He looks at me, his stare making me uncomfortable. But not because I don't like it. I'm pretty sure I enjoy it, and that is very, very bad.
To break away from his gaze, I glance to my right, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye—he smiles and runs his thumb over his bottom lip. Ashton steps back, a low chuckle humming in his throat. I look down at myself, my hands out at my sides as I compare my attire to that of everyone else’s. Most are casually dressed except for the girls in tiny dresses of various depictions of the holiday.
"Why are we at a club?" I wave my hand towards the red-brick building then look at him.
"To get that stick out your ass."
I smirk and try not to let my smile break through. "Yeah, no," I protest when he grabs my hand to pull me toward the club. "I'm overdressed for this crowd," I claim while moving my hand away.
"You're tripping," he mutters.
His words are barely audible, so I ask him to repeat himself. "What did you say?"
"I said you're tripping. Now, let's go. Or are we going to stand in the parking lot all night?" He tips his chin and stares at me inquisitively.
I release a deep breath, staring between the club and my dress, unsure if I want to take that step. It's less about what I'm wearing and more about me being in a place like this around people I would never fit in with on any typical day.
Ashton clears his throat, dragging me from my thoughts. "Your dress is fine. You're sexy in it."
Another lump forms, trapping the low gasp that threatens to escape. My skin tingles at his words and the way he's watching me. It's much like before when we crashed into each other at the party. It's intense and focused.
It's not until he takes my hand and tugs me forward does my mind finally clear. I shuffle along, tightening my hold on him, skipping to meet his stride. He's taller than me, his long steps equaling two of mine. I peer up at the sign, releasing a breath as the word Delirium flickers in neon purple.
The voices grow louder the closer we get. Ashton pulls me so that I'm directly behind him, his muscular back pressed firmly against my chest. We fish our way through the sea of people to the front of the line. He whispers something to the bald bouncer.
"What's up, Baby?" The man says and pats Ashton on the back. "Go ahead," he tilts his head.
"Bet. Good looking out." Ashton shakes the man's hand, then glances at me and mutters for me to follow him.
Music blares, and soon all the noise from outside disappears. We inch further inside the club. Lights flash off the walls as bodies move against each other on the dance floor. On our left is a bar where we find a place between a guy who's swaying and a small group of girls who look to be about Ashton's age.
One of them notices him, her eyes lighting up, but her smile instantly turns into a confused frown when she sees me. He doesn't notice her, though, never even glances in her direction. He leans over the bar, waving to get the bartender's attention.
The young lady looks up at him, her face just as bright as the other girl's. It’s not surprising he's popular with the ladies. I smile to myself and settle beside him. He chats with the girl behind the bar, and I take a moment to survey the room.
It looks like any club, filled with bodies, drinks, overhead lights—the basics. Except they've decorated, and most of the workers wear Santa hats, but the bottle service girls wear elf costumes.
There's a small crowd near the entrance, so I look to my right to see what it's about. My brows raise in surprise at the gorgeous men entering the club. It's three of them, dressed in slacks and blazers.
As they walk in our direction, the guy in the middle calls the man's attention in front of him and says something to the one behind him. The man separates from his friends, making a beeline toward us.
I watch the others approach a heavy curtain and pull it back to reveal a door in the far corner. The man with a ring on every finger punches something on the keypad then they disappear behind the black barricade.
"Stupid." The one who separated approaches, slapping Ashton on the back so hard I hear it over the music.
Ashton curses and spins around, his fist balled tight. But he breaks into a laugh when he recognizes the guy. "I was about to fuck you up," Ashton threatens.
"You weren't about to do shit," the guy retorts, then looks at me.
He's handsome, a bit taller than Ashton, with deep brown eyes and a low beard that showcases his jawline. He's Latino, and from the way his suit fits, he's muscular.
"Who do we have here?" he asks, looking between Ashton and me.
Ashton glances at me and slides closer to me. "Ivy, this is Emilio, one of my brothers."
"Nice to meet you, Ivy. You're way too beautiful to be here with my pisshead baby brother." Emilio reaches for my hand, placing a kiss on the back of it.
“Likewise.” I can’t keep from smiling.
"Get the fuck out of here," Ashton orders and shoves his brother away from me.
"All right." Emilio pulls Ashton into a manly hug, pats him on his shoulder, then turns to me again. "But wait. Ivy, you wouldn't happen to dance, would you?"
I frown at his question. “Excuse me,” I snip.
Ashton moves in front of me, his back to Emilio, blocking me from his brother. “Em.” Ashton shakes his head. “Not this one,” he says over his shoulder.
Emilio doesn't say another word as he turns and walks away, disappearing through the same door as the men he came with.
"Don't mind, my brother. He’s a creep.”
“He’s an asshole, is what he is. A stripper. Really?”
“Naw. This is his spot, and he hires dancers."
"And what’s the difference?" I shrug.
He sighs and props an elbow on the bartop. “They don’t take anything off here. They do wear next to nothing while they do it, but it’s not the type of place you’d typically think of.”
“It sounds like stripping. Hell, the bottle service girls aren’t too far off with those skimpy little outfits.”
“You’re not going to turn into a prude on me now, are you?”
I’m taken aback by his words, and though I want to say something, I come up short. The only thing I can do is suck in a breath. Ashton must notice the brief change because he offers me a smile.
“I’m just fucking with you, and my brother didn’t mean anything by that. But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll kick his ass next time.”
“Next time,“ I repeat with a smirk.
He nods with his brows raised, steals a cocktail straw from behind the bar, and sticks it in his mouth. “What are you drinking?”
“A Cabernet and, there won’t be a next time.” I turn so that my back is to the counter. “Besides, I don't need you to fight for me."
“No—to the Cabernet.” He pauses. “And why not? Because that’s your husband's job?”
My eyes grow wide, and I straighten my spine as nervousness washes over me. I’m not sure why. I am married; I guess I just didn’t expect him to ask.
“The ring.” He tips his head toward my left hand, answering the silent question of how he figured it out.