CHAPTER TWENTY
The cabbie commits a dozen moving violations before depositing us a half-block from our intended destination. It’s after ten and recently dark since we’re approaching the summer solstice.
It’s still early for clubs but Stella’s not waiting around. As I said, she’s on a mission.
We dive in to the club’s darkness and spinning lights, laughing loudly, smiling hugely, and dancing like the whole scene is a party thrown in our honor.
Pretty soon it feels that way as more people crowd onto the floor. I’ve hit the perfect mix of adrenaline and alcohol that fuels total, unsloppy abandon.
There’s nothing like this in Eugene. It’s a good day when a bar can get more than a dozen people moving to the music.
Stella and I are here with hundreds, but it’s easy for me to keep track of her in that bright red dress, even as more guys separate us. I’m grinding against some guy with truly fantastic thighs beneath his denim—that’s what I hold onto as he grabs my waist, pressing his pelvis into my rear.
I just let go.
For once I’m not self-conscious, sizing myself up and wondering what everyone else thinks of my dance moves. I’m not comparing my curves to much slimmer girls like Stella. And I’m not wondering how much damage the humidity did to my flat-ironed hair.
I’m just here and feeling like a vixen in my sensible shoes and stolen/borrowed little black dress. Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing, and I’m only just discovering what I would have missed if I’d stayed in Eugene forever.
Thighs of Steel has a strong grip on me from behind while a Wall Street type presses against me from the front, smiling roguishly as his eyes trickle down my cleavage.
I fight the urge to look down at what he’s inspecting. They’re just boobs.
Wall Street pulls me closer, bringing his button down right up to my chest and I become a Beryl sandwich, swaying to the music as the guys grind against me, my dress riding higher on my thighs. I catch Stella’s eye and she gives me a thumbs up.
The music changes and Wall Street’s left hand slides from my side down to my hip on its way to my ass—the same ass Thighs of Steel is protecting like a birthright. Meanwhile, Wall Street’s right hand cruises from my arm to my breast and I flinch, unprepared for that bold move.
I feel both men’s chests harden, feel them both stand taller. I want to duck out of the line of fire—there’s definitely some kind of standoff going on that I’m not privy to, considering the fact that I can’t see Steel’s face.
Wall Street tries to take my hand to pull me away to another part of the dance floor, but Steel is one step ahead of him, spinning my hips around and wrapping me in his arms. I barely get a glimpse of his face before it’s buried in my hair, his breath tickling the side of my neck as he rocks me to the beat.
This is the most erotic dance I’ve ever experienced and I’m loving every minute of it. I love the standoff, the predators, and being the prey. It takes all of the guesswork out of it and—I’ll cop to it—I like being the prize.
The song changes again and Steel leads me off the dance floor and around a corner to the back side of the bar, where little couches with just enough room for two are strewn at angles under a red glow.
“An IPA for me and whatever she likes,” his head swivels and I’m arrested by expressive, chocolate-brown eyes looking down at me. Even in my heels, this guy is tall. And built. But I’ve got to order and I’ve forgotten the word cosmopolitan.
“I, uh,” I stutter, “a vodka-cranberry?”
The bartender nods and Steel takes both of our drinks to a couch in the furthest corner where I don’t have to shout too loudly to be heard.
“I’m Anthony,” he says, handing me my drink and offering to clink glasses. “Prost.”
“Beryl,” I tell him. “Cheers.”
“Cheryl?” he leans in, giving me his ear.
“Beryl!” I yell. “With a B!”
Anthony grins and pulls back to give me a little space, his powerful thigh solidly against mine as we sit.
I like it.
“I’m glad you picked me,” he says. “That other guy was all over you.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Guilty,” Anthony says, and has the decency to look it a little. “But at least I wasn’t grabbing at you the way he did.”
“You were grabbing me.” Why am I arguing with this guy? His short brown hair and recent shave, not to mention perfectly pressed shirt, suggest some gentlemanly qualities.
“Beryl.” His sudden intensity stops me cold. “I felt you flinch.”
I take a big gulp of my drink and drop my gaze, suddenly hyperaware of his body next to mine. Finally, I nod.
“I wasn’t trying to go all caveman on you. I just thought you deserved more respect than that.”
“And grinding is super-respectful?” I ask it before I can stuff my sensible shoe-wearing foot in my mouth.
What the hell am I doing shutting down this massive wall of man in front of me? He could go all caveman on me, throw me over his shoulder and walk us out of here. And I might like it.
Anthony grins, showing charmingly crooked but very white teeth. “I read the signs. You were into it. I never would have gotten so close if you hadn’t kept pressing that delicious rear end of yours into me.”
His expression heats and I flush, suddenly thinking about all of the regions south of my navel, rear included. Anthony takes the empty drink that I don’t remember finishing from my hand and puts it down on the table next to his nearly empty beer.
Then his hands are on me, one banded around my shoulder to bring my face within inches of his, the other resting on the bare skin above my knee.
I know it’s coming. I know it. I close my eyes and feel like I’m on a roller coaster that’s inched to the top, suspended in a weightless moment before it rushes to the bottom. I breathe in slightly and catch a hint of his cologne and soap and sweat. And something else—I don’t know if it’s pheromones or just plain man.
“Open your eyes.”
My eyes snap open and Anthony is inches from my mouth, his gaze hot and raw. My hand trails over one of his Thighs of Steel for encouragement, but that doesn’t get me kissed. It just earns another crooked grin.
“That’s no flinch,” he says, and his mouth covers mine—hungry, demanding, teasing and torturing at once. I bite his lip and it barely slows him down. His tongue strokes mine as one hand burrows deeper into my hair. His other hand glides up my thigh to my hip, pulling me closer, cupping my ass.
I’m making out with a guy in public! A hot guy!
I debate how to word my Facebook status update.
But Anthony recaptures my attention with a sharp nip on my earlobe, his tongue tracing its outer edge, and I feel a rush of heat.
I feel a lot less like a Bumpkin Fashion-toting New York newbie and a lot more like a sexy siren.
***
Anthony owns me for the rest of the night, tight against me as the dance floor crowd swells. He gives me space to dance with Stella and anyone else who approaches, so long as they mind their manners.
Stella’s found another bad boy—maybe Blayde 2.0, but decidedly not my type—and his eyes are glued to the outlines of her nipples whenever they’re not pressed chest to chest.
It’s not the place to chat, so I have no idea what Anthony does for work, how old he is, or his story. But there’s plenty of nonverbal communication and I find myself melting into the hard planes of his chest, and letting my hands explore his impressive muscles.
I take a break for the bathroom and when I’m finished, he leads me around another corner, pressing me against the wall of the club. His mouth crushes mine and I answer, feeling the electric sizzle as each part of him melds to my body.
He nips a trail of bites down my neck and I tip my hips into his, feeling his response through the denim. It’s the alcohol and the music and his hungry kisses—everything heats me from the inside out, and I feel the frozen parts of myself begin to thaw.
I don’t remember the last time someone kissed me this thoroughly, with this voracious need. Am I over Jeff? Oh, hell yes. Maybe there’s some truth to Stella’s theory.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and Anthony and I look up at once. Stella’s there, her other hand entwined with a shaggy-haired, pierced guy, and she tells me she’s leaving. She asks Anthony if he’ll see that I get home safely and he promises he will.
She’s gone and Anthony’s gaze shifts to mine, a mix of passion and intensity that steals my breath and most of my logic. His hands grip my ass and his mouth reaches me again, at first a question, and then a demand for an answer.
I wrap my arms around him tighter and let my body say yes.