The lights in ‘The Velvet Trap’ club always made the same dull buzzing sound. Roxy knew that sound incredibly well.

Tonight, the bass music was so loud and steady it just pounded in her chest. It made her feel like her exhaustion was taking over her body.

She quickly and skillfully got behind the bar. Her hands worked so fast, making drinks with ice, spirits, and garnishes.

Each cocktail was a mini-masterpiece, a temporary escape for her patrons, and a dollar closer to… well, she wasn’t sure what. A life less miserable, maybe.

“Another Tequila Sunrise, doll, and make it snappy!” a drunken voice yelled over the music.

Roxy's customer service smile was empty behind her eyes. “Coming right up, sunshine. Try not to drown in it this time.” The man laughed hard.

Bartending was 90% mixing drinks, 10% amateur therapy, and 100% putting up with idiots. The math never quite added up, but neither did her life.

Hours later, the last call was a sweet relief. She cleaned down the sticky bar, the smell of old beer and cheap perfume stuck to her clothes, and finally, finally, punched out.

The air outside, even with some city pollution, felt wonderfully fresh after the stuffy club.

Her apartment, a cramped box above a noisy bakery, offered no such relief.

The moment she stepped through the door, the familiar scent of microwave dinners and building frustration hit her.

Her dad was yelling at the TV from his armchair. He had a half-eaten pizza box on his lap.

Her mom was talking on the phone, loudly complaining in a high voice about bills and ungrateful children.

Her older brother was on a video call with his friends, and the sound was turned up really loud. He didn't seem to notice or care.

“You’re late! Again!” her dad complained, not looking away from the wrestling match.

“Shift just ended, Dad,” Roxy said, letting her bag drop heavily to the floor. She kicked off her heels, her feet aching. “Unlike some people, I actually work.”

“Watch it, smart mouth!”

She didn’t bother replying. She just went to her tiny room, slammed the door, and changed into a worn T-shirt and shorts.

Sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford, peace an illusion. She scrolled through her phone, saw a picture of a friend on vacation, and felt a familiar rush of envy and hopelessness.

This wasn't living; it was just existing and surviving.

The next evening, the club felt even more oppressive. Roxy decided she needed a proper break, not just a five-minute water gulp behind the bar.

She pulled out a cigarette pack, the last one in the carton. Perfect.

She slipped out the back door, the party's loud bass faded into a gentle hum.

The parking lot was a concrete area illuminated by the orange glow of streetlights, mostly empty save for a few delivery vans.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, the smoke a familiar burn in her lungs, but it briefly helped the nervous feeling in her stomach.

"You look like you've had a very rough day."

Roxy nearly jumped with surprise.

Leaning against a sleek, jet black car that looked like it cost more than her entire family’s net worth, was a man.

He stood tall, dressed perfectly in a dark suit that clearly cost a fortune – probably more than Roxy paid for rent. His eyes seemed to absorb the dim light, making them sparkle with a quality Roxy couldn't quite figure out. Dangerous, maybe. Definitely interesting.

“And you look like you’re waiting for an alien invasion,” Roxy shot back, taking another drag. “Or just really fancy a parking lot stakeout.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on her arms stand up. “Constantine Volkov,” he said, pushing off the car and taking a step closer.

He walked with a calm, powerful presence, like a quiet hunter. He extended a hand. It was large, warm, and surprisingly soft. “And no, no alien invasion tonight. Just appreciating the… ambiance.”

Roxy looked right at him, her eyes showing both a challenging spirit and a desire to know more. "Roxy," she told him. "And this ambiance mostly smells like car exhaust and regret." When she shook his hand, a sudden surprising feeling went through her.

“Regret?” he repeated, a knowing, playful look on his face. “Tell me, Roxy, what does a woman like you have to regret?”

“Oh, you know. Not winning the lottery. Not being on a beach somewhere with a ridiculously large cocktail. Not owning a car that looks like it could outrun a speeding bullet.” She gestured to his car with her cigarette. “Speaking of which, nice wheels. You rob a bank for that?”

Constantine’s smile widened, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Something like that. So, you’re the infamous Roxy. I’ve heard about you.”

“Infamous? What, for not watering down the drinks?”

“For having a mouth on you, for one. And for making the best Old Fashioned in the city.”

Roxy raised an eyebrow. “High praise from someone who looks like they’ve never done a day of honest work in their life.”

He laughed, a genuine, natural sound. “Oh, I work, Roxy. Just not… nine-to-five. And I like a woman with spirit. You’re fun.” He took another step, closer now, close enough for her to notice a light scent of expensive cologne and something else, something primal and masculine. “What time do you get off?”

“Eventually,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, but her heart was beating fast. “Why? You planning on kidnapping me?”

“Depends. Would you put up a fight?” He looked at her lips, then her eyes. There was a strong, electric feeling between them. “I was thinking more along the lines of a drink. Somewhere quieter. Or perhaps, no drink at all. Just… company.”

Roxy finished her cigarette, flicking the butt away. “My shift ends at two. And my company comes with a warning label: high maintenance, prone to sarcasm, and probably a little bit insane.”

“Sounds like my kind of trouble.” He pulled out a sleek phone, already unlocked. “Give me your number, Roxy. Don’t make me chase you down.”

His voice had a lot of power, a hint of command that should have made her run, but instead, it thrilled her.

This wasn't just a man; this was an event. And for once, she was tired of her predictable, miserable existence.

She typed her number into his phone, her hand briefly touched his. The contact entry simply said: "Roxy, Bartender with a Mouth."

“Constantine Volkov,” she said, her voice a little breathy. “You own this place, don’t you?”

