Chapter 2: The Tease of Temptation
The warm, perfumed weight lingered, a soft, overwhelming pressure against Sarah’s cheek. The scent of vanilla body oil and sweat filled her nostrils. She felt the undeniable firmness of the flesh. A strange, paralyzing second stretched out, everything narrowing to that point of contact. Her own breath hitched, trapped in her chest.
The dancer pulled back, the bill held between her teeth like a trophy. She gave a slow, exaggerated wink just for Sarah before swaying away, her hips a metronome to the bass.
Sarah jerked back, bumping into Scott’s solid chest. A small, involuntary squeak escaped her. “Table,” she managed, her voice thin. “Now. Please.”
His hand on her hip tightened, a possessive reflex, then relaxed. “Sure.” He guided her through the press of bodies, his other hand a steadying point between her shoulder blades. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every brush of fabric, every stray glance from a patron, like a small electric shock.
They slid back into the dark cave of their booth. The vinyl was cool through her dress. Sarah grabbed her watered-down whiskey and drank, not tasting it, just needing the action. She set the glass down with a sharp clink.
Scott watched her, his eyes gleaming in the low light. He didn’t speak. He just let the noise of the club wash over them—the music, the shouts for another round, the collective murmur of desire.
“That was…” Sarah began, then shook her head. She couldn’t find a word that encompassed the shock, the intimacy, the blatant carnality of it. Her face still burned where the dancer’s breast had pressed.
“Intense?” Scott offered, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“I could feel her,” Sarah whispered, staring at her hands. “Her boobs…. And she just held them there.” She looked up at him, her expression a tumult of confusion and arousal. “You put the bill on my head.”
“I wanted you in the middle of it,” he said, simply. “Not just watching. Participating.”
“I felt like a… a table. A prop.”
“You felt like the most beautiful, flushed, turned-on centerpiece in the whole damn building.” He reached across the table, tracing the back of her knuckles with a single finger. “And you loved it. Don’t bullshit me, Sarah. I could feel you trembling.”
She didn’t deny it. She had trembled. A full-body shiver that had nothing to do with cold. The dampness between her legs was a blatant, shameful confirmation. She looked away, her gaze drifting back toward the stage where a new dancer now moved, a blur of silver hair and flesh. But she wasn’t seeing her. She was seeing Raven. The slow, consuming journey of her hands. The wet, explicit sound of her own fingers.
“I want to talk to her,” Sarah said, the words out before she could stop them.
Scott’s finger stopped its tracing. “Who? The blonde?”
“No. the dark haired one.”
A slow, deep smile spread across his face. It wasn’t smug. It was thrilled. “Yeah?”
“Just… to talk. I don’t know why.”
“I know why,” he said softly. He flagged down a passing waitress, ordered another round of whiskey, straight. The waitress gave Sarah a quick, appraising glance—the flustered woman, the confident man—and nodded.
They drank in silence for a few minutes, the alcohol finally taking the sharp, jagged edge off Sarah’s nerves, replacing it with a warmer, liquid courage. The club’s rhythm felt more familiar now, a heartbeat she was learning to sync with.
Then, she appeared.
Not on stage. Moving through the crowd near the bar. The crimson robe was tied loosely again, covering her body, but her presence cut through the haze like a razor. Her dark hair was down, a cascade over her shoulders. She was carrying a small, glittering clutch, evidently done for the night or on a break. She moved with an unbothered grace, nodding at the bartender, ignoring the lingering stares from men she passed.
Sarah’s heart kicked against her ribs. Now. Say something.
But her throat sealed shut. She just watched, frozen, as Raven accepted a glass of water from the bartender and leaned against the polished wood, surveying the room. Her eyes, those dark, absorbing pools, swept across the booths. They paused. Landed. On theirs.
On Sarah.
Raven’s head tilted, just a fraction. A flicker of recognition. Not just of a customer, but of the wide-eyed woman she’d locked onto from the stage. The one whose hand had been guided by the man’s. She took a slow sip of water, her gaze unwavering.
Scott saw it too. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the booth, a picture of relaxed invitation. “She’s coming over,” he murmured, a statement of fact.
And she was. Raven pushed off from the bar and weaved through the tables, her path direct. The robe parted slightly with her movement, offering glimpses of the lace garter belt, the sheer stockings. She stopped at the edge of their table.
“Enjoying the show?” Her voice was lower than Sarah expected, smooth, with a faint, smoky rasp. It wasn’t the performing voice. This was her.
Sarah could only nod, dumbly.
Scott recovered for them. “It was incredible. Your set was… something else.”
Raven’s eyes shifted to him, acknowledging him with a polite, professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then they slid back to Sarah. “You’re new.”
It wasn’t a question. Sarah found her voice. “Is it that obvious?”
“The deer-in-the-headlights look is a dead giveaway. The ones who are regulars, their eyes are…” She made a vague, dull gesture near her own temple. “Blank. Yours aren’t.” She gestured to the empty space on the bench beside Sarah. “Mind if I…?”
