Villain Ch 1972. Between The Dance and Kiss

Somehow, somewhere between the teasing dance steps and that kiss… the real one, the kind that pressed every nerve like a secret key… she'd stopped worrying about the future. About labels. About whatever-the-hell complicated history they both carried on their backs like unpaid debts.

No.

Right now was soft. And warm. And slow.

Right now was Allen's arms around her waist, holding her like she was the most natural thing in the world to have.

Right now was music thudding like a heartbeat beneath her shoes, champagne bubbles still fizzing on her tongue, and the sharp bite of perfume and aftershave dancing around them in the dimly lit VIP lounge like ghosts that approved of sin.

They swayed. Still in sync. Still close. Still lost.

It felt like a dream. The whole thing.

The way the room was lit in this soft, golden wash...like candlelight made from city glow. The velvet-lined booths. The low-hum jazz from the live band near the corner. The bar that glittered behind layers of crystal shelves and expensive liquor bottles.

No one was watching them. Not really.

All the other guests in this exclusive little pocket of urban heaven were too busy wrapped around their own lovers, or sipping champagne like loneliness was outlawed here.

VIP only. Of course it was.

This wasn't some loud club where people bumped into each other and spilled cheap vodka.

This was intimacy curated. Soft lighting. Slow music. Servers who knew when to interrupt and when to disappear.

And Allen? Of course Allen knew about this place.

Of course he brought her here.

Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his shirt. Her cheek rested lightly on his chest. His scent was doing stupid things to her brain...subtle, expensive, clean, and a little dangerous. Like mint mixed with smoke. Something sexy and masculine that clung to her memory long after he left.

She didn't want him to leave. Not tonight.

Her fingers… started to wander.

Not on purpose.

Okay, a little on purpose.

She just wanted to feel him. Just a little.

A brush along his shoulder. A casual glide down his back. A not-so-innocent pause just above his waistband.

He was solid. His back was ridiculously toned. His waist narrow but strong. His thighs? Yeah, let's not get started on those.

He wasn't just lean. He was carved.

Like some dumb model who also probably knew how to throw a punch in a bar fight and hack a mainframe on the weekend.

Which was unfair.

He was smart. He was fast. He was beautiful. He made her laugh. And think. And feel safe.

And now he was holding her like she was his.

Her hand slid lower. Without thinking.

Her palm met firm muscle.

Very firm.

Definitely not his waist.

And then…

Allen shifted. Just a little.

His lips dipped near her ear, warm breath making her knees threaten treason.

"Uh… Mila," he murmured, trying not to laugh. "You just groped the wrong place."

Her entire body froze.

Then went up in flames.

"I...oh my god..." she jerked her hand back like she touched a live wire, face exploding in heat. "I didn't...I wasn't..."

He leaned back just enough to look at her, grinning like a criminal who'd just caught his partner red-handed.

"It's okay," he teased. "Just buy me dinner first. Oh wait, we already did that. I could exchange this for a burger."

"I will die," she muttered, covering her face.

"Don't. I like your hands," he said, wicked amusement in his voice. "Just wasn't expecting the full handshake."

"You're the worst."

He smiled. "And yet, you're still here."

She dropped her hands, heart still galloping, and scowled at him. "That was an accident."

"I know."

"You're not gonna let me forget it, are you?"

"Not a chance."

She wanted to punch him.

She wanted to kiss him again.

She wanted to do both at the same time.

But instead, she did something worse.

She laughed.

Laughed against his chest, like she hadn't just embarrassed herself in a five-star date lounge.

Like she hadn't just full-on squeezed the man's ass while slow dancing.

Allen held her tighter, amusement still dancing in his eyes.

Then...his hand slid up her spine.

Slow. Confident.

His fingers brushed the bare skin between the open dip of her dress. Just a whisper of pressure, enough to make her inhale sharp and stupid.

Her laughter died.

Her lips parted.

Her brain short-circuited.

"Allen..."

He leaned in, voice low.

"Keep touching me like that," he said, "and I'll forget where we are."

Oh.

He wasn't joking.

His tone was different now.

Quieter. Rougher. Intimate.

And Mila? She felt like someone had just rewired her spine.

Her breath caught. Her hands trembled.

But she didn't pull away.

"Maybe that's what I want," she whispered.

Silence.

Then his hand slipped lower. Just a little. Just enough.

"You sure?"

She nodded.

"I didn't hear that," he said.

"…Yes."

A long exhale left his lips.

He didn't rush. Didn't leap.

He just let the space between them close tighter. Let his fingers dance circles on her back. Let the air between them heat like coals wrapped in silk.

He kissed her again.

This time, slower.

Not desperate.

Just… possessive.

Like he was marking the moment. Claiming it.

She kissed him back, softer this time. Less frantic, more certain.

Because this?

This wasn't a crush.

Wasn't a phase.

Wasn't some date-night accident.

This was a step forward.

And Mila? She was all in.

The kiss deepened, and time didn't exist.

Just the taste of champagne and Allen's lips.

The rhythm of the music.

The ache between her ribs.

The way his hands knew exactly where to press without being too much. Without being too little.

He was good at this. Too good.

She pulled back slightly, panting.

He grinned down at her.

"I like this side of you," he whispered again. "Soft. Messy. Real."

She licked her lips. "You said that already."

"I meant it," he said. "All of it."

"Still think I'm soft?"

Allen dipped his head, kissed her temple, then whispered against her skin.

"Only when you want to be."

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