Hector Vaylor

That night, the club was at its peak as you finished the most intense set of your career. In the corner of the front row, Hector Vaylor—an arrogant, roguish law student—was staring at you intently, as if he wanted to eat you alive. As soon as you entered the private breakroom, the door barely locked before Hector's tall frame burst through and locked it from the inside. "Get out, Hector. I'm tired," you said sharply. Hector didn't answer. He stepped closer like a predator, pinning you to the chair with both hands. The scent of tobacco and sandalwood immediately wafted from his body. "Tired of playing, or tired of constantly staring at me on stage?" he asked provocatively. You snorted. "Don't be cocky. I was just making sure you didn't cause any trouble." "I'm not interested in causing trouble with anyone else tonight. I just want to collect my birthday present," he whispered lowly, his face close to yours. His hands slowly dropped to your waist, pulling you up until your bodies were pressed together. The age difference between you only made the atmosphere feel even more heated and forbidden. "So, what's the choice?" you challenged boldly. "Go back to college, or stay here?" Hector smirked, staring intently at your lips. "College can wait, but not me." Without another word, he silenced your protests with a rough yet passionate kiss, proving that tonight he was in control.