He drops a hand to my knee. “Are you okay with this? You can say no.”
I know why he’s asking. This is not my thing at all. I don’t like being the centre of attention. I don’t like being touched by strange men. But Cyrus is hardly a stranger. I think we passed that point when I practically sucked his soul out of his dick.
“He’s Cyrus. My neighbor,” I whisper.
Benny’s eyes widen. “The guy that you—”
“Oh, absolutely.”
He’s frozen for a second. “Well, go get it, then!” He grabs the back of my chair and practically tips me out of it, just as Cyrus pulls up by our table. I fall right into his waiting arms.
Cyrus smiles, pushing my hair out of my face. “This okay?” He asks quietly.
I take a deep breath, then nod. He rubs his freshly-shaven cheek against mine. “C’mon, Bethie,” he says, right in my ear. “I’ll take care of you.”
And then he tosses me over his shoulder. I gasp as the bright lights of the club whirl around me. He puts a hand on the backs of my bare thighs to steady me, and I cling to the collar of his shirt as he jogs back up to the stage.
The music is louder up here, the beat pounding through the walls and floor. Cy leads me to an empty chair, right in the middle of the stage, and gently drops me into it. His cheek brushes mine as he leans in. “Okay, love?”
I nod. I’m breathing hard; a mixture of adrenaline, nerves, and arousal. I’m so turned on. He smiles, pulling back so he’s standing in front of me, and takes my hand, kissing my knuckles. On either side of me, other dancers are doing the same, stepping back and taking their partner’s hands. The music changes to something slow and sensual and throbbing. The bright lights soften to a gentle pink. A hush falls over the crowd, like they’re holding their breath in anticipation.
“Now remember, ladies—” the announcer calls into the microphone. “You can look all you want. You cantouch—” The beat thumps, and the lights flash red. Each man drags his partner’s hand down his chest. I gasp as I feel my fingers trailing over Cyrus’s heated muscles. I can feel them, hard and thrumming, even through the thin fabric of his shirt.
The announcer chuckles. “You cantouchanything that your lovely gentleman lets you. But don’t grope our poor boys, okay? Or we’ll have to tie your hands down. You don’t want that, do you?” More screams.
“That rule doesn’t apply to you,” Cyrus murmurs, his dark eyes not leaving mine. “You can touch absolutelyanythingyou like.”
I just look up at him, heat pounding through me. My stomach is squeezing. His expression flickers, pain flashing over his face.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it,” I hiss back. “I’m dying.”
His lips twist, and he tightens his grip on my fingers as the dance finally starts. Beyonce’s ‘Drunk in Love’ starts to play, and my mouth goes dry as he guides my hand to his shirt, helping me slowly unbutton it. Inch by inch, his ripped, oiled-up chest is revealed.
Next, he unknots his tie, drawing it out slowly from under his collar. I watch as the slip of fabric slides against his bare throat. He leans forward and drapes it around my neck, smoothing the fabric over my hot, oversensitized skin. I take a deep breath as he walks around the chair, coming to stand behind me, running his hands down my arms. He bends and nuzzles the curve of my neck, then braces his hands on the back of the chair and pushes himself forward. I watch the ropes of muscle in his biceps tense as he flips elegantly over the back of the chair, straddling my lap smoothly and winding his arms around my neck.
Oh. My. God.
My thoughts stop altogether as he starts to grind his hips into me, matching the heavy tempo of the music. His stiff erection rubs between my legs, deep and firm. My mouth falls open as arousal rolls through me. He’s practically fucking me through our clothes. I can’t stop myself from pushing back into him, my hips jerking uncontrollably against his.
He groans, a low, deep sound, tipping his head back. Sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat, and I just barely keep myself from leaning forward and licking it up. In perfect synchronisation with the other dancers, he slides off the chair, grabs my hands again, and brings them to his waistband, hooking my fingers under his leather belt.
“TAKE IT OFF!” A girl screams.
“GET HIS KNOB OUT!” Another joins in.
I can barely breathe. I feel like I’m about to pass out. I look up at him. He’s breathing hard, his eyes unnaturally dark. The stage lights beam around us, trapping us in a bubble of light.
“You heard them,” he says, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Take it off.”
Swallowing hard, I unclasp the buckle, sliding the thick leather belt from his belt loops and letting it fall to the ground. He takes my hands again, stroking his thumbs against my sweaty palms. My blood pulses under my skin as he guides my fingers down his naked chest, between the ridges of his hot, sweaty abs, over the fine little happy trail of dark hair—and towards the waistband on his pants.
“Pull,” he orders.
I do, giving it a gentle tug.
“Harder.”