Chapter 16: A dance given freely
The muffled thrum of the city outside Roxy’s apartment felt distant, irrelevant. The only symphony now was the soft rasp of vinyl against cotton, the shallow catch of breath, and the relentless, comforting thump of Billy’s heart beneath Roxy’s ear. Dust motes drifted lazily in the single shaft of lamplight cutting through the gloom, catching like tiny sparks on the sleek black planes of Roxy’s suit. The remnants of triumph, fear, and cheap beer had dissolved, leaving a quiet, humming intimacy that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
Billy’s hand moved slowly, tracing the curve of Roxy’s arm where it lay draped across his chest. His touch was warm through the cool latex, a deliberate, exploring glide from the strong slope of her shoulder, over the defined muscle of her bicep, down to the delicate joint of her elbow. He savored the smoothness beneath his fingertips, the subtle flex of her muscle responding, not with the calculated tension of performance, but with a yielding trust. His palm slid upwards again, this time skimming the side of her neck, the vulnerable column exposed by the high collar of her suit. His thumb brushed the sharp line of her jaw, rough against the flawless, artificial skin. Then, gently, his fingers traced the curve of her skull beneath the tight-fitting hood, a slow, possessive caress through the slick material.
Roxy stirred against him, lifting her head from its nest beneath his collarbone. Her masked face tilted up, searching his eyes in the dim light. The opaque lenses hid hers, but the tilt of her head, the slight part of her lips within the mouth opening, spoke volumes. No words were needed. She leaned up.
Their lips met again. Not a collision, but a homecoming. This kiss didn't break. It deepened, became a wordless conversation. A slow tasting. An exploration. His lips moved against hers, soft and seeking, feeling the slight resistance and yielding of the latex around her mouth, the warmth of her breath mingling with his. Hers pressed back with matching intensity, conveying everything words failed to: the relief of walls finally crumbling, the fierce protectiveness ignited by his defense against Deborah, the terrifying, exhilarating leap into this unexpected vulnerability. His hand remained cradling her head, fingers tangling gently at the base of her hood, grounding her, anchoring them both.
Shifting her weight, Roxy slid one long leg across Billy’s lap. The vinyl made a soft, slick sound against his jeans. His hand, still on her head, didn’t stop her. Instead, it slid down, following the line of her back, over the dip of her waist, to rest on the latex covering her thigh where it now lay heavily across him. His touch wasn't demanding; it was grounding. He began to rub her calf and thigh slowly, deeply. Not the teasing glide of a paid performance, but a firm, loving knead that sought the muscle beneath the costume, tracing the powerful curve of her leg with a reverence that spoke of discovery and deep affection. He felt the tension slowly ebb from her, replaced by a languid warmth that mirrored the heat building low in his own belly.
The kissing continued, a slow, drugging rhythm. Passionate, yes, a current of raw desire unmistakable beneath the surface, but overlaid with a profound tenderness that was entirely new. It wasn't frantic; it was a deliberate savoring, a mutual claiming. The air thickened. The scent of old paper, dust, and vinyl was now underscored by the musk of their arousal, a primal counterpoint to the tenderness.
"Enjoying this underlayer?" Roxy murmured against his lips, her voice a low rasp thick with emotion. Her hand, clad in the same cool, slick latex, slid deliberately down from where it rested on his chest. It traced the hard line of his thigh muscle through the denim, then drifted inward, higher. Her fingers brushed lightly, possessively, over the taut denim covering the distinct bulge of his erection. The contrast of the cool material against the intense heat trapped beneath was electric. She didn't grab, didn't tease like she might have for a client. She simply rested her palm over him, claiming the evidence of his desire with a quiet certainty.
"This feels right," Billy breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to speak, his gaze locked onto the dark lenses inches from his own. His voice was rough with feeling. "Loving." He emphasized the word, sealing it with another slow, deep kiss, his hand tightening slightly on her thigh.
In one fluid, powerful motion, Roxy swung her body. Her knees dug into the worn velvet cushions on either side of Billy’s hips, settling her weight fully astride him. The catsuit amplified her feline grace, the material pulling taut over her curves as she loomed over him, an elegant silhouette against the dim lamplight. Her strength, usually wielded with calculated precision, was now offered openly, a gift. She brought both hands up, framing his face. The cool, smooth latex pressed against his temples, his cheeks, sending undeniable chills cascading down his spine, a delicious counterpoint to the heat pooling within. She held his gaze, a silent question, a profound offering in her posture.
