Chapter 16: A Different Kind Of Dance
The music was a living current in the air of The Rhythm Root, and Dariana was letting it pull her under. Samuel’s hand was warm and sure in hers, his calloused fingertips a rough counterpoint to the smooth, hypnotic rhythm of the bass. They had been dancing for what felt like hours, or maybe only minutes; time had become a fluid concept, measured only in the sway of their hips and the shared heat of their bodies.
At first, the others had watched, a silent audience in the dim booth. Briv had looked relieved, Patricia wistful, Nicola analytically impressed, and Axel… unreadable, as always. But as song bled into song, their attention had drifted. Briv was now leaned close, speaking in a low murmur to Patricia, who was tracing patterns on the back of his hand. Nicola was challenging Axel to some kind of finger-wrestling game on the sticky tabletop, a competitive glint in her eye. They had become background figures, part of the bar’s ambiance, their own worries temporarily shelved.
Samuel’s movements were a language Dariana understood in her bones. It wasn’t the rigid discipline of her former dance training, but something older, more instinctual. He led not with force, but with intention, a slight shift of his weight that her body answered without her mind’s permission. His dreadlocks brushed against her shoulder as he spun her, the scent of sandalwood and sun-warmed skin filling her senses.
“You move like the music is part of you,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her ear.
“It is,” she breathed back, her head spinning as much from his proximity as from the dance. “It always has been.”
His brown eyes, usually so warm and open, now held a darker, more focused intensity. The relaxed artist was still there, but layered over him was something primal, a hunter’s patience. He watched the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the flutter of a pulse at her wrist, the subtle arch of her back as she moved.
Another song ended, and instead of letting her go, his grip on her hand tightened. The spell was momentarily broken, and a sliver of her old, calculating self returned. What are you doing? it whispered. But the whisper was faint, drowned out by the thrum of her own blood.
“Come,” Samuel said, his voice dropping so only she could hear it. It wasn’t a question. “I’ve got something to show you.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned, weaving through the scattered tables and patrons, pulling her along in his wake. She followed, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He led her past the end of the bar, down a short, poorly lit corridor that smelled of disinfectant and stale beer. A single door stood ajar, marked with a simple, gender-neutral symbol.
He pushed it open and drew her inside, clicking the lock behind them with a definitive thunk.
The bar’s bathroom was a small, utilitarian space, a stark contrast to the warmth of the main room. The walls were bare concrete, the lighting a harsh, fluorescent hum from a fixture overhead. A single sink with a tarnished mirror and a solitary stall comprised the entire room. The air was cool and still.
Before her eyes could fully adjust, Samuel had her pinned against the locked door, his body a solid, warm line against hers. The music from the bar was a distant, muffled heartbeat here, the bass a faint tremor through the floor.
“Sam,” she started, a nervous laugh bubbling in her throat. But his mouth was on her neck, hot and insistent, and the laugh died, transforming into a sharp, involuntary gasp. His hands, which had been so gentle on the dance floor, were now possessive, sliding down her sides to grip her hips, pulling her firmly against the hard ridge of his erection.
A war erupted inside her. The part of her that was always in control, the strategist, the seducer, screamed in alarm. This was too fast, too reckless. The other part, the one that had been wound tight with fear and vigilance for weeks, was screaming too, but in a different key—a raw, desperate cry for release.
He lifted his head, his breath warm on her lips. His eyes searched hers, seeing the conflict. “You okay?”
“I… I don’t know,” Dariana admitted, her voice uncharacteristically small. She looked away, focusing on a crack in the concrete wall. “What would you think of me if I have sex from the first date?”
Samuel didn’t laugh. He didn’t smirk. He simply cupped her chin, his thumb stroking her jawline, and turned her face back to his. His gaze was unwavering, serious.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble that seemed to vibrate deep within her chest. “Then it’s a good thing I want to make love with you, not sex.”
The distinction, delivered with such earnest intensity, shattered her last reservation. It wasn’t a line. It was a truth, and she felt it in the way he was looking at her—not as a conquest, but as a discovery.
“Fuck,” she whispered, the word a surrender.
That was all the permission he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers, not with practiced finesse, but with a hungry, consuming passion. It was messy and perfect. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of rum and the unique, spicy flavor of him. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands tangling in his dreadlocks, pulling him closer.
His fingers found the hem of her top and yanked it up and over her head in one fluid motion. The cool air of the bathroom hit her skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands were immediately on her, warm and rough, mapping the planes of her stomach, the subtle curve of her ribs. He unclasped her bra with a deft flick of his wrist, and it joined her top on the floor. He broke the kiss to look at her, his eyes dark with awe as he took in her small, perfect breasts, her pert nipples already pebbled tight.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on her breast, his tongue laving one nipple while his fingers rolled and pinched the other. A jolt of pure, white-hot electricity shot straight to her core, and she cried out, her head falling back against the door with a dull thud. The sensations were overwhelming, each touch a small, exquisite shock.
