Kai
The bar smells of smoke and sweat and bad decisions, but I don’t care.
I’ve got her beside me, sliding onto the cracked vinyl booth like she belongs here, like I didn’t ruin her body and her soul last night.
Like we’re just another couple of kids ducking into a dive for a drink, pretending we’re normal.
Her knee brushes mine under the table, a small thing, nothing intentional—but it burns through me. My hand twitches to take it, to anchor her there, to remind every bastard in this place she’s mine. But I don’t. Not yet.
She orders something sweet and weak, the kind of drink that looks like candy in a glass. I order whiskey straight, like I’m trying to cauterise the hole in my chest.
And when the waitress drops the drinks, Scarlett smiles like she’s fine, like she didn’t cry herself raw in my arms. It guts me.
It makes me want to flip the table, to drag her onto my lap and make her admit to the room what she whispers only to me.
But instead I sip the burn and force a smirk, because this is what she wants—normal.
Normal.
The word is poison on my tongue.
I lean closer, my voice just for her. “You think anyone here believes we’re normal?” My knuckles brush her thigh under the table, a slow drag that makes her shiver. “They’re staring, Scar. They can tell you’re mine.”
She shakes her head, whispering back, “They don’t know.”
“I want them to know,” I admit, teeth gritted. “I want them to choke on it.”
She laughs nervously, hiding behind her glass. The sound almost makes me forget the guilt, almost makes me believe this could work—that I could be her safe place instead of her curse.
Almost.
Because in the back of my mind, Tyler’s name is a loaded gun. And if he so much as looks at her tonight—
I take another swallow of whiskey, hard enough to feel it sear down my throat.
Not tonight.
Tonight she gets to pretend.
Her voice cuts through the noise, softer than the bass but sharp enough to slice through me.
“Dance with me.”
I shake my head once, flat, cold. “No.”
She rolls her eyes, pretending that my refusal means nothing, but I catch the twist of her lips, that wounded flicker she tries to drown in the burn of tequila. She throws back a shot, slams the glass down, and drags her tongue across her lower lip slowly, deliberate. My chest tightens.
And then she’s moving—hips swaying as she steps between my knees where I’m slouched in the booth, the air in here thick with smoke and sweat. Her hands brace on my shoulders, nails grazing my shirt as she straddles me without asking, grinding against my lap with the rhythm of the music.
A lap dance. My lap. In front of everyone.
Her hair brushes my face, her perfume swallowing me whole as her hips roll down harder. She leans close, lips at my ear.
“You don’t want to dance? Fine. Then sit still and watch me.”
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I could shove her off. I should. But every swivel of her hips drags heat through me until I’m grinding my teeth just to keep from grabbing her and snapping the little game she thinks she’s playing.
She laughs low in her throat, a cruel little sound that digs under my skin, and whispers, “You like it, Kai. Don’t you dare lie.”
Her tongue drags across her bottom lip again—slow, deliberate—like she knows exactly what it does to me. She grinds harder, her hips rolling to the rhythm, and my cock aches against the zipper, so hard it feels like it might split me open.
I grit my teeth. “Scarlett… you shouldn’t be doing this.”
She only leans in closer, her breath warm on my ear, moving against me like the music belongs to us alone.
“Not here,” I snap, voice raw, low enough only she can hear. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You want me to lose it in front of them?”
She smiles against my jaw like it’s funny, like I’m not about to break every rule we’ve been pretending to hold on to.
And I can’t take it anymore.
My hand finally lifts—fingers sliding around her waist, digging in tight. The second I touch her, she shivers, her body melting against me like she’s been waiting for it all night. I squeeze harder, pulling her down onto me, making her feel just how painfully hard I am, how close I am to snapping.
“You feel that?” I hiss, lips brushing her ear, every word a threat and a promise. “That’s what you do to me. That’s what you make me carry while you tease and grind like you’re untouchable. You shouldn’t be doing this, Scar… not here. Not anywhere.”
But my grip doesn’t loosen. It only tightens. Because now that I’ve touched her, I can’t stop.
Her hair drags across my cheek as she bends lower, her breath hot at my ear while her hips grind down slow, shameless.
The crowd behind her disappears, the music dulls into a pulse under my skin—I only feel her.
My jaw locks so tight it hurts, because if I move my hands even an inch I’ll tear her dress up around her waist and end this game in front of everyone.
