Chapter 1: Stolen Moments in the VIP Shadows
The bass wasn’t just music; it was a physical presence, a thudding pressure in Santo’s chest that synced with the frantic pulse in his throat. Smoke machine haze coiled around laser beams, cutting the crowd into slices of gleaming sweat and shifting silhouettes. He stood frozen by a pillar, his drink warm and forgotten in his hand, his entire world narrowed to a single point across the dancefloor.
Parho.
He’d only known her name for an hour, since his mate Jaz had elbowed him and said, “See her? That’s Parho. Used to work at the betting shop on King Street, didn’t she?” A flicker of memory then—a girl with a fearless smile handing over a lottery ticket, her top lower then, too. A year ago. She looked different now. More.
Her light brown skin glowed under the strobe lights. She was wearing black leggings that looked painted on, contouring every curve of her thighs and leading his eyes up to where they disappeared under a tiny, loose crop top. The hem rode up as she danced, revealing the dusky skin of her lower back and the hint of a thong strap. Her hair, jet black and heavy, was piled in a messy bun, tendrils stuck to her neck. He watched the intricate swirls of tattoos on her arm flex as she moved. She was laughing, head thrown back, throat exposed, surrounded by a ring of guys whose eyes kept dropping to her chest.
Santo’s cock stirred, thickening against the denim of his jeans. He adjusted himself, a nervous, guilty motion. He shouldn’t be staring. But he couldn’t stop.
A man, older, with a shaved head and a neck tattoo that crawled under his collar, slid up behind her. He said something in her ear. Parho’s smile changed, turned sharper, and she nodded. The man’s hands settled on her hips, possessive, before he guided her, not off the floor, but through the crush of bodies toward the roped-off VIP section near the back. Santo followed the sway of her ass, the leggings stretching taut with each step. She was letting herself be led, one of the man’s big hands drifting up to cup her breast through her top, his thumb brushing over her nipple. Parho giggled, leaning into him.
A sick, hot jealousy coiled in Santo’s gut, mixed with a shameful, eager arousal. He shouldn’t follow. But his feet were moving before his brain could object, slipping through the crowd, finding shadow near the velvet rope. He watched as the bouncer nodded the man and Parho through.
The VIP booth was a sunken pit of plush leather couches, littered with bottles and glowing ice buckets. It was darker here, the air thicker with perfume and weed smoke. Parho was pulled down onto a central couch by the tattooed man. She landed with a soft ‘oof’, legs splaying wide. Two other men, already seated, laughed, their eyes locked on the exposed triangle of her inner thighs. The leggings left nothing to the imagination.
“Been a long week, Parho?” the first man growled, his voice slurry. He was already unbuckling his belt.
“Too long, Mik,” she purred, and the sound went straight to Santo’s dick. He was hard now, fully, painfully. He pressed himself closer to the pillar, hidden in the gloom.
Mik, the tattooed brute, didn’t waste time. He pushed her back against the leather, his mouth on her neck, one hand squeezing her tit, the other pushing up her crop top. Her tits spilled out, full and heavy, her nipples dark and erect. One of the other men, a lanky guy in a tracksuit, reached over and pinched the other nipple, twisting it. Parho gasped, but it was a gasping laugh, not a protest.
“Fuck, look at her,” Tracksuit said. “Always ready for it.”
Mik’s hand moved from her tit, down over her flat stomach, and pressed firmly between her legs, over the leggings. Parho arched her back, pushing against his palm. “Soaked already,” Mik announced to his friends. “Told you she’s a proper slag.”
The words should have felt ugly, but Santo just watched, transfixed, his hand unconsciously moving to press against the bulge in his own jeans. He’d never seen anything so raw, so openly crude.
Mik hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and her thong, and in one rough movement, yanked them both down to her mid-thighs. Parho helped, kicking them off one ankle. The dark patch of her pubic hair was exposed, and then Mik was spreading her legs wider, his thick fingers pushing into her.
“Christ,” Santo breathed, his own breath short. He could see the glistening wetness on Mik’s