“If you want.”
What is this place and why am I here?
From her vantage point, she gauged the space as a converted warehouse. Below, a shimmering kaleidoscope of bodies trailed dazzling colors on the dance floor. At the opposite end was a stage where performers with duct tape covering their private parts juggled and swallowed lit torches. Occasionally one would spit fire. Before Oona’s altered gaze, the flames made filigree patterns of orange, red, and yellow, fireworks in slow motion, hot tongues teasing one another.
“Ladies and gentlemen, freaks and freakettes, you’re one hot crowd, but you’re getting a little too hot,” a disembodied voice boomed through a megaphone. “It’s time to cool down. Which means it’s time for Flying Fiona.”
A pale, petite bald woman came out to hoots and hollers. Naked except for a white thong, she turned and showed off a scarred back as two assistants came out carrying cables attached to hooks.
“What are they gonna do to her?” Oona’s knees buckled. A firm hand caught the small of her back.
“Exactly what you think. Don’t watch if you’re squeamish. You shouldn’t miss the final effect, though. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to look again.” Curls tickled her face when he leaned in to ask, “So you wanna tell me your name, or should I just call you Red?”
She tilted her face toward his, stubble prickling her cheek, but she relished the sensation. Craving more textures, she put a hand on his arm, tried to absorb the silk through her fingers. Cool, slick. She stroked the fabric, almost forgot there was an arm under it, and moved her mouth to his ear.
“Red is fine.” Red was better. No need to be Oona tonight.
Another wave of heat as he moved closer and pulled her in. Her tongue darted out, eager to taste the tender skin of his earlobe, suck on it. When this elicited a positive murmur, she continued down to his neck. Her hands were aimless wanderers traversing the sea of his shirt, up to his shoulders, across his back. She needed more sensation, more textures, more tastes. More.
His hand skimmed the back of her neck, and a rush of animal need spiraled through her.
“If you don’t let me kiss you right now,” he said, “I’m gonna throw myself off this catwalk.”
The words barely made it out before Oona pressed her open mouth against his, tasting gin and cigarettes on his tongue. His hand crept beneath the hem of her velvet jacket, stroked her upper thigh. She kept her eyes open. She wanted to see everything.
It’s like I’m in a crazy movie or music video.
Onstage, the assistants hooked cables into the woman’s scarred back and raised her off her feet. A push, and she sailed over the crowd holding a bucket. Each time she went flying, she threw its contents onto the people below. She doused them with silk flowers, glitter, confetti, water. When the assistants took her down, her back was streaked with blood.
On the catwalk, Oona and the stranger continued to devour each other, lost in sloppy kisses and roaming hands. A full year since she’d kissed a man. Famished for affection, she’d kiss this man raw, until—
A tap on her shoulder.
“Excuse me, kids, I gotta get by.” A man in a bodysuit covered with paper butterflies made impatient circles with his hand.
Oona and her companion separated to let him through. The stage was now empty.
“Is there more to the show?”
“Show’s just getting started, Red. Come on.” He pulled her off the catwalk and down a corridor to an unmarked door, up more stairs, to a roped-off area where a dozen people mingled, most paired off and in various stages of foreplay. The space overlooked the dance floor, a ledge jutting out high above it like an afterthought, dotted with low tables and leather couches.
A bored bouncer nodded and unlatched the rope.
Oona’s companion led her around the clusters of amorous duos to the bar, where two flutes of champagne awaited them.
Adding alcohol to the intoxicants already in her system? Probably not smart. Water would be more sensible, but why interrupt the flow of the moment? The elation of returning to her younger body, the confirmation of her sanity—this needed to be celebrated. She was the girl in the movie who has reckless fun with a handsome stranger, and that girl doesn’t choose water over champagne.
They clinked glasses and downed the bubbly as if doing tequila shots.
Taking her hand, the man led Oona around a bend, where the VIP area curved into an L-shape. A shorter ledge with a single empty couch faced a DJ booth suspended in a giant transparent bubble twenty feet away.
“Nobody’s gonna bother us here.” The man sat in the center of the couch, stretched his legs out.
Oona remained standing, taking in his admiring gaze, his hands running up and down the sides of her legs. The music changed—a sound like robots playing with children’s instruments. A fast, heavy drumbeat echoed the rhythm of Oona’s heart, thrummed under her skin. The pale blue eyes invited her to come closer. She obliged, straddled him.
Her thirsty fingers continued their exploration, across silk, leather, stubble, skin. He was keener to explore with his mouth, beginning with her lips and continuing down to the tender spot where her jaw met her throat, farther down to the groove of her collarbone. She arched her back, delicious synapses firing inside her. Strobe lights flashed, created a slow-motion illusion of their movements.
Oona undid the top button of her jacket, revealed a black lace bra. The man buried his face in her cleavage, ran a tongue down its center.
Over the sound system, a remix of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” started up, prompting the writhing duo to laugh.
“Do you think the DJ can see us?” Oona asked.
“Oh yeah, and this song is definitely for us.”
“We better put on a good show.” Oona unbuttoned her jacket the rest of the way and tossed it aside. The man had big hands, his touch slightly rough, igniting her skin like a match across a striker strip. In her haste, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and popped one. He tugged his arms out of the sleeves without removing his tongue from her mouth. Red and yellow laser lights painted stripes across their bodies like Technicolor zebras.
“Do a bump with me, that’ll make it even hotter.” He removed a small brown vial from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and poured out a mound of white powder onto the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. A quick sniff and he poured more, gestured to Oona.
Cocaine? It would’ve been wise to verify (wiser still to politely decline). But the girl who doesn’t say no to champagne doesn’t ask what the powder is; she inhales. So that’s what Oona did. Sharp and clean. A jolt like a shot of espresso. She clenched her jaw and swallowed hard. Everything looked and tasted and felt so good.
The man took one of her ponytails in each hand and pulled her back down to him, mouth open, tongue waiting to meet hers again. He grew hard grinding against her, and Oona unzipped his pants to release him, unconcerned who besides the DJ might see them. She was lost in her hunger for more, had to pour gasoline on the fire simmering within her.
The stranger put his hand between her legs, tore a hole through her fishnets, and moved aside her underwear. A finger inside her and … yes. Exactly what she wanted, to be filled up after an abstinent year. Except a finger wasn’t enough.
Her brain’s pleasure center was so overloaded, it missed the pragmatic memo as to whether unprotected sex with a nameless stranger pushed the boundaries of recklessness too far. The flicker of caution was quickly extinguished, any lingering concern wiped out the second he was inside her, swept further away with each upward thrust of his hips.