Chapter 2: The VIP Booth
The memory of the beach, of Niall’s easy grin and the salt on his tongue, lingered on Emery’s skin like a phantom sunburn. A week had passed, but the feeling hadn’t faded; it had just simmered, a low heat in her blood that she carried with her into the throbbing heart of the city’s nightlife.
The club was a different animal entirely. Where the ocean’s rhythm had been a gentle constant, here the bass was a physical assault, a pounding that vibrated up through the soles of her feet. Strobe lights sliced the smoke-filled air, carving fleeting glimpses of anonymous, moving bodies. She was somewhere near the bar, a slick surface crowded with condensation-ringed glasses, when she felt the weight of a stare.
It wasn’t a casual glance. It was a targeting.
She turned, a slow sip of her vodka tonic at her lips. He was leaning against a pillar in the raised VIP section, separate from but dominating the chaos below. Dark hair, eyes that seemed to absorb the fractured light rather than reflect it. He held a bottle of beer loosely, his gaze tracking her with an unnerving, complete focus. He wasn’t smiling. It was the look of a man who had seen what he wanted and was already calculating the simplest route to take it.
A familiar, reckless thrill shot through her. Why not?
She held his stare for a three-count, then turned back to the bar, letting her hips find the beat of the music. She danced alone, a slow, fluid roll of her body, her short black dress riding higher with each shift. The fabric hugged her thighs, and she knew without looking that he was watching every inch of exposed skin.
She didn’t hear him approach over the noise. She felt him. A presence at her back, solid and immovable as the pillar he’d left. A large hand settled on her waist, fingers splaying possessively. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice a graveled rumble she felt more than heard.
“You’re dancing like you’re trying to start a war.”
She leaned back into him, the hard planes of his chest meeting her spine. “Maybe I am.”
“I’m declaring peace,” he said, and his hand slid from her waist to her wrist, his grip firm. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a question. He led her, not asking, cutting a path through the crowd with a sheer, confident authority. They reached the curtained-off VIP booth, a plush, dark cave relative to the frenzy outside. He pushed her inside and the heavy velvet fell closed, muting the music to a dull, rhythmic throb.
“Derek,” he said, by way of introduction, his eyes sweeping over her.
“Emery.”
“I know.” He took her drink from her hand, set it on a low table. “I watched you come in.”
Before she could reply, he was moving. He guided her to the center of the wide, empty booth, his hands on her shoulders turning her away from him. Then he applied pressure, gentle but inexorable, until she was kneeling on the plush seating, facing the back wall. Her breath hitched.
“What are you—“
His hands smoothed up the backs of her thighs, pushing the hem of her dress up. Cool air hit her skin. He gathered the material at her waist, bunching it there, leaving her completely bare from the waist down. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The adventure had started when she chose the dress.
A low, appreciative sound came from behind her. “Fuck. Look at you.”
His thumb brushed over her, a rough, casual stroke through her folds. She was already wet, slick from the anticipation, from the dance, from the sheer audacity of it.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Knew you would be.”
Then he was on his knees behind her. She heard the clink of his belt buckle hitting the floor. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back towards the edge of the seat. His mouth was on her, hot and demanding, but not where she expected. He licked a brutal, wet stripe from her clit straight up to the tight pucker of her asshole, circling it with a blunt, insistent pressure.
She gasped, her hands flying out to brace against the wall. “Derek—”
“Quiet.” He said it without malice, a simple command. He returned his attention to her cunt, his tongue delving deep, fucking her with it, his nose pressed against her clit. He ate her with a single-minded intensity, one hand sneaking around to pinch and roll her nipple through the thin dress fabric. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built with terrifying speed. Her knees trembled. She was moaning, low sounds she couldn’t suppress.
Just as the first tremors of an orgasm began to gather, he stopped. He stood up. She heard the rip of a foil packet, the slick sound of him rolling a condom on.
He didn’t guide himself. He didn’t ask. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged against her, not at her entrance, but higher, against that other, tighter ring of muscle. He spat, a crude, wet sound, and the fluid landed there, mixing with the wetness from his mouth.
“No,” she breathed, a thrill of fear and wanting lancing through her.
“Yes.” His voice was iron. He pressed forward.
It was a slow, burning invasion. A stretch so intense it stole the air from her lungs. He pushed past the initial resistance with a steady, relentless pressure, burying himself inside her to the hilt in one long, devastating slide. She cried out, a raw, ragged sound, as he filled her completely, a searing fullness that was almost too much.
He held there, letting her adjust, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips. “Every inch,” he grunted. “You take every fucking inch.”
Then he moved. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home. The force of it drove her forward, her cheek smashing against the velvet wall. He set a punishing, possessive rhythm from the start, each thrust a raw claiming. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin, his ragged breaths, her own choked whimpers.
One of his hands left her hip and clamped over her mouth, muffling her completely. The other stayed, holding her in place as he pounded into her. The strobe lights from the main floor bled through the curtain seams, flashing over their joined bodies in disjointed, strobed glimpses—a hand on pale skin, the sweat-slick curve of his back, her eyes wide and dark over his smothering fingers.
“This is what you wanted,” he growled into her ear, his hips never faltering. “Dancing like that. This is what it gets you.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only feel. The pain had melted into a deep, brutal pleasure, radiating from where he was joined to her, spreading through her core. She was hurtling towards the edge, her cunt clenching rhythmically around his driving length.
“Come,” he ordered, his voice fraying. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command, the sheer dominance of it, tipped her over. She shattered, the orgasm wracking her body in violent, silent waves, her internal muscles milking him desperately. With a final, guttural groan, he followed, burying himself as deep as he could go, his own release shuddering through him.
He stayed there for a long moment, his weight heavy on her, his hand still over her mouth. Slowly, his breathing began to even. He pulled out, the loss of him making her feel suddenly, achingly empty. He disposed of the condom, tugged her dress back down.
When he turned her around, his expression had shifted. The ruthless intensity was gone, replaced by a look of satisfied, almost playful curiosity. He wiped a thumb under her eye, catching a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice now just a rough, casual baritone.
She nodded, her legs unsteady as she found her footing on the floor. “Yeah.”
He handed her the forgotten vodka tonic. She took a long drink, the ice melted, the liquid lukewarm.
“So, Emery,” he said, leaning back against the booth, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the first hint of a real smile. “You taste like coconut. You always taste like coconut, or was that just for the beach?”
Her head snapped up. He knew about Niall. Of course he did. The thrill returned, colder and more complicated now. She finished the drink, set the glass down with a definitive click.
“It’s just sunscreen,” she said, and her smile felt like a challenge.