She bent down. Their lips met once more, reigniting the slow, deep rhythm. As she kissed him, a deep, deliberate kiss that tasted of shared vulnerability and burgeoning need, she began to rock. Slowly. Hips shifting minutely against his lap, seeking friction, creating it. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against the slick mound of her sex through the layers of latex and denim. It wasn't the exaggerated grind of a club performance. It was slower, deeper, more intimate. A silent communication of wanting, amplified by the gentle, insistent pressure.
This wasn't a transaction. Not a VIP fantasy bought and paid for. This intimacy bloomed freely from the fierce, wounded heart Roxy had guarded for so long, a gift offered solely to the man who had seen her – truly seen her – and fought for her. It was warmth offered to thaw his own hidden cold places, a connection sparked in defiance and nurtured in the shared wreckage Deborah Vance had tried to leave behind. The air crackled with it: a slow, passionate burn, building not towards a frantic climax, but towards a deeper, more terrifying, and utterly necessary fusion.
The slow rock of Roxy’s hips against Billy’s lap sent electric shocks radiating through him, the slick vinyl amplifying every minute shift. Her breath hitched against his mouth, a soft gasp swallowed by their deepening kiss. The cool, artificial smoothness of the suit pressed against his heated skin was a thrilling paradox, a barrier he suddenly ached to breach.
He broke the kiss, needing air, needing to see the lenses hiding her eyes. "Rox..." His voice scraped raw, a mix of awe and restraint. "This… the suit…" He trailed off, unsure how to voice the question without breaking the spell. His hands rested lightly on her vinyl-clad waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over her hip bones.
Roxy stilled above him, her latex-covered palm flattening against his pounding chest. "Shhh." Her voice was a low hum, vibrating through him. "Been armor." She tilted her head, the dim light catching the edge of her mask. "Too long." A profound vulnerability shimmered beneath the whisper. "Need you to see." Her fingers drifted upwards, brushing the high, stiff collar sealing her neck.
Billy held his breath. This wasn't a performance peel. This was an unveiling. She caught his gaze, held it fiercely. "Just you, Billy. Not the asset." The words were a raw plea and a declaration. Her other hand joined the first, finding the tiny, concealed zip nestled beneath the sharp angle of her jawline. The sound was startlingly loud in the charged quiet: a sharp, precise snick as the clasp released.
The tension coiled tighter than a spring. Her fingers, trembling almost imperceptibly, hooked beneath the rigid collar edge. She took a shaky breath, the vinyl stretching taut across her chest as she inhaled. Then, with deliberate, agonizing slowness, she began to peel. The sound was visceral – a soft, sticky ssshhhlllick as the material yielded, separating from the heated skin beneath. A sliver of pale, vulnerable flesh appeared at her throat, stark against the surrounding black armor. Sweat-damp tendrils of her real hair escaped the hood's edge. The scent shifted abruptly – the sterile vinyl smell mingling now with the intimate salt-skin musk of her.
Billy's hands flew to her hips, fingers digging into the yielding vinyl, anchoring himself as much as holding her. He watched, mesmerized, as the peeling continued downwards, revealing the delicate hollow of her throat, the sharp line of her collarbone. Every inch revealed was a silent scream of trust, a dismantling of her last defense. The lamplight glistened on the newly bared skin. Roxy paused, her breath coming faster, the hood still covering her head and face, the mask intact. Her exposed throat worked as she swallowed hard. Her gaze, still hidden behind the dark lenses, remained locked onto his, waiting. The peeling stopped, a fragile moment suspended. The city hummed outside. Inside, the air vibrated with the terrifying, exquisite promise of skin meeting skin.
The sticky ssshhhlllick hung in the air like a held breath. Roxy’s fingers trembled against the stiff vinyl edge, peeling it down another inch, revealing the smooth, sweat-sheened plane of her sternum. Billy’s thumbs dug harder into her hips, his knuckles white, every nerve ending screaming to touch the newly exposed skin but held back by the sheer weight of her vulnerability. The dim lamplight caught the faint tracery of a faded scar just below her collarbone, a story he didn’t know yet.
“God, Rox,” Billy breathed, the words rough gravel. He watched a bead of sweat trace a path down her throat, disappearing into the dark cleft slowly being unveiled. The sterile vinyl scent was losing ground to the intimate warmth of her, salt and musk and something uniquely Roxy, a smell that punched through the apartment’s dust and old paper. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the movement hypnotic.
