29. Gabriel
People fill the club from wall to wall, pressing close together as music vibrates through the space. I watch from the second-floor balcony, hidden behind a column where the light doesn’t quite reach. Even if I stood exposed, they wouldn’t notice me watching. They’re too consumed by each other.
That’s the benefit of places like this. Everyone turns inward. Toward heat, toward alcohol, toward the illusion that nothing exists beyond the moment unfolding directly in front of them.
Neomi is wearing a dress that could undo a man.
It’s short, and black, it showcases every one of her curves.
Her legs catch the strobe lights as she moves, long, smooth skin illuminated.
Champagne blonde hair spills down her back in loose waves, and her mouth—painted a deep, dangerous red—keeps drawing my attention.
I imagine, unbidden, what that color would look like smeared against skin, against Lars’s mouth, along the length of his cock.
He looks just as breathtaking. A light blue button-down, sleeves rolled, black slacks that are perfectly fitted to his body cling to his ass.
The watch on his wrist catches the light when he moves, and his hair is brushed back from his face, exposing his features.
His eyes don’t stray far from her—only for moments to check their surroundings—and one of his hands is in constant contact with her body.
It might look like instinctive closeness to anyone else.
I recognize it for what it is—possession.
They are both mesmerizing in their own right. And together, they’re simply exquisite.
When she backs into him on the dance floor, her body finds his with an ease that makes my muscles tense. Lars responds without hesitation, hands settling at her hips as his shoulders angle toward her, subtly shielding her from the press of the crowd. The movement is intimate and protective.
They move together like they’ve already learned each other’s language. Whatever awkwardness that should exist between two people this new to each other is skipped entirely, as if they fast-forwarded straight to fluency.
I shouldn’t feel the edge of jealousy that curls low in my gut as I watch them. I acknowledge it, though, filing it away to dissect at a later time.
She tilts her head back, resting it against his shoulder. His mouth drops to her ear, speaking words meant only for her. Then she turns and his hand slides beneath the hem of her dress—carefully hidden in plain sight. I lean forward, drawn like a moth to a flame.
I see the exact moment he touches her, and her body reacts. He’s going to make her come, and fuck, I’m going to watch it unfold.
Her lashes fall dark against her cheeks. I watch her chest rise as her attention narrows entirely onto him. They stay pressed together, bodies in sync with the music as his hand remains concealed, the rhythm disguising the way her hips move against him.
Lars is devastating when he loses control.
Watching him like this—completely focused on the woman in his arms—triggers something visceral in me. My body reacts before my mind has time to intervene, and I shift my stance, trying to disguise my hardening cock.
The way she melts into him, fingers curling into his arm, rewires something inside my chest. She comes apart without spectacle, no show for the crowd.
Just a quiet unraveling, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as he wraps her in his arms, claiming her with nothing more than proximity and presence.
Then I watch him raise his fingers to his mouth, tasting her. And fuck, a furious rush of jealousy bounds through my veins. I want his fingers in my mouth. I want to be the one sucking them clean. My cock grows even harder at the thought. The taste of her, the feeling of him in my mouth.
I feel like I’m going insane with want.
I drain my glass without tasting it, eyes locked on them as they sway in the middle of the chaos, sealed inside a world no one else can penetrate.
They don’t know that I’m watching. They don’t know how much space they occupy in my thoughts now and they don’t know how badly I want to step inside that orbit. How the image of him making her come on a crowded dance floor is burned into me, waiting for a time when I’m alone.
I’ve crossed a line. This was never the plan. Still, the pull feels inevitable, pressing forward whether I resist it or not. I turn away before I do something reckless, before I let myself imagine closing the distance between us.
Soon.
I pull my phone from my pocket and type a single line before sending it.
Me: Still tracking.
This was never supposed to be personal. But watching them together, I understand one thing with absolute clarity.
This is no longer just business.