Chapter 17 #2
Jack’s hand stays firm on my back, guiding me through turns and steps with confidence, and I stop overthinking and just follow his lead, letting the music take over. For once I’m not in my head about performing or being perfect. I’m just dancing. Just having fun.
We dance through two more songs, then three. My hair is starting to stick to the back of my neck with sweat, my heart is racing, and I can’t stop smiling.
The fourth song starts with a shift in mood. Still upbeat but with a sensual undercurrent that changes everything. Around us, dancers pull their partners closer, movements becoming more intimate.
Jack hesitates for just a second, his eyes meeting mine like he’s asking permission.
Then he draws me in. Closer. Much closer.
Our bodies are pressed together now, moving together as one, and I can feel the heat radiating off him through his shirt.
His hand slides from my waist to my back, fingers splaying wide and possessive, and I have to look up to meet his eyes because of the height difference.
The space between us has shrunk to almost nothing, and every single point where we touch feels electric, charged.
His hand on my back burning through my shirt.
My hand in his, our fingers intertwined.
The way our hips move together with the music, synchronized without any conscious effort.
The solid strength of him as he leads me through the steps, so sure and confident and completely in control.
This stopped being fake somewhere between the beach and here. Who am I kidding? It was never really fake at all. Not for me. Maybe not for him either, judging by the way he’s looking at me right now.
The song shifts, tempo slowing but the rhythm getting deeper, more sensual.
Around us, couples press together, lost in the music and each other.
His hand tightens on my back. My fingers curl into his shirt.
We’re not really dancing anymore, just swaying together, bodies pressed flush, and the tension between us is so thick I can barely breathe through it.
“Lark…” he says, and my name is a warning and a question and a plea all at once.
I tilt my face up, and we’re so close now I can feel his breath on my lips. “Jack.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there, intense and focused.
His hand slides up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair at the base of my skull, and the warmth of his palm against my skin, the slight pressure of his fingers, sends shivers down my spine despite the oppressive heat, despite how much I’m sweating.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it, sure everyone can hear it over the music.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice barely audible over the music, over the blood rushing in my ears.
“No,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. I’m done pretending I don’t want this. Done lying to myself.
“Lark—”
“No,” I repeat, more firmly this time, and rise up on my toes, closing the last bit of distance between us.
The second my lips touch his, he responds instantly, pulling me against him with enough force that I gasp into his mouth. He tastes like whiskey, and when he bites my lower lip I moan, opening my mouth for him, inviting him in, giving him everything.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth and everything else disappears completely.
The music becomes distant white noise. The crowd vanishes into nothing.
The heat and the lights and the fact that we’re in public surrounded by hundreds of people all fade away into irrelevance until there’s only Jack’s mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the way he kisses me.
One of his hands tangles in my hair, gripping it tight. The other hand splays against my lower back, hauling me flush against him, and oh God, I can feel every hard plane of his body pressed against me, and can feel exactly how much he wants this too.
I press closer, my hands sliding up his chest to curl around his neck, and he makes this low sound in his throat that goes straight through me. His hand pulls me impossibly closer, making me gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with it.
I press in hard, eliminating even the suggestion of space between us, my hands sliding up his chest to curl around his neck. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us, and his grip on me tightens. Claiming.
And God, I want him to. I want him to claim me, to mark me, to make me his in every way possible. I want him so badly that I can barely think straight, barely remember why I ever thought this was a bad idea, barely care about consequences.
We break apart because we have to, because we need air, both of us panting, and stare at each other for a long moment.
Around us the club is alive—people dancing, drinking, shouting to be heard over the band, living their lives completely unaware that mine just shifted on its axis.
The music is so loud my ears will probably ring tomorrow, but right now I can barely hear it over the sound of my own heartbeat.
“Fuck,” Jack whispers against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine.
His eyes are dark, and I can see him thinking, can see him trying to make a decision, trying to figure out what to do next. His gaze flicks away from mine, scanning the room frantically, looking for something. An exit. A solution. Anywhere we can go that’s not here in front of all these people.
I follow his line of sight and see what he’s spotted. Past the bar, down a narrow hallway barely visible through the crowd, several doors.
His eyes snap back to mine. A question.
I don’t hesitate. I nod.
Yes. Right now. Please.
He takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd, past the bar, toward the back of the venue.
We weave between tables and dancers, moving fast, urgent.
Jack leads me down the narrow hallway past the bathrooms, past a door marked “Private,” to another unmarked door at the very end.
He tries the handle. It turns, and he pulls me inside.
Storage room. Liquor boxes stacked against walls, old concert posters peeling at the edges, and a desk pushed against the opposite wall covered in papers and supplies. A single bare bulb casts everything in dim, warm light.
The music from the main room is still so loud it vibrates through the floor, through the walls, through my chest. Voices and laughter bleeding through like we’re not really separate from the crowd at all, like we could be discovered at any second. None of that stops the desire coursing through me.
The second the door clicks shut, we’re on each other. His mouth crashes into mine and I’m already fumbling behind him for the door handle, trying to find a lock.
There isn’t one.
“Fuck, there’s no lock,” he growls against my mouth, having reached the same realization.
“Then I guess you better hurry up,” I say, looking directly into his eyes, and who even am I right now? This bold version of myself who says things like that? Who doesn’t care about locks or privacy or consequences?
He grins. “Oh, so you’re not gonna bolt after this one?”
“You’re a real smug—”
He cuts me off, pulling me in and kissing me until I’m dizzy with it, before he pulls back, hands framing my face, large and warm, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “I don’t have a condom,” he says, breathing hard. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen tonight.”
My stomach flips. “I have an IUD. And I’ve been tested.” I’m practically panting. Jack has lit a fire in me that I thought was extinguished forever, and I now feel like I might burn up from the inside out.
His thumbs brush my cheekbones gently. “I’m clean too. Team health screenings every few months as part of our contracts. Last one was June, no one since way before then.” His eyes search mine, serious despite the desire written all over his face.
“I want this,” I say firmly.
“Are you sure? We talked about boundaries and an expiration date. Once we do this, I can’t go back to pretending.” His voice is strained, like it’s taking everything in him to even speak instead of just taking what we both clearly want. “This has been killing me.”
The relief that floods through me is almost as strong as my desire.
I haven’t been alone in this. I know if we cross this line it will probably blow up eventually.
That he’ll move on, go back to Monaco and his racing world.
And I’ll be in Dark River focusing on my music.
But in this moment I don’t care. I only want him.
“Good, because it’s been killing me too,” I say, pulling him closer. “So if you don’t start fucking me I’ll—”
He kisses me before I can finish the threat, cutting off my words with his mouth, swallowing whatever I was going to say.
And then his hands are working on my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it somewhere behind me, and I don’t care where it lands because his mouth is on my neck, on my collarbone, trailing kisses down my skin that make me shiver and arch into him.
He pulls back just long enough to yank his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Holy shit. He’s all hard muscle and tan skin and definition that looks like it was carved by an artist. My hands move to his chest, exploring the planes and ridges, the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles flex under my touch, and he sucks in a breath when I trace the V that disappears into his pants.
His hand catches my jaw, tilting my face up to his, and he pulls me against him, kissing me so hard I see stars, so thoroughly I forget my own name.
He backs me up until we hit the door with a solid thud that rattles it in the frame, that probably echoes into the hallway if anyone’s out there to hear it.
Footsteps pass by outside. Voices. Someone laughs. The music pounds through the walls, bass shaking the floor under our feet.
I don’t care. Let them hear.