She fumbled with the button of his loose linen pants, her fingers clumsy with need. He helped her, pushing them down along with his underwear, his cock springing free, thick and hard and already leaking. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking his length, and he groaned into her neck, a raw, guttural sound that sent another thrill through her.
“I need you inside me, Sam. Now,” she panted, her own desire making her bold.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He turned her around, pressing her front against the cool metal of the door. His hands gripped her narrow waist, then slid down to cup the round, perfect curves of her ass through her thin leggings. He made a sound of pure appreciation.
“God, this ass,” he growled, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and panties and peeling them down to her knees in one brutal, efficient motion. The air hit her exposed skin, and she shuddered, feeling utterly vulnerable and wildly turned on.
He positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock pressing against her slick, waiting entrance. He paused for a heartbeat, a moment of suspended anticipation that was more intense than any touch.
“Tell me you want this,” he commanded, his voice thick.
“I want it,” she moaned, pushing her hips back against him. “I want your fucking cock, Sam. Give it to me.”
With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
She screamed. It was a raw, ragged sound torn from her throat, a mix of shock and overwhelming pleasure. He was so big, filling her completely, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain before tipping gloriously into ecstasy. He held himself there, deep, letting her body adjust to the sudden, delicious invasion.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunted, his voice strained. “So fucking perfect.”
Then he began to move.
It was not the gentle, rhythmic lovemaking his words had promised. It was a hard, desperate, pounding fuck. He drove into her again and again, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the small room. Each thrust sent a shockwave through her, pushing her harder against the door. She braced her hands against it, her fingers splayed, her knuckles white.
The harsh fluorescent light glinted off the sweat beading on their skin. The mirror across the room reflected a fragmented, obscene image: her body bent over, her face a mask of primal pleasure, his muscular back flexing with every powerful drive. It was raw and real and filthy, and she loved every second of it.
“Yes! Oh god, right there!” she cried out as he found a spot deep inside her that made her see stars. Her composure was gone, shattered into a million pieces. She was just a body, a vessel for sensation, meeting his every thrust with a desperate push of her own hips.
“You like that, you dirty dancer?” he grunted, his hands moving from her hips to grip her ass, spreading her cheeks wider, plunging even deeper. “You like getting fucked hard in a bathroom like a cheap slut?”
The crude words, so at odds with his earlier gentle demeanor, should have offended her. Instead, they ignited something darker, more depraved in her. They were roleplaying, shedding their civilized skins, and it was the biggest turn-on of all.
“Yes!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse. “I’m your cheap slut! Fuck me harder! Use me!”
Her words seemed to unleash something in him. A guttural roar ripped from his chest, and his pace became frantic, punishing. He leaned over her, his chest plastered to her sweaty back, his mouth on her shoulder, biting down just hard enough to mark her. The pain was a bright, sharp counterpoint to the building pleasure coiling in her belly.
“Come for me, Dariana,” he snarled into her ear, his breath hot. “Come all over my cock.”
It was the command she needed. The coil snapped. Her entire world dissolved into a blinding, white-hot explosion of sensation. Her body convulsed around him, milking his length as wave after wave of unbearable pleasure racked her frame. She screamed his name, a long, continuous sound of utter, mindless release.
Feeling her climax was his undoing. With a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he buried himself inside her and came, his own cry joining hers. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling her, and it sent another, smaller aftershock rippling through her spent body.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, slumped against the door, panting in the sudden, ringing silence. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, persistent thump of the bass. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. She winced at the sudden emptiness, her legs trembling so violently she could barely stand. He turned her around, his movements now tender, and gathered her into his arms. He held her as she shook, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her temples, her swollen lips.
They didn’t speak. There were no words for what had just happened. It existed in a space beyond language.
Eventually, they disentangled themselves and began the clumsy process of getting dressed in the cramped space. They avoided each other’s eyes in the tarnished mirror, a strange, post-coital shyness settling over them. He washed his hands at the sink; she ran a wet paper towel over the back of her neck, trying to erase the evidence.
When they were both fully dressed, looking once more like the dancer and the musician from the bar, she finally met his gaze in the mirror. His expression was soft, the intensity gone, replaced by a quiet, sated warmth.
She turned to face him, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. She reached up, straightened a bead on one of his necklaces, and then patted his chest.
“Okay,” she said, her voice back to its normal, slightly teasing cadence. “I loved it.” She leaned in, gave him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth, then unlocked the door. Before stepping out into the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting with promise and a hint of her old, mischievous self.
“Call me.”