Under Neon Lights
bob floyd x fem!aviator!reader
call sign: Whiskey
The bass was already hitting before they even got out of the Uber.
It thumped through the pavement, up their legs, like a second heartbeat under the streetlights. The whole squad piled out of the SUV, laughter spilling into the night. It was hot, humid, coastal air clinging to their skin, the kind that stuck to your clothes in all the right (and wrong) places.
Phoenix was the first out, pulling the door open with a grin. “If anyone leaves sober, I’m disowning you.”
Fanboy climbed out after her with a snort. “If I go missing, check the DJ booth.”
Payback pointed at him. “No, check the bar. That’s where your heart lives.”
Then came Bob—tall, quiet, awkward as hell in his fitted navy button-down and clean jeans, adjusting his glasses and scanning the building like he was about to walk into a mission briefing.
And then there was you—Whiskey—last one out.
You swung your legs out slow, like you knew every single person was already watching. Hair down. Lip gloss shimmering. Tight black dress that hugged your hips and stopped mid-thigh. Heels loud on the concrete as you stepped forward, eyes gleaming under the city lights.
Bob looked up at the sound of your heels and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Cyclone had approved a rare Friday night leave for all of you after a brutal round of training simulations, and you’d picked the club—a slightly off-the-radar, neon-lit spot downtown with just enough grime to feel cool and just enough glitter to feel dangerous.
The bouncer looked you all over—first with suspicion, then with a grin.
“Y’all Navy?” he asked, cocking his head.
Hangman clapped a hand to Bob’s shoulder and smirked. “You could say that.”
The velvet rope dropped.
Inside, the club pulsed—dim lights flickering pink, purple, gold. The bar to the left glowed like a spaceship, rows of bottles catching light as the bartenders moved like magicians. The dance floor was packed, hips grinding, drinks spilling, music vibrating through every surface. A full sensual hum of bass and breath and heat.
Phoenix whistled low. “Okay, okay. She doesn’t look like much outside, but she’s a whole mood in here.”
“Right?” you smirked, tugging her hand. “Come on. First round’s on me.”
Hangman muttered under his breath, “If this ends in a conga line, I’m out.”
The crew split naturally—Fanboy and Payback made a beeline for the bar to order drinks with way too much liquor and way too little class. Phoenix leaned into you, the two of you laughing as you started naming songs you wanted to hear. Your hips were already swaying before you made it to the bar. Music was your oxygen tonight.
Bob hovered by the edge of the group, a quiet current in a storm, eyes locked on you—how easily you moved, how alive you looked under colored lights, like you belonged in a music video or a fever dream.
“Whatcha drinkin’, Whiskey?” Phoenix yelled over the bass.
“Tequila and trouble,” you shot back with a wink.
Bob nearly choked on his own breath.
You turned toward him, as if you’d felt his eyes on you, and smiled softly. “You gonna stand there all night, Floyd, or are you gonna come get corrupted?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
“I—I’m coming,” he stammered.
Hangman barked a laugh. “Not yet, I hope.”
You tossed your head back laughing. “Down, cowboy.”
Everyone grabbed drinks, shots, cocktails, beers. Toasts clinked. Someone shouted something about “to bad decisions” and Fanboy tried to start a chant that flopped so hard you all had to pretend it never happened.
Then—the DJ shifted tracks.
You knew it within five seconds.
You shrieked, “PHOENIX—IT’S PINK PONY CLUB!”
“Oh shit!” Phoenix screamed, slamming her shot glass down.
And like that, you were gone. Glasses abandoned, drinks forgotten, you both grabbed each other’s hands and hit the dance floor. You were singing every word at full volume, twirling under the strobes, laughing so hard you nearly fell.
Phoenix shouted to Hangman as she danced past, “Try to keep up, Texas!”
“Not with you two!” he shouted back. “You’ve got main character syndrome!”
Back at the table, Bob watched it all unfold like a man possessed.
You in that dress. You lit up. You singing every line to a glitter-pop anthem like you wrote it yourself. You locking eyes with him mid-chorus, tongue poking out between your teeth, daring him without a word.
He took a long sip of his drink and thought, Heaven help me.
You were just getting started.
———
The lights dimmed just a little deeper.
The beat slowed down.
That soft, sensual guitar riff slid through the speakers like honey. The kind of sound that curled low in your spine and made you sway before you even realized you were moving. And when Romeo Santos whispered the first line, you turned around slowly like you already knew the next chapter of your night had just arrived.
