20. Bianca
Bianca
The rest of the performance is a blur of euphoric motion and music that pulses through my body and skates over my skin. Isabel’s performance transports me to another world. Or maybe that’s just the bitter, metallic taste of the ecstasy. As soon as the drug kicked in, the waves rolled over me.
Spurred by the chemical euphoria, an unadulterated sense of freedom thrums through my veins, intoxicating me in an entirely new way.
For the first time in my life, the shackles of public propriety and image release me.
Worries about other people’s judgments or eyes on me vanish.
How can I bother with that, when Marco’s right beside me?
Warmth suffuses my chest. Why didn’t I ever notice how good his skin feels? How nice it is to just stroke him?
He’s being so touchy, too, in a sweet way. Why did I never realize that someone petting my hair and neck could feel so good?
I scoot close, humming in his ear while my fingers continue to trail up and down his arm. “I’m so glad we’re here together.”
Amusement laces his tone as he whispers back. “Hold that thought.”
After the performers take their final bow and the velvet curtain falls, Marco leads me to the valet. I sigh serenely as I tumble into the limo’s leather seat and kick my feet onto the opposite bench, tapping my toes in time with the pop song that’s playing.
“Let’s go somewhere a little more lively.” Zo, our chauffeur for the night, pulls away from the Theater of the Arts and navigates to a place called Crooked.
I press my face against the window. “Ohhh! I read about this place in New York Magazine! It’s like, a Michelin-starred restaurant, right? But with some kind of kinky BDSM show in the back?”
Marco chuckles as Zo opens our door and extends a hand to help me out. “Something like that.”
From what I’ve read, Crooked offers a new theme once a month with a whole different menu and burlesque show.
In keeping with the upcoming holiday, the place has transformed into an erotic circus.
Servers adorned with primitive animal masks meander about carrying trays of colorful drinks while dancers dressed as harlequins in striped lingerie perform shows on the scattered stages.
Bright red cloth decorates the walls and ceilings, mimicking the inside of a giant tent, and a hostess in pigtails, a sequined demi-mask, a red leather vest, and matching body shorts over fishnet stockings, glides up to us in roller blades. “Dining or pleasure?”
“A bit of both.” Marco snags my hand in his, anchoring me to his side.
The hostess spins in place. “Follow me, please.”
We trail after her past several stages where performers delight patrons with their antics.
I gawk as a topless woman weaves silk scarves through the air, then at two different women kissing in a giant glass of champagne.
Flesh-toned pasties and thongs reveal miles of bare skin, creating the perfect canvas to showcase the blue and green spotlights that dance over them.
The glowing hues suck me in, and who knows how long I track the colors with blissed-out awe before Marco tugs me along.
Even now, he can’t seem to stop touching me, rubbing his fingers along my wrist and palm as we stroll along.
Not that I’m complaining. Every brush of his skin on mine is electric.
A large crowd packs the rooms, and all the voices blend together like a joyous symphony. I’ve witnessed my share of revelry at Paradiso, but I’ve never experienced anything as free or uninhibited as this.
A woman in a leather collar beckons me closer. Hypnotized, I float in her direction, but Marco stops me by hooking his arm around my waist from behind. “This is tame compared to what’s happening downstairs. Wanna see?”
“Yes.” On any other night, I’d probably reject the invitation. Vehemently. I’d stick my nose up at the performers and decor and the gentle strains of violin, but I instead find myself succumbing to the yearning that constricts my ribs and renders breathing difficult.
Marco draws back in momentary surprise and motions to the hostess. “We’re going to look around a bit first.”
The girl smirks and waves us off.
Marco leads us to a staircase set in a narrow space that resembles a giant room of mirrors. Every step downward morphs my reflection into someone unrecognizable, and the laughter and easy conversation from the main floor grows sultry as we descend.
The world on the lower level offers a feast for every sense, and my eyes round as I attempt to drink everything in.
Waiters weave through the crowd with decadent chocolates topped with delicate gold leaves.
One man dressed like a dark court jester presents me with a tray lined with small jelly squares.
I pop one into my mouth, and moan unabashedly at the burst of vodka and sweet lime flavor.
Marco squeezes my shoulder. “No more alcohol. It’s not safe to drink too much while rolling.”
I beam up at him and pet his jaw. “You’re so sweet. I’m so happy I’m with you right now.”
He grazes his knuckles over my cheek, and pleasure envelops me. “You may be singing a different tune tomorrow.”
Laughing at my vehement head shake, he nudges forward.
We wander from one performance to the next, each more sinful and indulgent than the last. A man reclining on a table lets patrons drip hot wax on his nipples and abdomen.
A woman clad in red leather lounges on a leather chair while men lick her thigh-high boots.
Finally, Marco and I stop at an empty cage positioned on a dais, with a pole in the center.
Some giggling girls attempt to egg each other into climbing inside.
“What’s this for?” I glance over to find Marco already watching me. As we lock eyes, I wonder how long he’s been staring at me instead of the feast of flesh and debauchery.
He leans in so I can hear him better. “They call this the Open Exhibition. Anyone with enough courage can become part of the show.”
