On this night, outside the den of social climbers, is a small group coming out of a large SUV. They pile out like clowns from an overstuffed vehicle. I hear the laugh again. It’s in the middle of a sea of fake Armani. I can see the vaguest glimpse of the hem of a dress at a fingertip’s length. I can see strands of brunette hair wave over someone’s dark jacket. I can hear the distinct clack of four-inch stiletto heels on the concrete walk. My senses, in the midst of these dingy streets, where I should only be able to detect any number of foul smells, are overwhelmed with gardenias.
I’m caught like a deer in the headlights, literally, as a passing car flashes its lights to get me to move along with a slew of profanity out their window. Normally I would have responded in kind, tonight, I could give a fuck. The only thing I want to focus on is getting out of that light and into the dark, the darkness of that club. I want to find out if the end of this tunnel will yield the images now burned into my mind.
The last time I was in this club, Katya was on my left and her blonde friend was on my right. There are some things I remember and some things I choose to forget. The place has a bar to the left and one to the right of the dance floor. The short ends have staircases that lead from the bar level down to the pit of grinding and longing.
In order to reach the pit of sin, you have to pass the corner I perch myself upon. If this divine image rattling me to the core is real, she will have to float by me first. My fingers thrum on the bar top. I can’t even consider something to quench the flames until I know she’s real.
The house beat pounds into my body like a hammer meets a nail. The sea of couples, would-be hookups, and women feeding their primal needs through movement is only fueling the fine line I’m walking. The spotlights of white and purple swirl over the masses then, in an instant as if for me only, the patrons part and my one time potential hallucination has manifested into a glorious reality.
The intensity of her gaze, just for the briefest of moments that it was locked with mine was enough to shake me right through to my dark soul. It’s like she saw me, not the superficial good looks or overpriced suit on my body, no… she saw me.
The thump of the pop song bassline emitting from the speakers transitions to a much slower melody, and patrons of the bar begin to move about a bit more, coming and going off the dance floor. However, she stays put, right there in the middle, swaying her petite hips with her hands in the air, occasionally sliding them through her long, chestnut locks.
I want to twist them into my fingers, fisting them tightly to yank her head back while I fuck her from behind. I imagine her hair is silky and soft. She takes care of it and herself. It’s shiny and thick, and would slip over her shoulder so easily if I pushed it aside to sink my teeth into her skin before I slid my tongue along her pulse.
Fucking hell.
One nonverbal interaction and this woman is already under my skin.
I need a drink. A strong one.
My body and the fire growing inside of it protest each step I take farther away from her and closer to the bar, but Macallan will only enhance the experience.
It’s not often that you encounter what could only be described as the muse you have only dreamt of in the flesh, but she’s right over there with sweat beading on her vanilla cream-colored skin, grinding her hips and twisting herself into the fantasies of every man in this room. Even that passing thought makes my blood run hot with jealousy. She’s not even mine, I don’t even know her name, but I am already downright primal over her. My muses are mine. Period.
“What can I get you?” the pink-haired bartender asks as he taps on the bar behind me.
Reluctantly, I take my eyes off of her to place my order, “Scotch, Macallan is preferable, as aged as possible. Neat.” I reach into the breast pocket of my suit coat to retrieve my credit card.
“Starting a tab?”
The question should be a simple one, truly, but it hangs in the air thick like honey. Starting a tab is a decision I’d be making because I intend on staying here to gaze upon perfection in the flesh for much longer than a few moments. It’s a decision, a clear choice, to stare at a much younger woman with devious thoughts in my head, because I simply cannot help it.
I should say no. I shouldn’t even take the first sip of my drink, but of course, there is only one answer that leaves my lips.
“Yes,” I slide my credit card across the bar, “keep them coming.”
I flit my eyes back over to the dance floor, and there she is, still dancing without a care in the world, only this time, her eyes are focused directly on me, and I swear, she relaxes just a bit when she finds my gaze.
Was she looking for me?
She slows her movements this time, rolling her body in a way that I can only describe as seductive as fuck. Her fingers slip against the hem of her barely-there dress, giving it the slightest tug upward, showing even more of her milky thighs.
She’s dancing for me.
I watch in absolute appreciation, sipping my drink, leaning casually against the bar. My fingers are practically itching to march over there and wrap her in my arms and continue the dance right here, then finish it in my flat in private.
Hell, even my body is reacting to her so much that I’m grateful for the dark lighting in the club. I’m typically proud of my ability to keep a clear and level head. I make decisions and moves based on specific calculations and research. I’m very rarely reckless.
But this little minx, this delicate flower with obvious thorns, is enough to warrant an impulse or two.
She bites her lip and spins around, facing away from me, no doubt showing me the low V of her dress. I take the opportunity to down the remainder of my drink and turn around briefly to deposit my empty glass on the bar behind me.
But when I turn around to make my stride toward her, to stake my claim so to speak… she’s vanished into thin air, as if she didn’t even exist.
What the fuck?
I make a round, walking through the large room slowly, looking in every corner, at every table and booth… and my agitation grows with each passing second.
I don’t relish being impulsive and now that I’m wound as tight as a spring, I feel like I could explode.
My cock, my body, is screaming for release, and the tension from the day is only fueling that need to bury it all deep, to bury it inside of someone else, just for the night.
That is my MO, anyway. It’s what keeps me sane, keeps me focused.
Two hours later, with Katya’s mouth around my cock and my hand fisting her hair, my eyes are screwed closed with visions of a dancing, brunette muse in my head.
Chapter 2
Nora
I see me but I don’t. I feel like me, but I don’t. I’ve had this dress in the back of my closet forever. It was a gift from a shoot I did months ago. I loved it in the campaign. The company was kind enough to let me have it. It makes me feel beautiful and powerful. The color is so close to my skin tone, it hits in the perfect spot on my leg, the deep V in the back is covered by my hair if it’s down, like it is today. I love the feel of the material against my body. However, even with it on today, I don’t feel either of these things.
I see a frightened woman who is sick of looking over her shoulder. I see a girl who wishes she could turn back the hands of time. I could have left sooner. I could have walked away with more dignity than I have now, but I can’t. The best I can hope for is to keep the past where it belongs…in the past.