Sarah shook her head, scooting over instinctively. Raven slid in, the silk of her robe whispering against Sarah’s bare arm. Her scent—sandalwood, amber, a clean saltiness—enveloped Sarah anew, more potent than before. Up close, Sarah could see the fine details: the faint sparkle of highlighter on her cheekbones, the smudge of kohl at the corner of one eye, the natural fullness of her lips without the dark stain now.
“I’m Raven.”
“Sarah. This is Scott.”
Raven gave Scott another brief, dismissive nod. Her focus was a laser on Sarah. “So, Sarah. What brought you to the Velvet Trap on a Tuesday night? Research?” Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes were probing.
“My… idea,” Scott offered, but Raven didn’t even glance at him.
“I asked her,” Raven said softly, still looking at Sarah.
Sarah swallowed. “He suggested it. I… I wanted to see. To feel… something different.”
“And did you?” Raven’s knee brushed against Sarah’s under the table. A casual, accidental contact that wasn’t accidental at all.
“Yes.”
“What did you feel?” Raven pressed, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, a sound meant only for their little bubble. The club’s noise faded to a distant hum.
Sarah’s mind raced. She could lie. Give a platitude. But Raven’s gaze held hers, promising no judgment, only a voracious curiosity that mirrored her own. “I felt… jealous,” Sarah admitted, the truth shocking her as she said it. “Of you. Up there. The way you owned it. The way you touched yourself like it was nothing. Like it was… yours. I felt turned on and confused and… small.”
Raven listened, her expression unchanging. Then, a slow, genuine smile curved her lips. It transformed her face, making her look younger, real. “That’s honest. I like honest.” She leaned in closer. “It is mine. That’s the whole trick. It’s all mine. I’m not giving them anything they don’t pay for. The second is mine. The gasp is mine. The wetness is mine.” She let the word hang in the air between them, obscene and powerful. “They buy a ticket to watch me have it.”
Sarah felt lightheaded. The crude language, spoken in that soft, raspy voice in the middle of a public place, was more devastating than the performance. Scott was silent, a statue, watching this intimate exchange he was no longer a part of.
Raven’s eyes flicked to Scott, then back to Sarah. “He’s watching us now like it’s his favorite movie. Does that bother you?”
Sarah glanced at Scott. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight. He was utterly captivated. “No,” she breathed. “It… doesn’t.”
“Good.” Raven’s hand, which had been resting on the table, moved. It came to rest, palm up, on Sarah’s thigh. The heat was immediate, searing through the thin fabric of her dress. “Because you’re curious. I could see it from the stage. You don’t just want to watch. You want to know how it feels. To have that control.”
Sarah’s breath caught. She couldn’t speak. She just stared at the elegant hand on her leg.
“I have a private booth in the back,” Raven said, her tone becoming businesslike, though her thumb had begun a tiny, infinitesimal stroke on Sarah’s inner thigh. “Fifteen minutes is two hundred. We can talk. Or… other things. No pressure. Your call.” Her eyes finally included Scott. “Both of you. Or just her. Up to you. Most couples like to alternate who I dance on and who watches”
Scott found his voice, rough. “That might be fun, Darling?” he asks Sarah who as an answer seemed to be getting up already.
Sarah was already standing, her movements jerky with nervous energy. She didn’t look at Scott for confirmation. Her eyes were locked on the swaying crimson robe as Raven led them away from the main floor. The path wound past the restrooms, down a short, dimly lit hallway lined with black doors. The thumping bass grew muffled, replaced by the quickened rhythm of her own heart.
Raven stopped at the last door, producing a key from her clutch. The lock turned with a heavy, definitive click. She pushed it open and stepped inside, holding it for them.
The room was small, dominated by a deep, plush circular booth in blood-red velvet. A single, low-hanging lamp with a fringed shade cast a pool of amber light onto the central table. The walls were soundproofed, a fact evidenced by the sudden, near-silence that swallowed them. It smelled of stale cigarettes, old perfume, and new leather cleaner.
“Two hundred,” Raven stated, her professional persona sliding back into place as she closed the door. She leaned against it, crossing her arms. “Fifteen minutes. Clock starts when you pay.”
Scott pulled his wallet from his back pocket, the gesture smooth and practiced. He counted out crisp bills, the paper whispering. He held them out, but Raven nodded toward the table. “There’s fine.”
He placed the money on the polished wood. It looked obscene sitting there, a stark transaction. Raven didn’t move to pick it up. Her eyes were on Sarah, who hovered near the edge of the booth, looking lost.
“So,” Raven said, pushing off the door. “How do you want to do this? You want him to watch? You want to watch him?” She took a step closer to Sarah, the silk of her robe whispering. “Or do you want to know what my fingers feel like?”
Sarah’s breath hitched. The crude, direct question stripped away the last pretense. This wasn’t about talking. It had never been. “I don’t know,” she whispered.