It was one of those places you had to be told about—behind a flower shop, through a hallway draped in velvet, and down a narrow staircase that opened into low lighting, jazz on vinyl, and liquor that burned just right.
Aria and Theo had stumbled in by accident. Or fate.
They sat in a corner booth, sipping mezcal cocktails, watching the room. That’s when her voice slipped through the air—smoky, effortless, magnetic. She stood alone on a small stage, singing like the lyrics belonged to her.
Her name was Solene.
After her set, she walked by their booth, paused, and said with a slow smile, “You two look like you’re up to something.”
“Only if you want to be,” Aria replied.
Solene raised an eyebrow. “Then pour me a drink.”
An hour later, they were in a private tasting room behind the bar—walls lined with bottles, red leather bench seats, a single dim bulb casting amber over skin.
Solene kissed Theo first—soft, deliberate, tongue teasing as her fingers curled around his collar. Aria watched, heat blooming in her chest, before stepping forward and kissing Solene from behind, her hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her dress higher.
Clothes disappeared like liquid. Solene sat back in the chair, legs parted, as Aria knelt between them, licking her slow and deep while Theo kissed Solene’s breasts, already hard against her thigh. Solene gasped, hand tangled in Aria’s hair, her other stroking Theo with long, practiced strokes.
Then they moved—Theo taking Aria from behind while she rode Solene’s tongue, her moans echoing off the shelves. Solene tasted like honey and sin, her eyes locked with Theo’s as they moved together over Aria’s trembling body.
By the end, they were breathless, sticky, and grinning—half-dressed, sprawled across leather seats, the music still humming through the walls.
Solene lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly.
“You two should come back on jazz nights,” she said.
Aria smiled. “Only if you sing… and stay after the set.”
