Roxy at The Club: Part 2

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.

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