Her hidden gaze felt like a physical pressure. “Too much?” she asked, her voice a tight rasp. It wasn’t coyness; it was a raw check-in, the performer stripped bare in more ways than one.
“No.” His reply was instant, absolute. He lifted one hand from her hip, slowly, telegraphing the movement. His fingers hovered centimeters from the pale skin of her collarbone, feeling the heat radiating off her. “Just… never seen this map before.” His calloused fingertip finally, infinitely gently, traced the line of the old scar. “Where’d this lead?”
She sucked in a sharp breath at his touch, a tiny shudder running through her. “Bike crash. Fifteen. Before the armor.” A ghost of her usual smirk touched her lips, visible below the mask’s edge. “Learned the hard way skin doesn’t bounce.” Her own hand resumed its downward journey, peeling the suit another fraction. The peeling sound was less sticky now, the tension easing as more skin surrendered to the air. “You gotta promise not to laugh at the freckles.”
He huffed a soft, incredulous laugh, his thumb gently circling the scar. “Freckles? Pretty sure that’s the least terrifying thing about you right now.” His gaze swept down, taking in the expanding V of exposed skin, the curve of her breast just hinted at beneath the taut black material still clinging stubbornly. The city’s distant hum was a dull throb beneath the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Her skin was luminous in the low light, a stark canvas against the artificial black.
Roxy’s breath hitched again as his thumb brushed the sensitive skin just above the suit’s edge. Her other hand, which had been braced on his shoulder, slid down his chest. Her latex-covered fingers found the hem of his worn t-shirt, hooking into it. “This feels… uneven,” she murmured, her voice gaining a thread of her old, defiant spark. The spark that had ignited when he defended her. The spark that fueled their revenge. “Your turn to peel back a layer, cowboy.” She tugged the shirt lightly upwards, her hidden eyes daring him. “Show me yours.”
Billy held her gaze, the challenge a welcome anchor in the swirling intensity. He released her hip completely, raising his arms slightly. “Fair’s fair.” His voice was steadier now, grounded by her familiar fire. He grabbed the back of his shirt collar, pulling it up and over his head in one swift motion, the fabric rasping against his skin. He tossed it aside, baring his own torso to the dim, close air. Scars mapped his own history – a puckered line on his ribs, the faded evidence of old burns on his shoulder, the defined planes of muscle earned through hard labor, not vanity.
Roxy went utterly still astride him. Her gaze, hidden but palpable, swept over his chest, lingering on the scars, the defined lines. The cool vinyl of her suit against his bare skin was a shock, then a thrilling contrast. Her latex-clad hand lifted, hovering over the burn scar on his shoulder. “PlastiqueFantastique’s ‘safety protocols’?” she asked, her voice a low thrum. Her finger traced the edge of the scar, a feather-light, cool touch that sent sparks skittering down his spine.
“Third week,” he confirmed, a grim twist to his lips. “Faulty regulator on a prop flame unit. Deborah called it a ‘learning opportunity’.” He covered her latex hand with his own, pressing her cool palm flat against the old mark. Her skin felt impossibly hot beneath the slick material. “Yours is prettier.”
That earned a genuine, low chuckle from her, a rich vibration he felt where their bodies met. “Flatterer.” Her hand shifted under his, her fingers exploring the ridge of his collarbone, the dip at the base of his throat. The slow, deliberate stroke was pure Roxy – assessing, claiming. Her other hand, still hooked into the parted vinyl at her sternum, moved again. Not peeling downwards this time, but searching sideways along the inner seam, towards the center.
Her eyes, hidden behind the dark lenses, locked onto his. The playful spark was still there, but beneath it ran a deep, molten current of intent. Her fingers found the tiny, concealed metal tab nestled between her breasts, just below the peeling edge of the suit.
ZIPPER SLOWLY DESCENDS
The sound was different now – a soft, metallic zzzip that seemed unnaturally loud, a counterpoint to their ragged breathing. It wasn't the sticky peel of release, but the deliberate, controlled yielding of a final barrier. Inch by deliberate inch, the teeth disengaged. The parted vinyl edges gaped wider, revealing a tantalizing sliver of smooth, pale skin descending towards her navel. The lamplight caught the faint sheen of sweat, the subtle ripple of muscle beneath the surface. The zipper descended past the sternum, past the curve where her ribs met her abdomen, moving with agonizing, deliberate slowness under her guiding fingers.
