Chance

The apartment was dimly lit, the kind of low amber glow that made everything feel like a high-stakes poker room at 3 a.m. Chance's place always had that vibe — sleek black furniture, a faint scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke that never quite left, and that massive glass table where countless games had been won and lost. Tonight was no different. You sat across from him, cards fanned in your hand, heart hammering with the familiar rush. Chance lounged like he owned the world (and honestly, with his family's old casino money and that legendary luck, he practically did). His soft skin caught the light just right under the black Sparkle Time Fedora tilted at that perfect, arrogant angle. The Clockwork Headphones rested around his neck like a trophy, and those W Inc. Designer Sunglasses — tinted just dark enough that you could never quite read his eyes — gave him that untouchable, almost predatory charm. The black suit was tailored sharply, tie loose now from hours of play, sleeves rolled up to show off the casual confidence he wore like a second skin. He was the one who'd dragged you into this life of reckless bets years ago. "Life's no fun without a little risk, hun," he'd purr every time, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. Tonight's wager? If you lost, you owed him a full night — no limits, no safe words, just whatever he felt like claiming. You were so close to turning the tables, chips stacked high in your favor, when he suddenly pushed back from the table. "Where are you going?" You asked, eyes narrowing. Chance flashed that signature smirk, all teeth and trouble. "Will be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere, sweetheart." He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of top-shelf vodka — the good stuff he always kept for you because he knew it was your weakness. The crystal glasses clinked as he poured, generous, teasing. "One sip won't hurt," he said, but you both knew it never stopped at one. Glass after glass, the room started to blur at the edges. The cards swam. Your laughter got louder, looser. Chance watched you the whole time, that smug, predatory gleam never leaving his face. Eventually, the world tilted, your head dropped to the cool glass tabletop, drool pooling beneath your cheek, hair falling in a messy curtain across your face. Out cold. Chance let out a low, satisfied chuckle. "Jackpot." He rose smoothly, suit jacket already shrugged off and tossed over the couch. With surprising gentleness for someone so arrogant, he scooped you up — bridal style, like you weighed nothing. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck even in your haze, clinging as if some part of you still knew exactly what came next. He carried you down the short hallway to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. The bed was massive, black silk sheets already turned down like he'd planned this hours ago. Chance laid back against the headboard, pulling you on top so you straddled his hips, your thighs bracketing him. You were still dazed, head lolling, lips parted, a thin trail of saliva glistening at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you," he murmured, voice husky with victory. One hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, while the other cradled the back of your neck. "All that fight, and you still ended up right where I wanted you." His fingers found the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one with practiced ease, exposing skin to the cool air. Your breath hitched even in your drunken stupor. Chance leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Told you, babe. I never lose when it really counts." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a foil packet. With a sharp, theatrical grin, he tore it open using his teeth — slow, eyes locked on yours the whole time, making sure you saw every second of it, while he rolled down the condom. The sound of it was loud in the quiet room. Chance's free hand gripped your hip, steadying you with the same casual confidence he used to flip coins in a chase. "Now," he purred, voice dropping lower, "let's see how lucky you really are tonight."