Hangman clocked it instantly. “Oh no.”
You grinned, stalking toward him with the dangerous confidence of a woman who knew what she was doing.
“Oh yes,” you purred.
“Whiskey,” he warned. “I don’t know how to dance to this. This is like… forbidden fruit music.”
“Then consider this your crash course,” you said, grabbing him by the hand. “C’mon, cowboy. I’ll lead.”
“You always do,” he muttered under his breath.
You dragged him onto the dance floor just as Usher’s verse slid in, and he stood there stiffly for a second like he was preparing for a goddamn duel.
“Relax,” you said, stepping in close—closer than close. Your palm landed gently on his shoulder, guiding him. “It’s just three steps. And hips. Always the hips.”
“I have hips,” he said, sounding personally offended.
“Prove it.”
You swayed.
He followed, stiff as a board, and you burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you move like a tax form.”
“Ma’am, this is harassment.”
“This is bachata,” you said, “and you’re doing it with me, so shut up and move your hips.”
Slowly, painfully, he started to get it. You led with subtle, practiced rhythm, rolling your hips just enough to make it dangerous. The beat was slow, romantic, every movement a suggestion instead of a shout. Your hands moved—up his arm, across his shoulder, back down again, always in time with the music.
And then you flipped it—your back to him, his hand on your hip.
He audibly swallowed.
“This feels illegal,” he whispered into your ear.
“Only if you’re doing it right,” you murmured, rocking your hips back into him.
Hangman froze. Fully froze.
You laughed and reached back to grab his hand. “Don’t lock up on me, Texas. Move with me.”
By the time the chorus hit, he’d stopped thinking. You had him—completely in your rhythm, moving like his bones belonged to you. A hand on your hip, the other brushing your arm, breath hot at your neck. He kept messing up the steps, but you didn’t care. He was trying. And he was sweating.
You leaned in and whispered, “You’re a little heavy on the lead, Lieutenant.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not used to dancing like this.”
“No one is. That’s why it works.”
And God, it worked.
By the time the song faded out, Hangman looked like he’d just run a marathon. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes were wide. You turned around slowly, chest to chest, face inches from his, and grinned.
“Well?”
Hangman didn’t answer right away.
He just staggered off the dance floor, shoulders loose, lips parted, breathing like he needed a defibrillator. He got halfway back to the table where Bob, Payback, and Fanboy were watching with drinks in hand before he turned back and said—
“What the fuck? I’m never dancing bachata again. It was too much.”
Fanboy spit beer.
Payback howled.
Bob? Bob looked like he was experiencing a medical event.
Because the whole time Hangman had been struggling through that dance, Bob had been picturing himself in his place—your hips, your hands, your laugh, all pressed against someone else. And now that image was seared into his skull.
And the worst part? You looked even hotter walking off that dance floor, flushed and smiling, dress clinging to every curve like it had something to say.
Bob downed half his drink and prayed.
Hangman had barely recovered from his bachata-induced near-death experience when the speakers shifted again—this time, snapping into a sharp, punchy beat that practically demanded a comeback.
Phoenix grinned.
You turned to her like you were psychic.
“Oh hell yes,” you both said at the same time.
“New Rules.”
“I’ll get us shots,” Payback offered quickly, fully aware of what was about to happen.
Fanboy was already screaming. “OH THEY’RE ABOUT TO GET STUPID WITH IT—SOMEBODY GET A CAMERA.”
You didn’t even look back. You and Phoenix locked eyes, nodded like it was a military maneuver, and hit the floor hard—boots stomping, hips snapping, hair flying. It wasn’t sexy the way Promise had been. This was commanding. Sharp. Confident. Bitchy in the best way.
You knew every lyric.
So did she.
And together? Y’all were untouchable.
“I got new rules, I count ‘em—
One, don’t pick up the phone—”
You pointed at each other like backup dancers in formation. Phoenix spun, hair whipping around her shoulders as she mouthed every word. You dropped into a low shimmy, one hand dragging slowly down your body like a slow clap for your own damn self. The people around you started cheering.
Even the DJ hyped it.
Bob watched with his jaw slack, eyes laser-focused on you like you were some kind of divine punishment sent from heaven to wreck his life in real time.
Because God help him, when you danced like this—with that much joy, that much power, like the entire damn club was your personal runway—he couldn’t even breathe.
Fanboy leaned over. “She’s doing that on purpose.”
“I know,” Bob said quietly.
“She’s killing you.”
“I know.”
