The first time Margo saw Daniel, she was leaning against the bar of The Velvet Lounge, a dimly lit speakeasy tucked beneath the neon glow of downtown Chicago. The air smelled of aged whiskey and the faint musk of expensive perfume, the kind that clung to skin long after the bottle had been capped. She had come alone—not out of loneliness, but because she preferred the company of strangers when she was in the mood to be seen. And tonight, she was in the mood to be devoured.
Her dress, a sinful slip of black silk, clung to her curves like a second skin, the hem riding high enough to tease the tops of her thighs when she shifted. The neckline plunged just low enough to make men glance twice, their eyes snagging on the swell of her breasts before darting away—guilty, hungry. She sipped her gin martini, the glass cool against her fingers, her lips painted the color of a fresh bruise. She wasn’t here to be polite. She was here to hunt.
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