Chapter 8 Parker
PARKER
Iwatch my reflection in the mirror like I’m looking at a stranger wearing my face, this creature draped in barely-there black mesh and crimson silk that clings to curves I’ve spent years hiding beneath oversized sweaters and safe, sensible dresses.
The costume — if you can call something this scandalous a costume — leaves nothing to imagination, every line of my body exposed through strategic panels of sheer fabric that catch the light like smoke, the deep V plunging between my breasts held together by a single rhinestone clasp that feels like it might give way if I breathe too deeply.
My hands tremble as I smooth them over my hips, feeling the delicate straps that crisscross my thighs, the way the material rides high enough to make my legs look endless, and I can’t reconcile this image with the woman who stood in a boardroom three days ago, pitching vibrators to executives while pretending her hands weren’t shaking beneath the conference table.
The air tastes like hairspray and anticipation, thick with the vanilla-sweet fog from the machines they’re testing in the ballroom next door, and I can hear the bass from the sound check thrumming through the walls like a secondary heartbeat that makes my stomach flip.
Stage lights are already warming somewhere beyond these walls, that particular electric heat that makes everything feel both too real and completely surreal, and I press my palms flat against my abdomen, trying to steady the wild flutter beneath my ribs.
This is insane — standing here in what amounts to lingerie, about to dance in front of a room full of people who’ve known me since I wore pigtails and skinned knees, about to perform something explicitly sexual when I’ve never even.
..God, if they knew. If anyone in that room knew that Parker Carter, twenty-eight years old, Columbia and USC graduate, successful professional woman, has never actually been touched by anyone, never let anyone close enough to discover what lies beneath the armor of competence and control I wear like a second skin.
I find Rochelle adjusting her own costume near the vanity station, her reflection catching mine in the mirror as I approach, and something in my expression must give me away because she turns immediately, eyebrows rising as she takes in what must be pure panic bleeding through my carefully applied makeup.
“I need to change the staging for my section,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel, that same professional tone I use when negotiating contracts, when pretending I belong in rooms full of people who don’t know I’m drowning. “Three benches instead of one chair.”
She blinks, her perfectly lined eyes widening as she processes what I’m saying, the logistics of it clearly spinning through her mind like calculations. “Wait — three? You’re only supposed to dance for one person, that’s the whole point of the—”
“Three benches arranged in a circle on my platform, or I have to drop out entirely.” The words come out firm, final, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite argument even as my pulse races beneath the thin strap at my throat.
“I won’t do that to Sienna; she’s been planning this for months, but this is non-negotiable. ”
Rochelle studies me for a long moment, something flickering in her expression that might be understanding or might be suspicion, then she grabs the stage manager’s headset from the counter and starts rattling off instructions about platform six needing three curved benches instead of a single chair, ignoring his protests about last-minute changes.
When she’s done, she turns back to me with that particular look that means she knows there’s a story here, but she’s choosing not to dig — yet.
“Do you need to rehearse with the new setup? We have maybe ten minutes before—”
“No.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of my hair against my bare shoulders where they’ve curled it into waves that smell like heat and product. “I’ll improvise that part.”
“Girl,” she says, her voice dropping into that warning tone that’s half amusement, half genuine concern, “this better not cause chaos. Charles will literally murder me if something goes wrong with his baby sister’s performance.”
Five minutes later, we’re gathered in the staging area like soldiers before battle, all of us ridiculous and gorgeous in our matching costumes with slight variations — Sienna’s has white accents for the bride, mine has the deepest red, the others in various shades between.
The energy crackles between us like static electricity, nervous giggles and last-minute touch-ups, someone’s hands shaking as they reapply lip gloss, and Madison’s going on about how she couldn’t find any of the actual groomsmen after rehearsal, how they had to substitute with Charles’s college friends for the audience participation section.
“I wanted the tattooed one,” Jen complains, adjusting her cleavage in the mirror one final time. “But they all just vanished, like they knew we were coming for them.”