Payback slid in next to him. “This is like watching someone flirt by stepping on your throat.”
“I KNOW.”
You grabbed Phoenix’s hand and spun her under your arm like y’all were in a music video, then bumped hips dramatically as you shouted the chorus together—
“I gotta tell them to myself—
DON’T GET UNDER HIM!!”
You were laughing, singing, stomping, alive, and it was contagious. A group of girls joined you on the floor. Even a couple of guys followed your lead. It was a damn movement. You and Phoenix were at the center of it—two fighter pilots fully locked into your off-duty, out-of-uniform, hot girl night out energy.
The song ended in chaos.
Screaming. Clapping. One random girl hugged you and Phoenix like y’all had just saved her from her ex.
You stumbled back to the table, glowing and breathless, and collapsed onto the seat next to Bob.
“You good?” you asked, winking.
He didn’t answer at first. Just blinked slowly like someone rebooting after a blackout.
“…Fine.”
Your smirk turned dangerous.
“You sure? You look a little flushed.”
He was going to combust.
But before he could answer, the DJ clicked something low and filthy into the speakers.
The lights in the club shifted.
Dimmed low.
Tinted red.
Velvet and sin.
And then—
“You make it look like it’s magic…”
You froze mid-laugh.
Phoenix clutched your forearm with a gasp. “Oh my god.”
You looked at her.
She looked at you.
Fanboy looked between you both and whispered, “Uh oh.”
“Cause I see nobody, nobody but you…”
Phoenix started shaking your arm. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please, I’m begging.”
You were already smiling. “Phoenix—”
“Whiskey,” she said in full government tone. “Give me this.”
Bob’s mouth was dry.
Payback was suddenly on the edge of his seat. “Wait, wait, wait, is this happening—”
Phoenix stood and shouted, hands cupped around her mouth:
“ONE SOLO. THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING.”
People nearby turned. The group of girls who danced with you earlier screamed like they’d been waiting for this exact moment their whole lives.
You sipped your drink with faux innocence and turned toward Bob, voice sweet:
“You mind?”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“Phoenix wants a show.”
Bob opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Swallowed hard.
Phoenix shoved your drink out of your hand and dragged you to your feet before you could change your mind.
“You’re a menace,” you hissed at her as she pulled you to the middle of the floor.
“And you’re the main character,” she said proudly. “Go ruin someone’s life.”
“Girl you’re perfect… you’re always worth it…”
You started slow.
Hips swaying, back turned to the table. Hands sliding down the curves of your body like you were setting a fire only you could survive. You danced like honey off the comb—sweet, sensual, dangerous if taken too fast.
Bob was not breathing.
You turned your head just enough to catch him watching.
Frozen. Blushing. Swallowing hard.
“You earned it…”
Your hands lifted above your head. Eyes half-lidded, a little smile playing at your lips. You moved like the song had seeped under your skin—like temptation given form. Your fingers traced a lazy line down your neck, chest, hips. Every movement deliberate. Languid. Intimate.
The room around you blurred.
It wasn’t about the crowd.
It was about him.
And he knew it.
“On that lonely night…”
You turned toward him fully. Walked.
The crowd parted instinctively. Even Phoenix stepped back like she knew something sacred was about to go down.
Bob’s eyes widened as you sauntered closer.
You stopped right in front of him.
Bent just enough to whisper in his ear—
“I like when you look at me like that.”
He made a quiet, strangled sound that did things to your spine.
You pulled back, smirking.
Straightened.
Walked away before you could see his soul leave his body.
Phoenix screamed, “WHISKEY!!” and collapsed into the booth like she’d been tackled.
Payback stood up and fanned himself with a napkin.
Fanboy fell off the couch.
Bob hadn’t blinked in two full minutes.
You slid back into your seat like nothing happened.
Picked up your drink.
Took a sip.
Bob still hadn’t moved.
You leaned toward him and purred, “You doing okay, Lieutenant?”
His hand gripped the edge of the table like he was trying not to levitate.
“…Fine.”
———
The DJ fades into the next track — Neighbors Know My Name — and the booth erupts.
Phoenix throws her head back laughing. “Oh hell yes!” she yells, pounding the table like a judge handing down a sentence. “WHISKEY, PERFORMANCE. NOW.”
Fanboy nearly chokes on his drink. “This is not a drill—this is the horny Hunger Games!”
You stand without a word, just smirking, already moving toward Bob with purpose.
He’s stiff in the booth, hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing for impact.
You straddle him.