She knows it. That’s why she’s smiling, that wicked little curl of her lips as she rocks harder against me, her body finding every ridge, every sharp edge she shouldn’t be anywhere near.
“Should’ve danced with me, Kai.” Her whisper is sugar-laced venom, dragging down my spine. “Now I’m dancing on you.”
My hands fist against the booth, nails digging into the cracked leather. She grinds again, sharper this time, and I can’t breathe. My throat burns with the words I don’t say—filthy promises, threats, confessions.
She leans back just enough to look at me, her eyes glittering in the dim light, daring me to break.
“You feel that?” she murmurs, cruel and soft. “You could’ve had it in the dark where no one would see. But you said no.”
Every muscle in me trembles with restraint. I’m seconds away from snapping.
Her words echo in my skull, rattling the last of my restraint loose.
My hand moves before I can stop it, sliding up the back of her thigh, fingers slipping beneath her dress.
She jolts against me, hips pressing harder like she’s daring me to go further, and I do—my hand curving over the heat between her legs.
She gasps, low enough no one else can hear, but I feel it vibrate through her body as she grinds on me, shameless, slow, filthy. The bass of the music rattles the booth, but all I can hear is her breath catching, her little whimpers against my neck.
I press two fingers along the seam of her panties, not inside, not yet—just enough to tease her clit with every roll of her hips.
She’s dancing for everyone else, but she’s breaking for me.
My cock’s hard and straining under her, and she knows it.
She moves deliberately, grinding down like she wants to wring the breath out of me, and my fingers follow, cruel, rubbing her in time with her own dirty rhythm.
“You wanted to dance, Scar?” I whisper in her ear, my voice raw. “Then fucking dance for me. Grind that little pussy on me until you can’t breathe.”
Her nails claw my shoulders, her head falling back, but she keeps moving—circling, grinding, trembling.
I keep my fingers tight against her through the lace, sliding with the wet that’s already soaking through.
The music covers the sound of my teeth gritting as I fight not to tear her apart right here.
I hook my fingers under the thin lace and shove them aside, sliding straight into the heat of her. The wet clings to me instantly, obscene, and she jolts against my chest like I’ve just lit her nerves on fire.
Her body doesn’t stop—she keeps rolling her hips, dancing like the music owns her, but it’s me she’s grinding on, me she’s breaking for. My fingers drive up into her, filling her, curling deep until her whole body clenches around me.
“Good girl,” I growl against her ear, my free hand gripping her hip, forcing her to ride my cock through my jeans while my fingers fuck her. “Dance for them—fall apart for me.”
She whimpers, muffled into my neck, but her hips don’t stop, grinding harder, faster, the filthiest rhythm in time with the bass. Every thrust of my fingers drags wet sounds out of her, swallowed by the music and the crowd, but I hear them. I feel them.
Her thighs clamp around my hand, trembling, her nails digging crescents into my skin. She’s trying to choke down the cries, trying to hide it, but I don’t let her. I press my thumb hard over her clit and curl my fingers deeper until her whole body jerks.
“Say it,” I whisper, low and lethal. “Tell me whose fingers are inside you while you dance like a fucking slut.”
Her breath hitches, her lips part, and her hips slam down on me harder, desperate, shameless.
Her whole body tightens like she’s right there, teetering, about to shatter on my fingers. I feel the pulse, the twitch of her walls begging to break around me.
And I stop.
Not completely—I keep my fingers inside her, buried deep—but I hold still, forcing her to grind down on me to chase the friction herself. The way she gasps, the panic in her throat, it makes me grin against her ear.
“Thought I was going to let you cum?” I murmur, low and razor-sharp. “Not yet, Scar. You’re gonna keep dancing. You’re gonna soak my fucking hand in front of everyone and still not get what you want.”
She whimpers, tries to roll her hips harder, but I tighten my grip on her waist and control the pace, slow, torturous. Each drag of her clit against my thumb is enough to make her sob but not enough to tip her over.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, her teeth scraping at my neck like she’s feral with need. “Please,” she breathes, broken, and I nearly lose it, but I clench my jaw, crueller for it.
“Keep begging. Louder. Let them wonder why you’re grinding on me like you’ll die without it.”
The bass rattles through the booth, but I hear the wet sounds of her cunt every time I curl my fingers, then stop just shy of giving her release. Her thighs are trembling, her body convulsing against me as she fights for something I’ll never give her yet.