My stomach clenches even as I force myself to smile, to nod along like I’m just as disappointed, like my entire body isn’t vibrating with the knowledge of what I’m about to do.
My palms are slick with sweat despite the powder I dusted on them, my heartbeat so loud I’m certain everyone can hear it over the music bleeding through the walls, and every instinct screams at me to run — to fake an injury, claim sudden illness, crawl back to my suite and hide beneath the Egyptian cotton until this week ends and I can flee back to California where no one looks at me like they’re trying to solve an equation written in my bones.
But Sienna’s glowing beside me, radiant with excitement and love and the kind of joy that makes everything else feel small, and I won’t be the reason that light dims even for a second.
The transition happens too fast — suddenly, we’re walking into the ballroom that’s been transformed into something that belongs in a fever dream, all purple lights and smoke that curls around our ankles like beckoning fingers, the crowd already drunk and roaring as Charles takes the microphone with that easy confidence that makes him a natural leader.
“Ladies, gentlemen!” Charles’s voice booms through the speakers, already three drinks in and loving every second of this.
“Before you get too comfortable, my beautiful bride-to-be has prepared something that’s going to make you question your life choices.
And yes, that includes you, Marcus — put down that whiskey, you’re going to need both hands free to clutch your pearls. ”
The crowd roars with laughter, someone yells something inappropriate, and Charles grins wider.
“Now, I’ve been told there are rules,” he continues, pacing the stage like a ringmaster.
“No touching unless invited, no pictures — looking at you, Derek — and absolutely no marriage proposals. That last one’s specifically for you, Ryan.
We all remember Vegas.” More laughter, more catcalls.
“So without further ado, I present the future Mrs. Carter and her absolutely devastating bridesmaids. Gentlemen...try to survive this.”
The curtain rises, and the music hits like a physical force, bass so deep it reverberates through my chest cavity and makes my bones ache.
The stage lights blaze down, their heat immediate and overwhelming, turning the air thick and electric.
I can taste the vanilla-sweet fog from the smoke machines on my tongue, feel it curling around my ankles as six circular platforms rise from the floor.
My body moves with the choreography, but I’m hyperaware of everything.
The sheer panels of my costume cling to my damp skin with each movement.
The rhinestone clasp between my breasts catches the lights and throws fractured rainbows across the stage.
The whisper of silk against my thighs as I roll my hips sends sparks of sensation straight to my core.
The crowd roars, but underneath their cheers I can hear something else. My pulse. Thundering so hard it drowns out everything else, a primal rhythm that matches the music beat for beat. My blood sings in my veins, hot and electric.
When the DJ cues the transition, my heart slams against my ribs.
The other girls descend their platforms with confident smiles, but I stand frozen at the edge of mine.
Three curved benches sit empty in a perfect circle, waiting.
I’m about to dance for three men who’ve haunted my dreams since I was seventeen.
Men who are about to see exactly what they do to me.
A hand catches mine, warm and sure, spinning me back so fast the world tilts. Cal’s amber eyes meet mine, that devastating grin spreading across his face, and the scent of his cologne cuts through the stage smoke and makes my knees weak.
“Surprise, angel,” he murmurs against my ear, and fire races down my spine.
The crowd explodes as he sweeps me up, but all I can focus on is the heat of his hands, the way his fingers press into my skin like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
Cal tosses me through the air, and I’m caught by different arms. Silas.
His hands span my ribs, broad and warm through the mesh of my costume, and his laugh rumbles through his chest into mine.
For a heartbeat, he holds me against him, and I catch the scent of smoke and something darker.
His eyes meet mine, storm-gray and intense, and I see raw want flicker there.
Then he’s tossing me again, this time into Jace’s steady grip.
Jace catches me like he’s been starving for this moment. His hands are sure, controlled, and when he sets me on my feet atop my platform, they linger at my waist. The heat of his palms burns through the silk. He leans close, his breath hot against my ear.