He just smiled, a secret look in his eyes. “Let’s just say I have interests. I’ll text you.” He nodded at her, got into his car, and the engine started with a soft, deep sound.

Then, he was gone, leaving Roxy alone in the parking lot, the night suddenly feeling much more alive.

True to his word, the text came just after her shift. “Still up for trouble?”

Roxy hesitated for a split second, then typed back: “Always.”

A car pulled up, the same sleek black beast, silent as a shadow. Constantine was inside, a light smirk on his lips.

She got into the passenger seat. The leather felt cool and smooth. The car smelled new, and also like him.

“To your place or mine?” he asked, his voice low, intimate in the confined space.

“Yours,” Roxy said without thinking.

Her place was full of her family and their suffocating negativity. She needed a real escape.

His apartment was less an apartment and more a penthouse suite that swallowed the city lights.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panorama of the twinkling skyline. The decor was minimalist, sleek, and undoubtedly expensive—dark woods, steel, a few pieces of abstract art. It felt grand and empty and yet, intensely private.

“Make yourself at home,” Constantine said, gesturing casually. “Drink?”

“Please,” Roxy said, running a hand over a ridiculously soft throw blanket. “Something strong. Or something that could make me forget my name.”

He moved to a built-in bar, his back to her, and she found herself admiring the broad line of his shoulders, the way the fabric of his suit stretched across his back.

He was a dangerous man, she knew it in her gut. A mafia boss, probably. But the danger felt… exciting.

He turned, two glasses in hand, amber liquid swirling. “Whiskey, neat. Straight to the point, just like you.”

They sat on a plush sofa, the city lights painting patterns on the floor. The conversation was easy, surprisingly so.

He asked about her, genuinely seemed interested, and she found herself telling him things she hadn’t told anyone – her frustration, her dreams of escaping, the suffocating weight of her family.

He paid close attention, his eyes very focused. He'd occasionally add a sharp, witty comment that made her laugh.

“So, you’re telling me your dad thinks reality TV is high culture?” Constantine leaned back, a hand resting on her knee, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles. The touch was light, yet completely captivating.

“Basically. He once tried to convince me that competitive eating was a legitimate sport. Said I should try out.” Roxy rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. “I told him I’d rather stab myself with a spork.”

Constantine let out a loud laugh, the sound filling the spacious room. “A spork! See, I knew you had a killer sense of humor.” His hand moved a little higher, his fingers lightly touching the bottom of her skirt. The moment felt charged.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Roxy whispered, looking at his lips. They looked soft, inviting. “For a… mysterious night creature who probably owns a dozen clubs and a small country.”

“Let’s just say I have a diverse portfolio,” he made a low, satisfied sound, looking at her with clear purpose.

He leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

His lips touched hers gently at first, then with more urgency and passion. The desire between them started small, like a quiet feeling, but quickly grew into a strong, powerful passion.

His mouth devoured hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, claiming her. She could taste the whiskey on him, feel the roughness of his beard against her skin.

His hand slipped under her skirt, finding bare flesh. He groaned into her mouth as he felt how wet she already was.

His fingers traced the edge of her lace panties, a slow tease that made her tremble.

She gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed against her through the thin material, feeling her pussy. His other hand gripped her ass, pulling her closer so she could feel just how hard he was.

Unable to resist any longer, he hooked his fingers in her panties and pulled them aside, exposing her completely. His thick fingers found her clit and began rubbing in tight circles, making her legs shake.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, breathing hard. “Roxy,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you.”

“Oh, I think I have some idea,” she panted, her face flushed, her own breath coming in ragged gasps. “Same as you’re doing to me.”

He didn't need any more encouragement.

He scooped her into his arms, a surprising strength in his lean frame, and carried her towards a large, dimly lit bedroom.

The bed was massive, covered in silk sheets that reflected in the ambient light.

He set her down gently, and then his lips were on hers again, more urgent this time. His hands found the hem of her shirt, pulling it up, and she helped him, eager to feel his skin against hers.

The shirt came off, then his jacket, then his tie. Her hands struggled with the buttons of his shirt, and he chuckled, helping her, his fingers brushing against her skin, sending shivers through her body.

When his shirt came off, Roxy inhaled sharply. His chest was broad, muscled, with a light covering of dark hair that went down to his belly button.

He was attractive and powerful. Her hand moved over his toned midsection, feeling how firm his skin felt.

He groaned, pressing her back onto the bed, his weight supported by his arms. His eyes, dark and intense, devoured her. “You’re stunning, Roxy.”

Her skirt and shoes came off easily as Constantine removed them.

Then her bra, his fingers brushing against her nipples, making them harden instantly.

His mouth found her left breast, sucking hard on her sensitive nipple. She moaned loudly, grabbing onto his hair as he bit down gently, marking her. He pushed her breasts together, burying his face in between them, groaning. "Fucking perfect..."

“Constantine,” she breathed, her hands gripping his shoulders.

His hand reached up, squeezing her right breast roughly, his fingers pinching and pulling at her hard peaks.

He lifted his head, saliva dripping from his mouth onto her chest. "I'm gonna fuck these too..."

He quickly unbuttoned his pants, pulling out his thick, hard cock. It was already leaking pre-cum, the sight of her bare breasts and wet pussy making him wild with lust.

He spread her legs wider as he positioned himself between them.

"Look at me." he demanded, his voice low and rough.

He rubbed the head of his cock against her clit slowly causing Roxy’s hips buckle upwards seeking more friction.

Her back arched off the bed, a soft moan escaping her lips.

With a sudden powerful thrust, he slammed inside her wet pussy without warning. Roxy gasped loudly as his thick cock stretched her open suddenly.