5. Scarletts Nocturnal Reign
Chapter five
Scarlett's Nocturnal Reign
Scarlett
C onsciousness came back with a sizzle, like an exposed wire pressed to the meat of my brain.
I blinked, vision swimming, every nerve ending rioting with sensation.
The bedroom was bathed in city-wash blue, sharp enough to make even the dust motes look dangerous.
I was standing. Not Lauren, not the mouse behind the glasses, but me.
Scarlett. My mouth stretched into a slow, lazy smile as I flexed my fingers, feeling them tingle, watching the way the tendons jumped beneath the skin.
There’s nothing so delicious as waking up in a stolen body, especially when it’s fresh, flushed, and primed with a cocktail of need.
I let my gaze linger on my reflection in the full-length mirror.
Lauren would have looked away, or picked apart the image with a string of apologies.
Me? I drank it in. The tits, god, the tits: twin orbs, high and wild, the nipples standing out hard as candy, perfect and shameless.
The waist nipped in, hips flaring, thighs full and built for riding out a thousand earthquakes.
Even the eyes, green and bottomless, glowed with a promise that would leave the neighbors twitching behind their blinds.
I ran both hands down my body, slow, savoring the glide of palms over skin.
Goosebumps followed in my wake. The air was cool, and my nipples responded instantly, darkening and swelling under my touch.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I purred at the glass, then squeezed both breasts together, pushing them up and out, admiring the obscene shelf they made.
I bent forward, letting them swing, then straightened with a snap, hair tumbling wild around my shoulders.
I found the ruined sleep shirt on the floor, sniffed it, and tossed it into the trash.
Good riddance. Lauren’s closet was a graveyard of self-denial: sweaters big enough to camp in, pants built to erase any evidence of ass, a parade of white cotton panties so thick you could use them as oven mitts.
I sneered, yanked open a drawer, hunting for what I knew was there.
My secret stash. I kept a few things tucked away where Lauren wouldn’t find them.
Third drawer down. False back, sticky with double-sided tape.
Jackpot. Lingerie, the kind you only wear when you want it to be seen.
Black lace, red silk, a thong so tiny it could double as dental floss.
I plucked a bra from the pile, held it up to the light.
Balconette, pure black, with mesh that left nothing to the imagination and a lift engineered to make grown men crash their cars.
I rolled it between my fingers, savoring the rough scrape of lace against my skin, then slid it on with a slow, deliberate motion.
The sensation was narcotic: the cool mesh dragging across my already hardened nipples, the tight hug of the band as it settled beneath my breasts, lifting them into perfect, aching globes.
I cupped them, hefting their weight, thumbs circling the sensitive peaks that strained against the delicate barrier of lace.
Each brush sent electric currents straight between my thighs.
"So much wasted potential," I whispered, my voice husky even to my own ears. "Time to fix that."
For panties, I chose nothing. The cool air kissed my exposed sex, sending a delicious shiver up my spine that bloomed into goosebumps across my skin.
Lauren would have fainted at the thought of going bare; I reveled in it, the promise of friction and freedom with every step, the secret wetness that would build with each movement.
I fished out a dress: red, naturally, with a deep plunge and a hemline built for bad decisions.
The fabric slithered over my skin like a lover's tongue as I pulled it down, tight as a second skin, clinging to every curve, riding up my thighs and dipping dangerously low at the back.
In the mirror, I posed, one hip cocked, hands sliding over the swell of my ass, feeling the heat of my own touch through the thin material.
"Fuck me," I said, my lips parting, pupils dilating with want. "Seriously. Fuck me."
Makeup next. The drawer in the bathroom was a disaster zone: mismatched foundation, a mascara so old it rattled, lip balm with bite marks in the cap.
But in the back, a clutch of unopened treasures.
I lined up my arsenal: liquid liner, matte lipstick in a shade called “Venom,” a palette of eyeshadows ranging from “Bruise” to “Sin.” I started with the lips, layering color until they looked bloodied, swollen, ripe for biting.
I drew on the eyes, smoky and dark enough to leave a shadow even after midnight.
Mascara thick and heavy, black as memory.
The face in the mirror wasn’t Lauren at all.
