Let us.
Think of it as considerate prepayment against our future screwups, which are pretty much guaranteed to occur.
I take care of the bartender and join Dee on the sidewalk, where she stands next to an awaiting cab. And—get this—Delores reaches out and opens the door to the taxi for me. There’s a playful gleam in her eye that makes me suspect she can read my mind. I just smile, say thanks, and get in.
The club Delores suggested is called Greenhouse, in SoHo. Although I’ve heard of it, this is the first time I’ve walked through its doors. It’s surprisingly crowded. The bar area walls and ceiling are coated with moss and lit up with blue, red, and green spotlights. The dance floor has a cave motif, with long jagged crystals hanging from the ceiling in hues of blue, purple, and pink. It’s dimly lit—shadowy—perfect for some up against the wall action. That’ll come in handy later on.
The music is loud, too noisy for any kind of conversation, but that’s fine with me. Talking is nice—action is better. We get our drinks and grab a table near the dance floor. Dee takes a sip from her glass, puts it down on the table, and gives me a sexy, “watch this” kind of smile before making a beeline for the dance floor.
I sit down at the table, lean comfortably back in the chair, knees spread, content to caress her with my eyes for now. She closes her eyes and rocks her head in time with the beat of the music. Her hips sway, and her arms rise over her head. The blue and pink lights dance over her hair—lighting her up—making her seem magical. The music gets faster, louder, and Dee keeps up. Shaking her shoulders and her ass, bending her knees and sinking toward the floor, before swirling back upward.
She knows how to move, and it makes me want her more. I glance around and notice Delores has gained the attention of several guys—make that every guy—in the club. They watch her dance with appreciative, slimy smiles on their faces and hoping-to-tap-that gleams in their eyes.
I’m not usually a possessive person. I’ve gone to clubs with girls before and ended the evening with both of us leaving with someone else. It’s par for the course.
But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shove the first f**ker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It pisses me off that they’re even looking at her—that she’s fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.
Maybe I feel like this because I haven’t screwed her yet. Maybe I don’t want to share a dessert I haven’t gotten to taste.
Or maybe, it’s because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can’t yet explain. What I know about her, I like—a lot—and there’s a part of me I haven’t consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.
The music changes as I stand. “Wake Me Up” by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.
The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee’s body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket—pulling her gently back against me.
She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it’s me. And she smiles.
She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, which hardened the moment she started dancing.
I think she feels it—she must.
She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.
If feels fan-fucking-tastic.
I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.
I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a good dancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.
I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind—thank Christ—but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.
Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a f**king pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.
For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.
The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.
I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.
When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.