The party had cracked open somewhere past midnight.
It wasn't just music anymore—it was a fever. The kind that seeped under your skin and turned your blood to glitter.
Sergio Calderón's mansion was carved into the Barcelona hillside, glowing with lanterns and pulsing lights. Marble floors, silk curtains, fountains of champagne. The crowd was impossible to track—models, designers, dancers, art students, trust-fund kids who dressed like chaos.
Eliana lost count of the drinks.
She only remembered how sweet the last one tasted.
Too sweet.
Too smooth.
Too warm going down.
Her skin prickled. Her body went light. Her pulse quickened—not in fear, but in that dizzying, dangerous way. The way that made the music sound closer. The lights look brighter. Her dress feel tighter.
Everything was delicious and wrong.
Someone bumped into her, and the sensation burned. Hands brushing down her arm. Voices too close.
She blinked across the dance floor.
Nicky.
He was laughing, head thrown back, arms above his head. The black silk of his dress clung to him in the strobe lights. His eyes were smeared with gold and smoke, lips parted slightly, face flushed.
Beautiful. Unreal.
Hers.
She didn't remember crossing the floor, but suddenly she was there, in front of him, eyes locked.
"Eliana," he murmured, slightly breathless. "You good?"
She smiled—loose, slow. Her hands slid up his arms before she could stop them.
"I'm perfect."
He blinked, but didn't move away.
The music shifted—something darker. Slower. Bass-heavy. A beat that hit low in the hips.
Then—
His hands found her waist.
Casual. Playful. Anchoring her.
She moved first.
Her hips rocked forward, brushing his. Her arms slid around his neck. She laughed into his collarbone. Everything felt like liquid. Like silk. Like yes.
He didn't stop her.
He moved with her.
Not in that sharp, awkward way of avoidance—but fluid. Natural. His hands guided her. His eyes watched her. His breath fanned her cheek.
It was dirty.
Close.
Her body rubbed against his like it belonged there.
She felt everything.
His fingers splayed on her lower back. The dip of his chest against hers. The warmth of his thigh between hers as she moved. The hem of his dress brushing her skin.
Her panties were soaked.
Her thoughts? Gone.
Her body? On fire.
He smelled like spice and night and something private.
"El," he said in her ear, a soft chuckle, "you're really going for it tonight, huh?"
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
His hand slid up—just a little higher. His thumb grazed her bare rib, under the edge of her dress. It was nothing.
But it wrecked her.
His lips were close. His breath hot. And her heart was doing things she didn't have words for.
He was still dancing.
Still holding her.
Still thinking it was all fun.
No meaning.
No risk.
Just movement.
But her body?
Her body was betraying her in every way.
She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the rhythm took her under.
"God," she whispered, barely audible.
Nicky leaned back slightly, eyes flicking over her face. "You good, angel?"
She forced a smile, clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline.
"Yeah," she lied.
He twirled her, spinning her into the crowd, his hand catching hers just before she flew too far.
By the time the song ended, her lipstick was smudged, her breath ragged, and her legs trembling.
Nicky kissed her cheek. "Gonna get water. Don't disappear."
She nodded.
But she was already falling.
And she didn't know how to land.
The night blurred.
Barcelona beat through the walls like a second heart, and Eliana was floating.
She had another drink in her hand—too sweet, too fizzy. She shouldn't have. She knew something was off. Everyone was too flushed, too high, too turned on.
Even the air felt dirty.
The dance floor had transformed into a slow, grinding ocean of limbs and moans and glossy lips. People were pressed against walls, against each other, mouths open, skin flushed. Luca was gone—probably somewhere laughing into a glass of wine and making out with two people at once. Valeria and Renee had vanished hours ago. Elias had passed out in a velvet armchair near the patio, head tilted back like a painting of drunk royalty.
And she was still here.
Still burning.
Still watching him.
Nicky had returned from the bar, cheeks pink, eyes glassy, hair wild. His dress clung to his chest, his hips, that impossible waist. He looked like temptation stitched into satin.
"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand, dragging her back onto the floor.
And she let him.
She always would.
The music had slowed again—dangerous. A bass-heavy song that slithered between the crowd like something alive. Eliana's body moved before she could think. Her hips rolled. Her arms wrapped around his neck.
They were laughing.
Drunk.
Glowing.
And then—
A hand grabbed her waist.
Too tight.
Too low.
Not his.
She tensed.
Nicky turned instantly, eyes sharp. "She's with me," he snapped, voice firm.
The hand vanished.
Then—
His hands were on her waist.
Pulling her in.
Not just close.
Flush.
Chest to back.
Eliana gasped, body arching.
The music swelled, and they moved. Slowly. Filthy. Perfect. Her hips ground back into his, and his hands held her there. Tight. Steady. Like he didn't want to let her drift.
She could feel everything.
His chest at her back. His breath at her neck. The silk of his dress against her spine. The heat of his thighs brushing hers.
And then—
She felt it.
Hard.
Pressed against her ass. Solid. Real.
Her breath hitched.
Her skin went hot. Wet. Her thighs clenched. Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.
Nicky didn't move away.
Didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he did—and didn't care.
He kept swaying with her. One hand slid to her stomach. The other stayed low on her hip, thumb moving in slow, lazy circles.
She swallowed hard.
Her body was a scream.
She tilted her head, eyes fluttering shut. His lips were close enough to brush her cheek. His nose nudged her hair. The sound of his breath was deep, soft, almost needy.
But not for her.
That part she reminded herself again and again.
Everyone was like this tonight. All heat and hunger and loose. She'd seen people making out in corners, someone moaning against a bathroom door, two dancers on the stairs, grinding like the world was ending.
It wasn't real.
None of this was real.
But god, it felt like it.
And she didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not with the way his hand flattened over her belly.
Not with the way he said her name so softly it made her thighs tremble.
"Eliana," he murmured.
She turned slightly.
Their lips didn't touch.
But they were close.
So close.
"Nicky…"
He didn't answer.
He just kept dancing.
And she let herself forget, just for now.
Let herself believe, just for tonight.
Even if it broke her tomorrow.