“Show me you’re not a princess,” he murmurs, his voice cutting through the bass.
The challenge ignites something wild in me. He steps back, joining Cal and Silas on the benches, and suddenly I’m trapped in a circle of pure want. Three sets of eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire.
The spotlight narrows to just us. The music transforms into something slower, heavier, more dangerous. Heat from the lights mingles with the heat radiating from their bodies, creating a cocoon of desire that makes me drunk on more than adrenaline.
I dance.
This isn’t choreography. This is something primal, something that comes from the deepest part of me. I step between the benches like I’m walking through flames, my movements liquid and predatory.
I start with Cal because he’s grinning at me, but when I approach him, his breathing goes shallow, and his knuckles turn white where he grips the bench.
I straddle him slowly, my hands sliding into his sandy hair.
It’s softer than I expected, warm from the stage lights.
His pupils blow wide, and when I roll my body against his, I feel his sharp intake of breath.
His hands fly to my thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. His fingers press into the soft flesh just below the costume’s edge, and the contact sends electricity racing through my entire nervous system.
“Fuck, Parker,” he breathes, and the word sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
I arch back, and his amber eyes go dark with want. His fingers flex against my skin like he’s fighting not to pull me closer. When I pull away, he makes a sound low in his throat that I feel in my bones.
Silas watches me approach with those storm-gray eyes that see straight through me. His hands rest on his knees, but I can see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw ticks as I come closer.
I take his hand and bring it to my cheek. His palm is warm and callused, dangerous. I guide it down my throat with agonizing slowness, over my collarbone, stopping just before the curve of my breast. His control fractures just enough for me to see the man beneath.
“Firefly,” he growls, and the nickname sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I lean in close enough that our lips almost touch, close enough to taste the whiskey on his breath, to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“Still think I’m just Charlie’s little sister?” I whisper against his mouth.
The sound he makes is half growl, half prayer. His free hand grips the bench so hard I hear the wood creak. His thumb traces my bottom lip with devastating gentleness.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he says, voice rough with restraint.
But it’s Jace who makes my desire burn into a full-blown ruin. I want to ruin him. I want him to ruin me. I want to break. Not just his control, but myself against him, like glass meeting stone — violent, inevitable, and beautiful in its destruction.
Heart pounding, world spinning, breath catching on need so fierce it feels alive — like completing an electrified circuit the moment I reach Jace.
He sits perfectly still, watching me with eyes like shattered glass. His hands are white-knuckled on the bench, every muscle locked in restraint like he’s physically holding himself back from something irreversible.
I take those clenched fists, pry them open finger by finger.
His hands are scarred, strong, and when I place them on my waist, he resists for just a moment before his grip tightens.
Possessive. Desperate. His thumbs press into the bare skin between the costume pieces, and the contact sends shockwaves through me.
My fingers card through his dark hair, tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat. I lean down until my lips brush his ear, my body pressed against his chest, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine.
“Am I still a princess, Moreau?” I whisper, letting my teeth graze his earlobe.
The growl that rips from his chest vibrates through me, primal and possessive. His hands tighten on my waist hard enough that I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow. Ten perfect fingerprints branded into my skin. His control slips completely, and I see something feral flash in his dark eyes.
“You’re mine,” he breathes against my neck, and the words sink into me like a brand.
The song builds to its crescendo, and something shifts inside me.
Some wall crumbling, some defense falling away.
The crowd screams, but all I can hear is their breathing, harsh and uneven around me.
All I can feel is the heat of their hands, the weight of their attention, the way they’re looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous and theirs.
The song ends like a thunderclap, lights cutting to black as I drop to my knees between them. My chest heaves, my entire body trembling from adrenaline and something much more dangerous.
In the darkness, with their breathing harsh around me, and the crowd screaming for more, with my skin still burning from their touch and my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.