chapter 16
Remi
I DRIVE HOME IN THE silence, with only the wind coming through the windows and the sound of tires racing over asphalt. And I keep glancing toward the passenger’s seat, as if he’ll still be there, smiling that sideways smile, one hand hanging out the window, drifting on the summer air.
But it’s empty. And I’m torn inside.
My lips still tingle from our kiss, and my fingers crave the feel of him.
But he didn’t ask me up to his hotel room. He just kissed me and got out, and then he was gone, and I was driving away, leaving him standing there under the bright lights.
I wanted to go up. If he’d asked me to, maybe I would have. But it’s better this way.
I’m not shy about sex; sometimes I go on dates just to get fucked, even if I know I’ll never see the guy again. So the fact that I was unsure about going up with Sebastian, even if I wanted to, is bad news.
The feelings inside me are dangerous.
So, when I get back to my condo, I do what I always do when I can’t make sense of my emotions.
I dance.
As soon as I’m through the door, with it closed and locked behind me, I move through the familiar semidarkness to the guest bedroom, not bothering to turn lights on as I go.
In the middle of the room is my pole, the chrome gleaming in the light coming through the floor-to-ceiling window along one wall.
I go to my speaker system in the corner, turn on “Waiting Game” by BANKS, and then light the candles on the side table.
They cast a warm flickering glow through the room as I draw the curtains closed over the window.
BANKS’s voice drifts through the room, low and deep, and I kick off my sneakers, letting them thump onto the plush pink rug in front of the cream couch.
Then I reach for my jeans, popping the button and sliding them off over my hips.
As soon as the fabric falls away, leaving me in my black thong and tank top, I breathe a sigh of relief.
In many ways, I feel more comfortable like this, with my body able to move freely, unencumbered by fabric and buttons and zippers. Able to just be.
My hands find the pole, its gleaming surface cool against my palms. I rise onto my tiptoes, and I start to dance.
Immediately, comfort and relief wash over me. This is my safe place, my center.
There’s something so vulnerable about pole dancing, about stripping everything away until it’s just me and the movement and the feel of metal against my skin. I tip my head back and lift my feet from the floor, letting my momentum carry me around the pole in a slow rotation.
And as I move, I think of him.
His mouth. His hands. His knee between my thighs.
I twirl once around the pole, changing direction, one hand pressing through my hair, which is tangled from the night—from the wind coming through the open windows, the breeze on the rooftop, Sebastian’s fingers at the nape of my neck.
The song ends, and the next one starts: “Crash” by DeathbyRomy.
The sirens start in the distance, quiet and creeping, and a tingle goes across my skin as the song builds.
My body moves on its own, whirling, dipping, skin clinging to metal as I spin in circles, the candlelight blurring in the partial darkness.
Legs wrapped around the pole, holding me high in the air, I lean back, upside down, hair and fingertips brushing along the floor as I spin. And still, even in this moment of suspension, I’m thinking of him.
The easy way he rode in my passenger’s seat, his commitment to landing that kickflip even if it killed him, the boyish laughter that rumbled through the heat of the night after he ate shit doing an ollie and held up his bleeding palm for me to see.
I grit my teeth against the desire that builds inside me.
Desire for his body. For his brown eyes looking at me. For the feel of him in my orbit, near enough to feel as he moves through space.
I plant my hands flat on the floor and release my legs from the pole, doing a backbend and bringing my bare feet to the cool hardwood.
I toss my hair and spin, hands on my body, in my hair, on the now-warm pole, the chrome heated from my skin clinging to it.
I twirl until I’m breathless, until I can barely tell up from down.
Then I sink slowly to the floor, coming to rest on my knees, hands curled into fists on my thighs. Romy’s voice wraps around me as I breathe hard.
As the song thrums through my speakers, reaching into my chest and squeezing, I slip one hand between my knees, up the length of my bare thigh, to the aching spot I wish Sebastian had touched.
My fingers slip the thin black fabric aside, and I gasp as I touch myself, spreading the wetness from my pussy up to my clit.
I think of him, even as I tell myself I shouldn’t.
As I sink one finger inside myself, I imagine it’s his.
Then I add another, pressing my fingers deeper, legs starting to tremble as I kneel on the hard floor, wondering what it would feel like if he were behind me, hands on my hips, cock pumping into my wet cunt.
Pressure starts to build low in my stomach. I drag my fingers out of my pussy and up to my aching clit.
Why didn’t he touch me? And why do I wish so badly that he did? Why did I love and hate that he didn’t invite me to his room? It makes no sense.
Biting my lip, I savor the pain from where he nipped me, where his teeth sunk into my soft flesh, holding me captive against his mouth. I circle my swollen clit and moan, then rub it harder, faster, heart racing inside my chest.
And just when I’m about to cum, I thrust two fingers into my pussy and pretend it’s him. I spread my legs wider and grind against my hand, wishing he were beneath me on this floor right now, his body naked and gleaming with sweat, the candlelight dancing over us both.
An orgasm crashes through me, making my muscles spasm and my breath hitch. Warmth drips down one of my thighs as I continue to finger myself, making a slow trail toward my knee.
And as soon as the throbbing release passes, I’m left there on the floor, alone, with moisture in my eyes.
I haven’t wanted anyone in a long time—haven’t allowed myself to want anyone—and already, the fear is creeping in, making me question and doubt and worry.
Because wanting someone means letting them in, letting them see what’s under your armor.
And I’m an expert at keeping myself well protected, at always wearing my mask, never letting anyone know what’s actually going on beneath my stage smile.
But tonight, collapsed on the floor, with slick heat still coating my fingers, I know my armor is already starting to crack, and Sebastian is the one loosening the pieces, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
His smiles, that boyish laughter, his self-deprecating humor.
There’s something so real about it—nothing practiced or forced or performed—and maintaining the mask is that much harder because of it.
Real is scary. Because real can hurt.
And I don’t do hurt.
But I don’t want to walk away either. And that’s what scares me most.