It was mine and it was feral, grinning, and hungry.
I spritzed on perfume, something sharp and chemical that stung my throat and lingered like a threat.
In the mirror, I licked my teeth and ran a tongue over my lips.
Perfection. All of this, every step, was a fuck you to the girl who’d spent her life folding herself into corners.
Every inch of me demanded attention. The urge to be seen was overwhelming.
I strutted down the hall, pausing at the kitchen window to see my reflection in the glass, admiring the flash of thigh as I turned and the way the red dress seemed to pulse in the city light.
The apartment itself looked smaller now, shabbier, the evidence of Lauren’s existence scattered everywhere like the aftermath of a tornado.
I took it in, then shrugged. “Tonight, we’re not coming back alone,” I promised myself.
The thought of being watched, of being touched, of being consumed, was intoxicating.
My thighs pressed together, and I was startled at how wet I already was, the sensation seeping down, threatening to stain the dress before I even left.
One last look in the mirror. I pouted, sucked in my cheeks, turned left and right.
I bent at the waist, spreading my legs, peering at the way the dress barely covered my ass, the tease of bare skin beneath.
“Slut,” I said to my reflection, and giggled.
I loved the way the word rolled off my tongue, the taste of it, the freedom. “Fucking slut.” I blew myself a kiss.
Shoes: black stilettos, purchased on a dare and never worn.
I slipped them on, relishing the extra height, the arch of my foot, the click-click on the hardwood.
With every step, I felt the pulse between my legs, the promise of what was waiting.
I was a bomb, ticking down. I grabbed a purse, loaded it with the essentials (lipstick, matches, condoms, fake ID).
I ran my fingers over the matchbook. Midnight Velvet, the name alone enough to make my heart race.
Tonight was not for memory. Tonight was for erasing memory, rewriting it in red.
At the door, I hesitated. For a moment, I felt Lauren in the back of my skull, whimpering. I smiled. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take it from here.”
I flung the door open and stepped out into the hall, letting the air wrap around me, cold and hungry. With every stride, I left a piece of Lauren behind, until there was nothing but me and the night and the throb of desire, loud enough to drown out even the ghost of regret.
Midnight Velvet lived up to its name: a narrow red door in a graffiti-stained wall, the brass knocker shaped like an open mouth.
The bouncer gave me a once-over that left fingermarks, then peeled the rope aside and let me in.
Inside, it was all sensory overload. The music thudded deep and low, more felt than heard.
Red lights painted everyone’s skin the same fevered pink.
The air was heavy with perfume and sweat, the tang of citrus and the undercurrent of bodies pressed too close for decency.
Tables ringed the perimeter, each occupied by a pair or trio or more, all dressed in black and red and the occasional flash of something gold.
The center was a sunken dance floor, jammed with writhing bodies, a living tangle of skin and fabric and promise.
I stood for a moment, letting the heat roll over me.
Eyes found me instantly. Some hungry, some calculating, all of them undressing me in a thousand different ways.
I let it happen. I wanted it. There is a kind of power in being the thing everyone wants to touch and none dare to own.
I moved through the crowd, letting hands brush my arms, my hips, the backs of my knees.
At the bar, a man with silver hair and hands like meat hooks offered to buy me a drink.
I smiled and took it, but the liquor was just for show.
I downed it, then slid past him, my hand trailing across his thigh.
I felt the tension, the way he shifted, half-hard and suddenly very interested, but I didn’t stop.
I was a shark tonight. I only slowed when I reached the dance floor, the heat there thick enough to taste.
I let the bass move me, starting small: hips, then shoulders, then the ripple down the spine.
The dress clung to me like a secret, every movement making it ride higher, dip lower, flashing the skin beneath.
A pair of women bracketed me, one with hair like fire and another who might have been her shadow, both moving in tandem.
They pressed close, sandwiching me, and I let my hands roam.
Ass, thigh, the small of a back. The fire-haired one kissed my neck, then licked the shell of my ear, her hands cupping my tits through the dress.
The shadow laughed and slid a hand between my legs, fingers grazing the seam, teasing at what she’d find beneath.
I ground back, letting the friction light me up, every nerve in my body pinging for more.