**Author's note:**
Five years ago, Roxy Devlin walked away from a man who wanted more than she was willing to give. Now, back in Brighton for one night, the past catches up with her in a place she didn't expect. What follows is lust, memory, anger - and a night that neither of them, despite everything, ever stopped needing.
This is a story about unfinished business, raw attraction, and the difference between love...and something deeper, dirtier, and harder to walk away from.
Roxy Devlin debuts here. She's strong, independent, sexually liberated. She doesn't need saving - and she never plays by anyone else's rules. She fucks on her terms...but this time, those terms might just change.
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The hotel rooftop bar always felt a little too cool for its own good. It was all matte black finishes, sculptural lighting, and house beats pressed in slow and steady, like a lover's hand. The heaters glowed amber, casting shadows on polished floors, while the breeze from the sea teased against the glass balustrades.
Roxy Devlin fit the space like a glove.
She moved with easy power - slow, deliberate steps in pointed white stilettos. Her black leather pencil skirt clung like shrink-wrap, hugging the full curve of her arse and thighs, every stride daring the seams to split. Her blood-red silk blouse was cut low and clung tight, her natural breasts shifting visibly beneath it.
She was late thirties, but it didn't show in the ways anyone might expect. Her body was curvy and confident. Lived in and loved.
Her skin still glowed from the day and her full lips, painted red, curled like she knew exactly what you were thinking, and frankly didn't give a shit.
Her light brown hair, laced with soft blonde highlights, was pulled into a high ponytail that swung with each step. She'd been told she had the kind of face that carried stories, whatever that really meant. She knew men found her attractive - but modesty, or maybe just good sense, stopped her from believing it.
As she walked the long, light overcoat she was wearing billowed behind her, loose and open. Framed by the light behind her it gave her the faint appearance of a superhero or perhaps a woman who'd set the world on fire and walked away unscathed.
She hadn't been back to Brighton in a long time. Not really. Not since him.
Too many ghosts. Too many memories that weren't quite finished enough to forget.
But this place, this hotel, she liked. Urban and chic in all the right ways, and just a little bit smug. It was the sort of place that said expensive without being ostentatious. Tonight, she was here ahead of a private event she'd be hosting tomorrow. Not her day job, but her evening one - her side hustle: running kink and fetish events for like-minded men and women who were not short of money but demanded discretion.
She'd stumbled into it by accident - a favour for a friend, at first. But it had been lucrative. And she was good at it. Enjoyed it too, if she was honest.
So that's where she was now: life coach by day, kink event hostess by night. She sometimes wondered what her daytime clients - all personal goals and growth - would think of her nighttime ones. Probably not so different, she'd discovered. Just... different kinds of goals. And very different kinds of growth.
Heads turned as she approached the bar - some subtle, some blatant. Two men at the far end adjusted their postures, one already leaning in her direction.
She ordered a double gin, no garnish but extra ice. Took her drink and made her way towards a quiet table looking out towards the sea.
A younger guy in a blazer slid in beside her, asked if she was waiting on someone. She dismissed him with a flat smile and a turned shoulder. Another tried to offer her a drink. She held up the one in her hand like a trophy.
Normally, she might've played. Let her outfit do the talking. Toyed with one until he squirmed. But tonight, she wasn't in the mood. Her mind was on tomorrow. And, if she was honest, on a name she didn't like saying out loud anymore.
Jay.
She hadn't thought about him in months. Maybe years. Not properly. But being back in this city had knocked something loose.
A younger man, more than ten years her junior, an artist and eager to learn. They'd fucked like animals for a summer - every few nights, sometimes back-to-back. Cheap hotels. His studio. His floor. Her mouth. Her rules.
She led and he'd followed - gladly. Greedy for it. It had been fun, no doubt. Addictive even.
Until it stopped.
She'd stopped it with no warning. Just vanished and stopped finding excuses to work in Brighton. She could feel it getting hot, too hot, and she'd always preferred control to chaos.
So she ghosted him. Deleted his number and nuked his socials. Clean and final, no turning back.