Roxy sits on Billy’s lap
The zipper descended past the sternum, past the curve where her ribs met her abdomen, moving with agonizing, deliberate slowness under her guiding fingers. Each tiny zzzip echoed like a gunshot in their shared breathlessness. The parted edges of the rigid catsuit peeled back, revealing a widening V of skin impossibly pale in the gloom, slick with a fine sheen of sweat. Billy’s gaze was locked, unblinking, on the path her fingers traced, the tension coiling tighter than a spring in his gut.
Her breathing hitched, her chest rising sharply. The zipper reached the smooth, taut plane just above her navel. It stopped. Roxy’s hidden gaze burned into his. Her fingers, still clad in sleek black, rested lightly on the metal tab. "This part," she murmured, her voice scraping low, "isn't armor anymore." It wasn't an invitation, not exactly. More a statement of fact. A line about to be irrevocably crossed.
Billy swallowed hard, the sound loud in his own ears. He saw the faint tremor in her hand. The vulnerability wasn't just skin deep; it vibrated in the air between them, thick as the dust motes dancing in the lamplight. He lifted his own hand, slowly, palm open, hovering near the exposed skin but not touching. An offering of space, a mirror of her control. "Your map, Rox," he breathed, his voice rough. "Show me where it leads."
A ghost of her old defiance flickered – the tilt of her masked head, the faintest curve beneath the mouth opening. Then, with a final, decisive tug, she pulled the zipper down the last crucial inches. The stiff vinyl parted completely, peeling wide open from throat to navel. The cool apartment air washed over newly exposed skin. And there they were.
Roxy bared her breasts.
No flourish, no performance tease. Just simple, breathtaking exposure. The lamplight caught the soft, pale curves, the delicate pink of her nipples hardening instantly against the sudden coolness. Sweat glistened in the valley between them, tracing paths over smooth skin. Small, scattered freckles, like constellations he’d never known, dotted the upper slopes. The faint, puckered scar from her bike crash lay just below her left collarbone, a stark reminder of the vulnerability beneath the vinyl shell. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths, the only movement in the sudden, charged stillness.
Billy’s breath stalled in his throat. It wasn't just the nakedness; it was the profound offering of it. This fierce, guarded woman, whose entire persona was crafted behind layers of latex and performance, laid utterly bare before him. Not as Fantasy Catwoman, but as Roxy. The raw honesty of it punched through him, sharper than any catalyst buzz. His hovering hand trembled.
"See?" Roxy whispered. Her voice held a complex mix: defiance battling a raw, terrifying openness. She didn't cover herself. Her gaze, unseen behind the dark lenses, remained fixed on his face, watching every micro-expression flicker across it – the awe, the reverence, the sheer, overwhelming seeing. "Freckles and all." A shaky attempt at her usual dry tone, undercut by the tremor beneath it.
He finally moved. Not to grab, not to possess, but to trace. His calloused thumb, rough against her impossibly smooth skin, gently brushed the old scar. "Told you," he murmured, his voice thick. "Prettier than mine." His touch drifted lower, feather-light, tracing the curve just below her collarbone, feeling the frantic thrum of her pulse beneath his fingertip. The heat radiating from her was intense, a furnace banked beneath cool skin.
Her breath caught again as his touch grazed the sensitive swell. A tiny, involuntary sound escaped her lips. Her latex-clad hand shot up, not to push him away, but to grasp his wrist. Not stopping him. Anchoring him. Her grip was strong, urgent. "Billy..." His name was a ragged exhale, stripped of all artifice. The cool vinyl of her fingers against his bare skin was a shocking counterpoint. She guided his hand lower, pressing his rough palm firmly against the warm, soft weight of her breast.
The contact jolted through them both. A soft gasp, sharp and involuntary, ripped from Roxy. Her back arched minutely, pressing her flesh more fully into his touch. The heat was astonishing, the softness yielding beneath his palm yet radiating a powerful, resilient strength. His thumb instinctively swept across the taut peak, feeling it harden further beneath the rasp of his skin. She shuddered, a full-body ripple that started where his hand met her skin and vibrated down through her core where she still straddled him. Her fingers tightened on his wrist, her hidden gaze blazing into his. No words left, just the frantic beat of her pulse under his hand and the raw, open vulnerability laid bare in the lamplight.