Twisted Chances

17. Nia/Niko (Warning) (edited)

Mature content below you may skip it if you want⚠️

Nia's pov:

Before I could say or even think further, the door creaked open and the waiter walked in with our food.

Perfect timing, right? Way to kill a moment. I almost rolled my eyes.

But the strangest thing was—Niko didn't even flinch. He didn't look at the food, didn't thank the man, didn't break eye contact with me. His gaze was relentless, like it had been chained to me, and the sheer weight of it made my pulse hammer.

"You may go now. We will call when needed. And do not let anyone in," Niko's voice cut sharp through the silence, commanding.

The poor waiter nearly tripped over himself as he scrambled out of the room. I couldn't blame him. Even I wasn't sure I recognized the Niko I thought I knew.

Because this wasn't the boy I'd grown up with. This was... different. Darker. Sharper. A version of him that radiated something dangerously magnetic.

And God, he was hotter like this.
Did he really just get a glow-up by sitting there and staring at me like that? If yes, then he needed to share his ways ASAP.

"On the count of three, sweetheart," his voice dropped low, wrapping around me like smoke, "you choose. Me, or these perfectly seasoned dishes?" His lips curved into something sinful. "And if it's me, then I want you on my lap before I finish counting."

I was hungry before, but now? Now my hunger was entirely different. And it had nothing to do with food.

"One."

I stood up from my chair, and the way his smirk curved, sharp and devilish, made my knees weak.

"Two."

"Three—"

He didn't even get the chance to finish. Because by then, I was already straddling his lap, my lips crashing into his like I had been waiting a lifetime for this.

His grin was pressed against my mouth. "Now that's my 'high-maintenance' girl," he murmured, smug and teasing, but his voice trembled with hunger.

God. He remembered that nickname? I could've killed him.

But then I stopped caring altogether—because his mouth was devouring mine. Ravishing. Starved. His lips claimed me like a man who had been denied oxygen, like I was the only thing that could keep him alive.

A needy, desperate moan slipped from my throat. The sound was enough for him to slide his tongue into my mouth, seizing the chance, tasting me. His tongue tangled with mine in a fierce battle I had no chance of winning. He always won. And maybe, deep down, I liked losing to him.

By the time we pulled apart, we were both gasping, foreheads touching, breaths colliding. And then, before I could recover, he pulled me into another kiss—deeper, hungrier, rougher—his hands tightening on my waist, adjusting me closer on his lap.

I couldn't stop the soft, broken sounds tumbling from me. I didn't even try.

"Careful, sweetheart," he growled against my lips, his voice low and wrecked, "don't let them hear. Don't let them know how I'm about to ruin you... and worship you... and take you apart until you can't breathe my name without trembling."

His words ignited me like fire.

And then he moved. With effortless strength, he set me down from his lap, swept the dishes off to the far side of the table, and lifted me again—this time, pinning me against the polished wood.