Dead silence at the table. Payback whispers, “He’s not surviving this.”
The first lyric hits:
“Soon as we get started making love, goin’ hard I hear a…
(Knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”
Your hips roll against him, slow and controlled, dragging your hands up his chest like you’re carving your name into him.
Bob’s head drops back, a sharp exhale punching out of him.
“And as soon as I go deep, gettin’ it in then again
There goes the (knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”
You mouth the words right in his ear, breath hot, your fingers threading through his hair while your hips grind a slow, relentless rhythm against him.
Bob groans — loud.
The table reacts like a sports bar watching a Hail Mary pass.
Fanboy stands and shouts, “REF! I’M CALLING A TIMEOUT! SHE’S KILLING HIM!”
Phoenix is doubled over, pounding the table again. “SHE’S LITERALLY ENDING HIS BLOODLINE.”
“Bet the neighbors know my name, They be stressin’ while we sexin’”
You whisper the line, and Bob shudders.
You lean back, still on him, your hands on your thighs now, chest heaving as you move to the music like you were born for this exact moment.
“Girl the love we make, gone keep banging on the wall”
Phoenix throws a fry at Fanboy. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
“I CAN’T,” Fanboy yells. “I THINK I SAW HEAVEN.”
Bob grabs your waist now — tightly — and for a second, his lips almost crash into yours.
But you pull back, teasing, smirking. “You haven’t earned that yet.”
The table groans in sync.
Payback: “Okay but like… I’m a little in love with her too now.”
———
You hear the beat first — a deep dembow, hips-first kind of rhythm — and immediately your whole posture changes. The sway in your walk turns hypnotic. You’re not teasing anymore.
You’re showing off now.
Fanboy sees your face and literally gasps. “Oh no. Oh no. I know that look. That’s a heritage unlock.”
Payback holds up a napkin like a white flag. “I surrender. I can’t handle what’s coming.”
Phoenix leans back like she’s watching the climax of a telenovela. “Y’all. Watch this.”
You turn to Bob, lifting a single brow. “Can you keep up?”
He swallows. “I can try.”
You pull him to his feet like he’s being summoned by a goddess. The music crashes in fully — the percussion pounding, the lyrics fast, raw, spicy. You don’t just dance to this.
You embody it.
You roll your hips, fast and tight, your hands sliding along your waist as you move like you were born in the music. Bob’s behind you now — both of you dancing together, the heat between your bodies blazing.
The lyrics fly:
“Tú me pones mal, baby, con ese cuerpo criminal…”
You drop it low. He stutters. You throw your arm back and wrap it around his neck, winding your hips against him.
Bob’s jaw is clenched, knuckles white on your waist.
Fanboy is straight-up praying at the table. “Santa María, Madre de Dios—”
Phoenix smacks him. “SHUT UP AND LET HER COOK.”
You spin in Bob’s arms and let the beat take you — chest to chest, lips inches apart, and then…
You mouth the next lyric right at his lips, eyes dark, heat dripping from every syllable:
“Tú y yo no somos santos… pero eso es lo que me encanta.”
The tension’s nuclear now. His hands are everywhere — waist, hips, back — like he doesn’t know where to touch first, but he knows he can’t stop.
You’re a whole storm in a black dress.
And he’s drowning beautifully.
———
The lights dim just slightly. A familiar guitar riff slides into the speakers.
The gasps are immediate.
The beginning of “Ella y Yo” echoes through the club.
Phoenix goes, “No—NO. Don’t even think about it.”
You and Fanboy rise in sync from your chairs like you’ve rehearsed this for Broadway.
Whiskey’s jaw is tight, eyes narrowed.
Fanboy’s shaking his head, already pacing in a circle like he’s about to defend himself in court.
The squad? Losing it. Payback has tears forming already.
WHISKEY (storming forward, intense):
“Y te repito, lucha por amor…”
FANBOY (pointing a finger, defensive):
“No me aconsejes en tu posición.”
WHISKEY (mocking):
“Quizás su marido no mande en su corazón.”
FANBOY (louder now):
“No sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión!”
WHISKEY (arms flung wide, voice breaking):
“¡No seas tan tonto, lucha por amor!”
FANBOY (pacing in a full circle):
“No, no me aconsejes en tu posición.”
WHISKEY:
“Quizás ese tipo no mande en su corazón.”
FANBOY (stepping in close):
“Tú no sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión.”
You both pause.
The beat swells.
