, leather and danger and something she couldn't name. Something that made her lips tingle with the memory of that kiss.

She hadn't even meant to do it.

Hadn't planned it.

But he looked at her like that… and her body just moved.

And he didn't pull away.

He kissed her back.

Her cheeks burned hotter just remembering it.

Eventually, the engine purred down, the speed dropped, and Allen pulled them into a quiet street near the edge of a trendy district. Lights hung overhead like stars tangled in wire. The street glowed amber, framed with plant-covered balconies, fairy lights, and the sound of jazz bleeding from behind one of the doors. Allen parked the motorcycle right in front of a black-bricked lounge, where gold-lettered signage simply said "Moonlift."

Classy. Modern. But not snobby.

He stepped off first, offered his hand without a word. Mila took it, pulling off the helmet with one hand and shaking out her hair, still catching her breath.

"You okay?" Allen asked with a smirk.

"That depends," she said, handing the helmet back. "Was that legal?"

He chuckled and leaned closer. "Which part? The speed… or the kiss?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "Both."

Allen's grin widened. "No complaints then."

He gently took her wrist, not forceful, just firm enough to tell her she had no excuse to walk away.

Inside, the Moonlift was a different kind of world. Dim lights. Velvet booths. Golden fixtures. It smelled like vanilla smoke and citrus peel. The air was cool, the music soft and lazy—jazz, again, but a modern remix. A live band played in the corner, low and intimate. No obnoxious lights. No crowd pressing in. Just people drinking, talking, swaying in their own little worlds.

Allen got them a corner booth.

They sat. And Mila was still catching up. Still trying to process how tonight spiraled from a kiss into a whole mood.

He ordered champagne and a mocktail for her, like he already knew she wasn't drinking heavy tonight. Just something fruity and bubbly with crushed ice and mint on top. Of course, it tasted amazing.

"Thought you'd take me to a club," she said after a few sips.

"I could have," he murmured, "but then I wouldn't hear you."

She blinked. "Hear me?"

Allen leaned forward slightly, voice low. "Your laugh. Your thoughts."

Her throat dried. "Allen…"

He smiled like he was already in her head.

And maybe he was.

That smirk. That low voice. That confident lean.

It was unfair.

"I like this side of you," he said, swirling his champagne like a king bored at a banquet. "Soft. Messy. Real."

She glanced away. Her cheeks burned. "I'm not that soft."

"Wanna bet?"

That damn voice. Smooth. Dangerous. The kind of tone that could slide down her spine and stay there. She tried to drink instead of answer, but Allen didn't let the silence grow cold. He leaned forward on the little cocktail table between them, elbows resting, eyes locked on her like a game he'd already won.

"You blush when I tease you," he murmured.

"It can't be helped," she said quickly.

He reached across the table… slow, deliberate and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. His knuckle skimmed her cheek. Light. Barely there. But the sensation crackled through her entire body like static on skin.

Mila held her breath.

Then his voice dropped, velvet smooth. "You always had that look when you wanted something but didn't know how to ask."

"I don't want anything," she lied.

He hummed. Not believing her. Not needing to.

His fingers trailed down, grazing her jaw. The pads of his fingers were warm, rough. A fighter's hands. But the way he touched her?

Like she was fragile. Precious. A secret he already claimed.

He didn't lean in. Didn't rush. Allen was never the type to push. He just let the moment stretch, let her drown in it.

"You sure?" he whispered.

She hated how her lips parted without thinking.

Hated how her knees brushed his under the table.

Hated how it wasn't hate at all.. it was wildfire.

Then the music changed.

A softer tempo. A smoky rhythm. Slow, sensual. The kind that wrapped around the room like silk and sin.

Allen stood and held out his hand.

Mila blinked. "What—"

"Dance with me," he said.

No pressure. Just an offer.

But everything about the way he looked at her made it feel like gravity.

And she?

She wasn't resisting.

Not tonight.

She didn't answer. Just put her glass down and took his hand.

He led her to the center of the lounge floor. It wasn't a dance club, but there were a few couples slow dancing. Swaying. Touching like they didn't want the night to end.

Allen placed his hand on her waist, pulled her close, and her breath caught.

His hand felt warm. Confident. It settled just above her hips, grounding her. Their bodies brushed as they moved. Not perfectly in sync, not trained—but close enough. Intimate enough. She let her hand rest on his chest. Could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. Or was that hers?

"I haven't danced in forever," she whispered.

"You're doing fine."

"You just like holding me."

He smiled. "Guilty."

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