43. Neomi
Her body is everywhere at once. Her soft skin, warm curves, and the trace of her perfume clings to me as she moves against my dress. Every sway, every grind, every brush of her breasts through the fabric sends sparks rushing through me.
My instinct is to slide my hands up her thighs, grip her waist, or to fist a handful of that red hair and drag her closer.
But I remain respectful, I’m in Lars’ place of business.
My palms stay pressed to the arms of the chair, grip tight, pretending at politeness while my body begs me to forget manners altogether.
She’s daring, bolder with me than she would be with any of the men here. Kneeling low, her mouth is a breath from the hem of my dress, her hands sliding higher than they should. Then she’s rising again, straddling me, grinding down with a pressure that steals the breath straight from my chest.
It’s intoxicating—being her focus, being seen like this. But that isn’t the only thing driving me wild.
It’s also the fact that the two men beside me are watching that makes my head spin. I can feel both of their eyes on me. The heat of it skates over my skin as surely as her hands do. Neither one of them is hiding it.
Lars surely knows the game of it all. Still, he takes me in like this moment is his to savor, like I’m something put here for him to enjoy.
And fuck me, I love it. I love when his mouth is on mine, I love that this dancer is wringing me out with every shift of her hips, and I love that Gabriel is sitting across from us, unashamed, drinking me in like I’m the fucking main event.
The song blends into another, the bass heavy, the stage lights flashing somewhere far away.
My head feels hazy with it all, overwhelming in the most delicious way.
The hands on me, the champagne in my veins, the kisses that steals my breath, and the weight of Gabriel’s gaze pressing against my skin until I’m nearly undone.
And then Lars’ voice cuts through the haze. Calm and edged with promise.
“Do you want to move to VIP?”
My chest tightens, my thighs clench, my pulse trips over itself. The air at the table changes, becoming charged and electric.
I don’t answer. My tongue is heavy in my mouth; my body is too consumed to form a word.
Then it’s Gabriel who answers. His voice is low, threaded with heat, steady enough to make my stomach flip.
“Yes.”
One word. That’s all it takes.
The dancer smiles like she knew the answer before we gave it. Lars leans back in his chair, satisfied. And I can’t tell if the fire in my chest is anticipation or surrender, because maybe it’s both.