Chapter Twelve #3
He starts with slow, swirling licks, tasting me, teasing the edges of my folds until I'm dripping. I can feel the vibration of the subwoofers humming through the floor and into my heels, syncing up with the throb between my legs.
Then, he adds the fingers.
One finger slides in, deep and slow, stretching me. I bite my lip, staring straight ahead at the crowd, my face a mask of professional confidence while my hips are subconsciously tilting toward him.
He adds a second finger, curling them upward to find that exact spot that makes my toes curl.
He keeps his fingers moving inside me while his mouth works my clit, somehow knowing exactly what the fuck to do to make it impossible for me to stand still.
Someone near the front catches my attention and throws both hands up when I look their way.
I grin and throw one of mine up in response like everything is completely fucking normal.
Like Revel St Clair, isn’t on his knees under my booth, with his face between my thighs.
Like there isn’t a camera moving across the crowd toward the stage that could put my face on one of those giant fucking screens at any second.
Act normal, Cece.
Easy. Sure.
I lean into the mic, my voice trembling just a fraction. "Are you guys ready for this one?"
The roar of the crowd is deafening. I start the build-up, the synths rising in pitch and intensity.
Revel feels the shift in my energy. He speeds up, his fingers pumping into me faster, his suction becoming more aggressive.
He’s trying to break me, trying to make me moan into the microphone for ten thousand people to hear.
Fucking pendejo.
I’m going to kill him.
Not now, obviously.
Right now, I need to somehow remember how to do my fucking job.
The tension in my lower belly is screaming. I’m hovering on the edge, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches. I lock my elbows, gripping the edge of the booth so hard my knuckles turn white.
The track reaches its peak—the silence before the storm.
Then, the drop hits.
At the exact moment the bass slams back in, Revel sucks my clit hard and drives his fingers deep, hitting my G-spot with a force that sends a shockwave through my entire body.
I scream, but I channel it into the music, slamming the crossfader and twisting the filter knob with a violent, adrenaline-fueled energy.
My orgasm crashes over me, my body tightening around his fingers as I shake.
The flashing strobes blur into streaks of white and neon, and for a few seconds, keeping my shit together in front of this crowd feels fucking impossible.
I throw my free hand into the air with everyone else, letting my body move with the drop because it’s the only fucking way to hide what’s actually happening to me.
The crowd loses their minds with me, thousands of people jumping beneath a burst of lights, and for a few seconds I have no idea whether my legs are shaking from the bass, the adrenaline, or the asshole currently responsible for most of my problems.
Probably all three.
Revel doesn't stop until the very last tremor leaves my body. He lingers for a moment, his tongue giving one last, slow lap to clean me up, before he pulls back.
He slides my panties back up with a smug, lingering touch, his fingertips grazing my hip before he lets the hem of my dress fall back into place.
When I finally risk looking down, he’s still there between my thigh-high boots, looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself while he sucks his fingers clean.
I narrow my eyes at him and his grin gets worse.
Oh, he’s dead.
Later.
Because the next track is already coming in, the crowd is still screaming, and I have another twenty minutes to somehow pretend Revel didn’t just do that while half of fucking Miami was looking at me.
Revel shifts out from beneath the booth, and a second later, his hands land on my waist from behind.
The smug fucker doesn’t even give me time to recover.
He pulls me back against him, moving with me to the beat like he didn’t just spend the last several minutes making it nearly impossible for me to remember how to do my fucking job.
My legs still feel weak inside my boots, adrenaline is ripping through me, and somehow I’m supposed to keep mixing while his body presses against mine and thousands of people are losing their shit on the other side of the booth.
I reach for the next control, trying to pull myself together.
His hand slides up, his fingers curling around my chin, turning my face back toward him, and then his mouth is on mine.
The second I taste myself on his lips, any chance I had of getting my shit together disappears.
Holy fuck.
I kiss him harder before I can think better of it, one hand still working the decks while he keeps me pulled against him, his other hand firm around my waist. Lights flash across my closed eyes, bass pounds through both of us, and somewhere beyond the booth the crowd screams as the next track drops.
When he finally lets me breathe, I turn back toward the decks with a grin I couldn’t hide if I fucking tried.
Fuck it.
If this is what playing Sol Fuego is like, they’re never getting rid of me.