thirteen Selena #2
He lets the mask fall back, but his voice is softer. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I think I do,” I whisper.
He presses a thumb to my jaw, tilts my face up, gentle but absolute.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I’m certain he’ll just vanish, the way men like him always do, dissolve into the dark and take all the secrets with him.
But he doesn’t. He leans in, and the mask is pressed to my cheek, cool and hard, and for a second I think he might kiss me through it. Instead, he whispers, “Next time you want a story, maybe look somewhere else,” he muses.
Madison approaches, her guy friend trailing beside her, and the four of us are caught in a perfect square of want and wariness.
She clocks Warren instantly, her eyes flicking from the tattoos to his shoes to the line of his jaw. “Friend of yours?” she asks.
He cocks an eyebrow. “We’re not friends,” he says.
For some reason, that causes my stomach to drop, which is insane because this man is definitely not my friend. For a second, I want to vanish. Instead, I push past, letting my shoulder brush Warren’s as I go. He doesn’t react, but I feel the heat of his body like an after burn.
Back at the table, Madison sits down, and Jack, I now know his name, goes to get us drinks. Madison leans in and says, “Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck happened?”
I glance around. No one is listening, but it still feels like there are ears everywhere. “I pissed off the wrong person,” I say.
Madison snorts. “He looks like he wants to eat you alive.”
“He might,” I say, and the shiver that goes through me is not entirely unpleasant.
The rest of the night blurs: dancing, drinking, the world dissolving into color and sweat, and the weight of the mask pressing against my skin.
At some point, Madison is gone, off with Jack into one of the VIP rooms. At least someone is having fun tonight.
I find myself alone, leaning over the balcony, watching the pulse of the dance floor below.
I decide to go to the restroom and walk toward the long, dark hallway. A few people are kissing along the walls, not bothering to move as I push past them.
I’m almost to the ladies' room when a hand closes on my wrist, gentle but inescapable. I turn, and Warren is there, standing in the darkness of the hallway.
He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls me close, the heat of his body radiating through my dress, and I let him. We stand like that, neither of us daring to speak. There’s a palpable sexual tension growing between us, like a love and hate relationship that is fueled by lust and need.
“Why do you do it?” he asks, lips almost touching my ear.
“Do what?” I ask, playing coy.
I know what he means. Why do I keep pushing the limits? Why do I keep coming back to Shadows?
“Why do you want this story so bad? Why do you keep pushing me?” he asks.
“Because I need it,” I reply.
My tone is heavy, and I watch as he licks his lips. Fuck, I want to kiss this man so badly.
“How bad?” he questions, cocking his head to the side.
This dance we are on is dangerous, but neither of us can stop now.
“Bad,” I say.
He walks right up to me, says nothing, just puts his hand on the back of my neck, and steers me toward the corridor. The heat of his palm is jarring—human, but also proprietary, a contact that says mine or at least not yours.
I could fight it. I don’t.
He leads me farther down a narrow hallway painted in alternating black and white slabs, an optical illusion meant to disorient.
There’s a door at the end, guarded not by a bouncer but by a keycard reader, which Warren swipes with the muscle memory of a man who has never in his life waited in line.
The door clicks and swings open, and he pulls me inside.
The room is low-lit, all angles and glass, with a couch the color of old bruises and a bar set into the far wall. There’s a window that appears to be one-way that overlooks the main club, so you can watch the world and never be watched in return.
He closes the door behind us, doesn’t let go of my neck until he’s sure I’m not going to bolt. He releases me with a flick, steps back, and strips off the jacket. Now he’s just bare skin and ink and the kind of energy that makes you forget how to blink.
“Sit,” he says, and gestures to the couch.
I sit. My heart is in my throat, and my knees are locked so tight I think they might snap.
He stands in front of me, arms crossed, eyes trained on my face. “Take off the mask.”
I do. The lace catches on my hair, and for a second, I panic that I’m going to rip it, that I’ll look ridiculous and he’ll laugh, but he doesn’t. He just waits, patient and predatory, until it’s off and I’m breathing the same air as him, raw and maskless.
He kneels, elbows on his knees, so our faces are level.
“If you want a story, I need you to do something for me,” he suggests.
My heart rate spikes, and I can feel my pussy throbbing. At this point, I would be willing to do just about anything this man asks of me. Forget the story, I’m driven by lust right now.
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice coming our hoarse.
“I want a taste.” His voice is thick and husky and it sends shivers down my spine. My pussy is drenched now and my heart is racing.
“Why?” I ask, my cheeks blushing.
I’m not a prude, but damn, this man is like sex on a stick and everything about him is a turn-on.
“You don’t get to act shy with me now.” He licks his lips and barks a laugh, teeth white and sharp. “You think I don’t know when I’m being hunted?”
I swallow, throat dry. “Is that what this is? Some weird kink for you.”
His gaze is pure heat, stripping away every layer.
“Don’t bullshit me, Selena. I read your article.
I read all your articles.” He reaches for my hand, and I flinch, but he just takes it, runs his thumb over the inside of my wrist. I want to say thank you, but it feels stupid, so I just let him keep talking.
“You write about danger like you want it to eat you alive.” His thumb is tracing my pulse, slow and deliberate.
“But you don’t know what it’s like when it does. ”
One hand trails up my thigh, inching closer to where my panties are soaked. One finger dips inside my panties, and he feels the wetness coating my entrance. I gasp as he slowly traces the curves of my lips.
He leans in, close enough that I can smell the sweat on his skin, the aftershave that’s already lost its top notes.
“So here’s your question, and you better answer it honestly: Is this what you came here for?
” He slides my hand to the side of his throat, where the tattoo wraps like a noose. I can feel his pulse racing.
I press my palm to his throat and push, just a little, and he doesn’t move. He smiles, slow and devastating, and the room contracts to the two of us.
“I’m not an angel, but I’m not the monster you portrayed me as,” he says. “If you want me to stop right now, say it.”
I nod, unable to speak. There isn’t anything that could make me want this man to stop touching me.
He pushes his finger inside of me, then two more, and I cry out in pleasure.
His touch is fire, each nerve ending lighting up like a fuse.
The rest is a blur of movement: his mouth on my collarbone, my fingers digging into his back, the thud of my skull against glass when he kisses me hard enough to bruise.
He pauses, just once, to look at me. “Have you ever done this before?”
I shake my head, no.
He grins. “Didn’t think so.”
He pumps in and out of me while trailing kisses down my chest until he reaches my boobs. He cups one of my breasts in his hand and begins licking and biting as he continues finger fucking me. The pleasure is almost too much.
“Look at you, so eager,” he says taunting me.
He’s got the power right now, and we both know it.
“We started Shadows as a way for people to explore their desires without being guilty or embarrassed,” he begins.
He pulls his fingers out of me, and I almost cry from the loss.
It takes me a second before I realize what he’s doing. He’s giving me the story and an orgasm.