My heart gallops so intensely, I swear my pulse might burst from my throat. “I’ve always wanted to try this in public.” The comment escapes my mouth before I can reel it back.
Marco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
I nod dreamily. I’ve attended pole dancing classes for a few years.
They started off as an easy way to get some extra cardio in and morphed into a tiny obsession, but I quickly switched to indulging in private lessons a few times a month so that I don’t have to worry about being recognized by any of the other students.
The heat in Marco’s eyes sears away the last of my inhibitions. He strokes my wrist, and the featherlight touch triggers goosebumps. “Show me. But don’t overexert yourself. You don’t want to overheat.”
My tongue pokes out to wet my bottom lip, and my body tightens with growing desire.
I ascend the platform and climb into the cage with Marco’s steadying hand curved around my lower back.
The door clicks shut behind me, and “Earned It” by the Weeknd plays, my heartrate synching with the sultry, pulsing beat.
Grabbing the pole with one hand, I use the other to slide the bobby pins from my hair one by one. As the last pin falls, I hoist myself off the ground into a spin, whipping my neck so that my tresses cascade around me in a circle of golden brown curls.
I land where I began and prop my upper back against the cool metal. I drag my hand down the low necklace, drawing attention to where my red lace bra showcases my breasts, my nipples aching for freedom.
The song lures me to the ground, and the lights dance like fireflies. The song swells around and in me as I rise and twirl around the pole again, with my dress climbing up my thighs. This time, when I slow, I let gravity carry me to my knees.
I feel ancient, wild. As if I’m finally exploring the most base, honest part of myself. Any previous nerves fade into obscurity as I succumb to instinct and the music, showcasing simple yet sexy moves with ease. Flowing from one to the next comes as naturally as breathing.
A crowd begins forming in front of me, but I only have eyes for Marco. He stands directly in front of me, his hungry gaze devouring the slope of my ass and the red thong on display when my dress bunches around my waist.
When I close my eyes, I can feel his fingers inside me again and hear his groans at my rapturous expression as I dip low and slide back up. In my imagination, I ride him to the rhythmic pumping of the beat while he palms his dick over his pants.
Inhibitions lost in the ghost of his caress, I trail my hand down to my panties, desperate to slake the unfulfilled need he ignited back at the ballet.
The rattle of the cage startles me back to reality. Blinking, I find Marco looming just outside. His expression is still teasing and mischievous, but his tight grip on the bars suggests that he might rip them right out if I provoke him any further.
The dark gleam lurking in those moss green depths screams of possession.
He raises a single brow and aims a pointed glance at my hand.
I jerk my fingers away from my thong as if they’re on fire.
Without a single word, he stakes his claim, and I stop, not because I’m embarrassed but because I don’t know if the urge is my own or a byproduct of the MDMA.
If his handsome face exhibited even a hint of disappointment or disgust, the sight might have broken me.
Instead, he fixates on me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen. As if he likes everything about me, messy and imperfect and free.
He’s the one person in this world who’s seen all of me unfiltered and weak, and there’s still admiration in the rueful smile he levels me with. “Remind me to install a pole in the downstairs living room as soon as possible.”
He gathers me in his arms, and we sway to the beat, pleasure zipping over and through me. The floaty sensation lingers, and I just want to give everyone around me a hug. I settle for embracing Marco, thrilled when he squeezes me back.
“This is so nice,” I murmur.
“It is,” he agrees.
I cradle his cheeks and smile into his eyes. “You’re the best. I love being with you like this.”
“I love this too.”
Part of me realizes we shouldn’t be saying these things, but happiness overrules logic. How could I hate Marco, or anyone? People are so awesome.
By the wee hours of the morning, my tune is starting to change.
Though the MDMA hasn’t completely worn off yet, I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, and people are, in fact, not awesome. And don’t even get me started on all the mortifying crap I was saying and doing…with my husband, no less.
When did I stop hating that smile of his?
Even though I attempt to console myself by insisting it’s the MDMA at play, the fact that my hazy mind can’t answer that question rattles me. Just as much as the knowledge that I didn’t just let my tightly controlled persona slip…I shredded it with my own hands and left the pieces on the floor.
I was doing so well ignoring his bullshit, but one little lapse of judgement, and I undermined all my efforts in the blink of an eye. I’m supposed to be working on how to break into the Library, not moonlighting as a Coyote Ugly extra in an underground sex club.
Although I have to admit I enjoyed myself.
“Home.” My lips tighten, and Marco winces like a kid who’s about to get scolded. “Now.”
“Bianca—” He searches my face, and I swivel my head in the opposite direction before he can read the self-loathing that sours everything.
The kicker is that, even now, I want to reach for him. Luckily, I’ve regained enough discipline to keep my hands to myself.
While I resent him for his role in this, I’m the one who lost control. I have only myself to blame.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Drugs or not, I can’t afford to forget that “peace” and “freedom” are for other people, not for me. Never me. I need to remind myself of that and hope Marco doesn’t test me again before I fulfill my father’s assignment.
Livia’s life depends on it.