She hadn't expected to think of him now. Not after all this time. It had been nearly five years...
Roxy swirled the last of her drink, lips pursed, irritation flickering behind her eyes. She hated that her mind had gone there. That name. That memory. That was the past, and the one thing Roxy knew with absolute certainty was that nothing good comes from raking over what's done.
She set the glass down on the table a little harder than intended.
"Careful," said a voice to her right. "That looked like it was about to bolt."
She turned and looked at the man who had spoken.
Tall and lean. Late twenties, maybe. Tanned like he surfed or at least faked it well. Dark blond hair swept back, smile just short of cocky. A smart shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, cream chinos and deck shoes.
Roxy raised an eyebrow. "Didn't realise it had legs."
"It doesn't," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. "But I do."
She didn't smile, but she didn't say no either. Just nodded to the seat.
"Ten minutes," she said, "unless you bore me sooner."
He grinned, flagged the bartender, and ordered two drinks without asking. Negronis.
She liked that. He wasn't shy, and he wasn't trying too hard. Just enough charm and to be noticed, just enough edge to be interesting.
They talked. Nothing deep - just light chat and banter. She didn't offer much, and he didn't push. He let her set the tone. When he complimented her, it was light but genuine. Just honest appreciation, said like a man used to being around women he didn't need to impress.
"You've got a vibe," he said after their second drink. "The kind that makes it hard to sit still."
"Oh yeah?" she said. "That your line?"
He leaned in, a little closer. "No. My line's this: there's a bar down on the beach. One of my favourites. Outdoor, lights, DJ spinning. You should come. One drink. One dance. Maybe more."
"Maybe more?" she asked.
He shrugged casually. "Up to you."
She watched him for a moment. Normally, she'd be halfway through unbuttoning him by now - or she'd have cut him dead and sent him on his way with his tail between his legs.
But tonight wasn't normal. She wanted to stop thinking. To stop remembering. To stop feeling.
"Alright," she said, finishing her drink in one easy pull. "Lead the way."
***
The wind had picked up down by the seafront. It wasn't cold, but it didn't feel like August either. The wind was insistent, tugging at her overcoat and flicking strands of hair loose from her ponytail. Her heels clicked sharp against the paving stones. He walked beside her, hands in pockets, body loose, like someone with nothing to prove.
The beachfront bar came into view. It was all string lights and low amber bulbs. The bass rolled out across the promenade. People moved in clusters outside - laughing, kissing, smoking, dancing. Inside a DJ in a sleeveless tee spun a house track that had hips grinding and hands reaching skyward, the dance floor spilling out and across the sand.
They pushed through the crowd to the bar. He ordered them something cold and clean - vodka sodas with lime - and passed her one.
They drank and people watched for a few minutes before he leaned in. "You dance?" he asked.
She gave him a withering look. "Of course I dance."
He offered his hand, but she didn't take it. She just walked into the throng of the crowd. He followed.
The music wrapped around them - all beat and bass, no lyrics, just rhythm. Roxy closed her eyes for a second, let the pulse soak into her skin. She started to move - hips first, then shoulders, arms swaying with slow intent. Not dancing at him. Just dancing. Just being. Just letting her body take the night back.
He moved well, she'd give him that. He came close enough to be felt, but not close enough to assume.
She gave him her back. Rolled her hips into his. Let her hair fall. Let the lights hit her skin.
And for five minutes, ten, maybe more, she forgot Jay.
She was just Roxy Devlin on the dance floor and having a great fucking time.
The music shifted to something deeper. One of those tracks that slowed the whole crowd down, bodies moving in sync, strangers pressing close in the strobe haze.
Roxy kept moving.
Her back to him, hips rolling in time to the bass. Her overcoat had long since come off, leaving nothing to distract from the way that black leather pencil skirt clung to her every step, every sway, every curve. Her cherry-red silk blouse was sticking slightly to her back now, glinting under the low lights.
She felt him behind her - close, but still unsure. So she made the choice for him.
She reached back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged his hand just above the curve of her arse. Pressed it there and held it.