And then—
⸻
FANBOY (quiet, almost regretful):
“Amigo pido perdón, yo nunca te fallé…”
He grips an imaginary rosary as he continues:
“Me traicionaron las ganas de volverla a ver…”
WHISKEY is glaring, pacing behind him like a betrayed lover.
FANBOY (emotional):
“Y aunque todavía no puedo creer… lo que este amargo encuentro me hizo comprender…”
He turns to you with raw pain in his voice:
“Pues tú también llegaste a ese lugar…”
“Donde tantas veces yo la fui a buscar…”
Phoenix screams, “OH MY GODDDD!”
FANBOY (fully yelling now):
“Y aunque no es fácil lo que voy a hacer…”
“Admitiré que salí con tu mujer.”
⸻
WHISKEY (eyes wide):
“…¿QUÉ?!”
TOGETHER:
“Salí con tu mujer!
Salí con tu mujer!
Salí con tu mujer!”
The dance floor erupts. People are clapping, hooting, and a couple of strangers even join the dramatics like it’s a flash mob.
WHISKEY (gritted teeth, biting out every word):
“Que te perdone Dios, yo no lo voy a hacer…”
“Los perdí a los dos y a la misma vez…”
She spins, grabbing a beer bottle off the table like it’s a fake Oscar trophy.
“Ya veo que todo era mentira cuando ella me decía…”
“Que se iba pa’ Puerto Rico a vacaciones con su amiga…”
Fanboy winces.
Payback is curled in a ball, laughing.
“Me mintió, tú y ella en una cama, allá en Bayamón…”
“Quizás en Isla Verde o Carolina, ¡cuántos hoteles ensució!”
WHISKEY (pointing directly in Fanboy’s face):
“TÚ TAMBIÉN. LOS ODIO A LOS DOS!”
⸻
FANBOY (suddenly soft):
“(No me entiendes…)”
He clutches his chest.
“Que yo, soy quien más sufro con todo esto…”
“Me mata el dolor…”
“Fue una traición…”
“Perdí un amigo por la tentación…”
“…Perdón.”
He lowers his eyes and breathes the last word like a dagger:
“…Adiós.”
⸻
Silence.
Phoenix chokes on her drink.
The table is dead quiet.
The lights pulse purple, pink, and gold. The air’s thick with sweat, laughter, and the scent of overpriced tequila. Phones are still out, people still hollering from the last performance—“¡Eso fue una novela, carajo!”
But the DJ—cheeky bastard that he is—knows exactly what to do next.
The club falls silent for half a beat.
Then:
🎶 “Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…” 🎶
The first strum of Romeo Santos’ “Propuesta Indecente” slides over the speakers like silk.
Whiskey gasps. Fanboy’s already backing up, laughing.
“No. Nooo. We just got out of a scandal—”
Too late. She grabs his wrist and drags him back to the floor, hips already rolling with the beat, that devilish grin on her lips.
WHISKEY (singing, seductive, almost whispering):
“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”
“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”
Fanboy groans—playfully tortured. “You’re going to get me killed.”
FANBOY (singing, overly dramatic):
“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche…”
“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces?”
Their hips are already locked. Whiskey’s hands slide slowly up Fanboy’s chest. She spins, her back to him again, grinding low—
WHISKEY (teasing, turning her head over her shoulder):
“Si te falto el respeto y luego culpo al alcohol…”
“Si levanto tu falda, ¿me darías el derecho…”
FANBOY:
“…A medir tu sensatez?”
“Poner en juego tu cuerpo…”
“Si te parece prudente…”
BOTH (in sync, sultry as hell):
“Esta propuesta indecente…”
Phoenix SCREAMS and nearly knocks over her drink. Payback falls out of his seat. Even Bob chokes, eyes locked on Whiskey as her body moves like the music is built into her bones.
🎶 “Permíteme apreciar tu desnudez… (take it off)”
“Relájate…”
“Que este Martini calmará tu timidez…” (don’t be shy) 🎶
Whiskey whispers the words as she drapes herself over Fanboy, her hands slipping into his hair. He plays along, leaning into it—committed to the bit like a true drama kid.
WHISKEY (in his ear, breath hot):
“Y una aventura es más divertida…”
“Si huele a peligro…”
FANBOY (responding, grinning wide):
“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”
“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”
WHISKEY (face inches from his):
“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche?”
“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces…”
They sway. They grind. They turn the dance floor into satin sin. People are filming. Couples are making out in the shadows. The vibe is unholy and unstoppable.
