Chapter Nineteen #2
One girl stands behind him, her mouth pressed to the curve of his neck, planting soft, heated kisses.
Another girl beside him has her hand nestled between his thighs, palming his growing erection while swapping deep, lingering kisses with the girl next to her.
It’s obscene, almost theatrical, the way they’re tangled together, moving as if choreographed.
A third girl kneels in front of him, her face level with his abdomen.
Her lips trace the lines of his muscles, kissing and licking the hard ridges while her hands splay across his thighs.
Behind her, another girl kneads his shoulders, her delicate hands working his muscles like he’s a man worth worshiping.
The last girl sits at his side, sucking gently on his finger, her eyes dark and teasing.
Her free hand cups her own breast, guiding his large palm over it as if inviting him to take control.
The air is thick, humid with heat and tension, and the music throbs like a pulse in the background. It doesn’t feel like a club anymore. Somewhere between the bodies and the haze, it’s turned into an orgy. Freaking hell. When did this place become this?
There’s no room for anyone else to give him a lap dance, he’s already drowning in attention.
I glance around the room, my gaze catching on another man, dancing to “Fuck U All the Time” by Jeremih.
He’s not alone, two women are draped around him like shadows, and oh my Gosh one of them is Sienna.
I knew she’d be getting laid tonight, but I didn’t expect to see it playing out in real time.
The man looks familiar, though I can’t quite place him.
His face stirs something, a distant recognition dulled by the wall of shots I’ve had tonight.
I wouldn’t remember even if I tried. He’s dressed in a black suit, sharp and immaculate, but his white shirt hangs open, undone just enough to reveal a muscular abdomen.
A thick scar cuts across his skin just under his ribs, visible in the low lights.
There’s a girl behind him, pressed so closely that her chest molds to his back.
Her hands roam lazily, caressing his abdomen as she sways to the slow, sensual beat.
Her eyes are closed, lost in the rhythm as her hips roll in time with the music, a slow grind that matches his stillness.
And then there’s Sienna. She’s in front of him, wearing that black mini dress that clings to every curve like it was painted on, her long stiletto boots clicking faintly with every subtle move.
Her body is a slow, deliberate tease. She leans back into him, her ass perfectly aligned with his erection pressing against her.
Every sway of her hips is slow and deliberate, designed to drive him insane.
He’s holding her ponytail, wrapping it around his fist like a lifeline, while his other hand rests dangerously low on her abdomen, just skimming the boundary of propriety.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly with each shift of her body, as though holding on is the only thing keeping him from losing control.
I hear it then, low and muffled, slipping out through gritted teeth: “Merda.” It’s quiet, almost a groan, but the frustration and desire in that single word are unmistakable. I watch them for a moment longer. Yeah, I think to myself, he’s definitely taken too.
Okay, I’ve made up my mind, man number three. He’s loud, cocky, and doesn’t care who knows it. He’s leaning back, taking a line of what I assume is coke, unapologetically inhaling like he owns the room. The second he notices me, his gaze sharpens, locking onto me like I’m a challenge.
I stride toward him, pretending my heels don’t wobble, channelling confidence I’m not sure I actually have.
He doesn’t look away, his eyes drag slowly up my body, starting from the point of my stilettos, lingering on the length of my legs, and finally stopping at my face.
The corner of his mouth quirks, and I see the tip of his tongue swipe across his lips. Am I his next meal?
He’s seated on a black Victorian chair, an absurdly elegant throne that somehow matches his decadence. His legs are spread wide, and it’s obvious what he wants. He tilts his head back, smirking, waiting for me to step into the space he’s claimed.
“Come here, baby girl.”
The room shifts, a murmur of interest and envy rippling across the floor. As if on cue, “I See Red” by Everybody Loves an Outlaw begins playing, the slow, menacing beat crawling through the air.
I place my hands on his knees, slowly stepping between his parted legs, and start to move. My hips sway to the rhythm, slow and deliberate, as I sink deeper into the music and the moment. The noise fades, the crowd blurs, it's just me and him now, his leering grin etched into my mind.
Then I hear it. A sound that cuts through everything.
Click.
The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. The room freezes, the music slams to silence like someone cut the cord. My blood runs cold. I turn my head slowly, and the world seems to spin as my gaze lands on him.
Ocean-blue eyes, familiar, furious, and locked on me. Lorenzo.
He’s standing on the same sofa, with the five girls around him and a gun pointed straight at me, unwavering. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I’m frozen under his glare, pinned in place like prey caught in a snare. And suddenly, the air feels like it’s been sucked from the room.