Rebound Flames at the Night Market

The night market pulsed with life, a riot of color and scent that wrapped around Lena like a living thing. Steam rose from iron grills, carrying the sharp bite of chili oil, the sweet char of caramelized sugar, and the deep perfume of frying garlic. Red lanterns swayed overhead, casting warm, flickering light across the crowded lanes. She moved through it all in a daze, the strap of her silk dress slipping off one shoulder, her heart still raw from the image burned into her mind: her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend now—thrusting between the thighs of the woman from accounting.

Twenty-eight years old and suddenly, violently single. The humiliation still stung, but beneath it something else had begun to uncoil—restless, reckless hunger. She wanted to feel wanted. She wanted to forget.

She turned a corner too quickly and collided with a solid wall of muscle and heat.

Strong hands caught her elbows, steadying her before she could stumble. The scent of smoke, salt, and something darkly masculine flooded her senses. Lena looked up—way up—into a pair of eyes the color of burnt amber.

“Easy,” the man rumbled, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. A slow, crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. “You always charge through life like you’re trying to set it on fire, or am I special?”

Lena’s breath caught. He was unfairly gorgeous. Early thirties, maybe. Ruggedly handsome in a way that made her stomach tighten—broad shoulders straining against a simple black tank, tattoos snaking down powerful forearms, dark hair tousled from the heat of the grills. A faint sheen of sweat glistened along his collarbone. The name tag pinned to his apron read KAI in bold red letters.

“I—sorry,” she managed, cheeks flushing. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Kai’s gaze dragged over her slowly, taking in the cling of her emerald dress to her full breasts and the curve of her hips. His smirk deepened. “Lucky for me. Name’s Kai. Those are my skewers you almost wore.” He nodded toward the stall behind him, where rows of glistening meat and vegetables hissed over open flames.

Lena’s lips curved despite herself. The electric tension between them was immediate, crackling like oil hitting a hot pan. “Lena. And if your skewers are half as good as you look, I might forgive the collision.”

His laugh was low, filthy. “Careful. I like a woman who can handle heat.” He plucked a finished skewer from the grill, still smoking, and held it out. When she reached for it, his fingers brushed hers deliberately. The contact sent a spark straight between her thighs.

She bit into the tender meat. Chili oil burst across her tongue, sweet, smoky, viciously spicy. A soft moan escaped her before she could stop it.