🎶 “I’m back…”
“It feels good to be king…”
“Gostoso…”
“Hey…”
“Listen, I know what you like…” 🎶
Fanboy raises a brow. “This you?”
WHISKEY (mock-serious, with a wink):
“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you—bailamos bachata…”
She pulls him into another spin, now dragging the front of his shirt toward her.
WHISKEY (singing):
“¿Terminamo’ en la cama?”
(She grins, mouthing: “que rico.”)
FANBOY:
“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you…”
“¿Bailamos bachata?”
She lets him spin her out, then drags herself back into him, hips never stopping.
BOTH (loud, laughing, drenched in sweat):
“¿Terminamos en la cama?”
And they do it again. And again. And again. Until the whole club is either chanting along or begging them to get a room.
———
The bass drops like a body in the dark.
Whiskey turns slowly on her heel, drink in hand. the second she hears the track change—
She grins.
🎶 “Come and ride on me like the waves…”
Bob looks up from the table. She’s already walking toward him.
🎶 “I flip the pages ’cause I wrote the book on the way…”
“Whiskey,” he starts—warning? prayer? plea?—but she’s climbing right into his lap before he can finish the word.
One knee on each side. Body flush against his. Hands resting on his shoulders like she owns the air around him.
🎶 “How to sex you up, sex you up…”
She rolls her hips once, slow enough to be dangerous. His hands fly to her waist like instinct.
🎶 “We can do it like I’m on the stage, we’ll have an audience…”
He’s not breathing.
She mouths it against his ear—
“Baby, I’ll show you the way that I sex you up…”
He groans so softly it’s almost a whimper.
She leans in, soft and close enough to kiss—but doesn’t.
Instead, she whispers, “I’m not done with you yet.”
🎶 “Baby, just stay comfortable / I want you as you are…”
Bob swallows hard. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
🎶 “Let’s not get emotional / Let’s be who we are…”
She smiles sweetly. “Then don’t.”
🎶 “Keep your eyes closed ’til I roll through…”
Her hips roll again—lazy, slow, torturous.
🎶 “Somebody splittin’ your knees / Don’t worry, that’s me…”
Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback—they’re all frozen, pretending to drink or talk, pretending not to watch a public meltdown happen in real time.
Bob’s flushed. Breathing hard. Wholly undone.
🎶 “Baby, you ain’t gotta tell me what you want…”
———
The song winds down—
Usher’s last moaned lyric disappearing into the thud of the next beat. Bob looks wrecked. Flushed. Eyes heavy. Still gripping the edge of his seat like it’s the only thing tethering him to the floor.
Whiskey leans in one last time, her nose brushing his jaw, lips warm with tequila and trouble.
“Be right back,” she hums.
And just like that, she’s sliding off his lap—slowly, cruelly, like she knows exactly what kind of hell she’s leaving him in—and saunters off toward the bar.
Phoenix exhales hard. Fanboy whispers, “She did all that on a remix. God help us if the DJ ever plays ‘Wicked Games.’”
Bob’s hands are still in his lap. Fists clenched. He watches Whiskey disappear into the crowd, hips swaying with the same rhythm she used to ruin him.
He stands up.
The bartender is wiping down the counter when Whiskey slides into the empty space. She taps twice on the counter. “One more of whatever that cherry cinnamon thing was—”
“Whiskey.”
She turns.
Bob’s behind her. Eyes still dark, voice rougher than she’s ever heard it. He steps close—too close. One arm on the bar next to her, the other on her waist like he can’t stop himself anymore.
“Uh… you kinda need to stop,” Bob says, voice a little breathless, like he’s trying to keep it together but failing.
Whiskey blinks, surprised. “Wait. Did I just embarrass you?”
He scrambles for words, cheeks burning hotter. “Yeah. Kind of. But… not exactly the way you’d expect.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Whiskey says softly, the teasing edge melting away as guilt colors her tone. She bites her lip, suddenly aware of the heat radiating between them.
Then, almost without thinking, Bob reaches out, capturing her hand and sliding it down—right to where his body tells a very different story than his shy words.
Whiskey freezes, wide-eyed. Her breath catches, heart skipping. “Oh. OH!” she says, voice hushed but daring. “Well… do you want to go home and fix that?”
Bob’s eyes darken with something playful and a little dangerous. “Nope,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “I think I wanna suffer a little more.”
Whiskey grins, the kind of wicked smile that promises trouble. “Kinky,” she purrs.
The bar noise melts away around them. For a moment, it’s just the two of them—caught between fire and ice, and neither willing to back down.
