Chapter 7: The Club Arrival
The velvet rope felt like a joke. Holland watched the line of people shivering in the fall air, faces pressed to the barrier of black nylon and polished brass. She felt Adam’s hand, broad and warm, settle on the small of her back. The sheer black fabric of her dress was a whisper against her skin; she knew exactly how much it revealed under the club’s strobing lights. Everything and nothing.
“Remember,” Adam said, his voice low enough that only she could hear it over the thumping bassline bleeding from the doors. “You’re here with me. Not for me.”
“Semantics, daddy,” she murmured, leaning into his touch.
The bouncer, a mountain of a man in a black suit, saw Adam and the nod was instantaneous. The rope dropped. They glided past the waiting crowd, a current of envy and speculation at their heels. Holland kept her eyes forward, her perpetual pout fixed in place. This was the currency she understood: access.
Inside, the noise was a physical thing. The bass vibrated up through the soles of her heels. The VIP section was a tiered plateau of low couches and amber light, a bubble of relative quiet in the sensory storm. A bottle of vodka sat in a crystal ice bucket on their reserved table, flanked by cut crystal tumblers.
Adam guided her to a crescent-shaped sofa upholstered in crushed velvet the color of dried blood. He sat, sprawling with an affected ease she knew was for show. He was surveying the room, not the dancers, but the other booths—assessing threats, allies, distractions.
She didn’t sit beside him. She slid directly onto his lap, her legs straddling his thighs. The sheer skirt rode up to her hips. She felt him tense beneath her.
“Champagne,” she said, tilting her head toward a passing waitress clad in barely-there latex.
“You don’t need it,” Adam said, his hands resting lightly on her bare waist. His thumbs traced the subtle ridge of her hip bones.
“I want it. One bottle. Cristal.” She pouted, grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling the hard line of his erection even through the fine wool of his trousers. “I’ll be so good.”
He watched her, his face a mask of cool appraisal. But his breathing had changed. She saw the pulse jump in his throat. “One glass.”
“You’re no fun.” She laughed, a bright, false sound, and signaled the waitress again.
The bottle arrived with theatrical ceremony. The pop of the cork was swallowed by the music. The waitress poured a single glass, set it on the table, and disappeared. Holland didn’t reach for it. She kept moving against him, a slow, circular grind that was all promise. She brought her lips to his ear. His cologne was clean, sharp, a contrast to the sweet, sweaty haze of the club.
“You’re so hard,” she whispered, her teeth grazing his earlobe. “Is it the dress? Or is it just me?”
His grip on her hips tightened. “It’s the audacity.”
She giggled, a genuine one this time, and kissed him. It was a deep, filthy kiss, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting the whiskey he’d drunk earlier. Her hand dropped between them, fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, then the button of his trousers. The zipper came down with a hushed, metallic sigh.
He broke the kiss, his forehead against hers. “Holland.”
“Shhh.” Her fingers slipped inside, wrapping around his cock. He was thick and hot in her hand, already slick at the tip. She stroked him once, twice, her thumb smearing the moisture over the head. “No one can see. The table’s in the way.”
It was mostly true. The booth was shadowed, private in its way. Anyone looking closely would see a girl in her cousin’s lap, kissing him. They wouldn’t see her hand moving in her lap. They wouldn’t see him, exposed.
Adam groaned, a raw, surrendered sound that went straight to her core. His control was paper-thin, and they both knew it. He helped her, his own hands pushing the bunched fabric of her dress and her tiny black thong out of the way. She rose up on her knees, guiding him to her entrance. She was already wet, aching with the need to feel that silence he gave her.
She sank down onto him in one smooth, devastating motion.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his head falling back against the velvet cushions.
She moaned, long and low, the sound lost in the synth-wave crash from the speakers. He filled her completely, a stretch that bordered on pain before melting into a deep, satisfying burn. She began to move, a slow, rocking ride, using the muscles in her thighs to lift and fall. His hands clamped onto her ass, fingers digging into the flesh, holding her steady, dictating the rhythm.
She buried her face in the curve of his neck, her breath coming in hot, ragged pants. The music was a meaningless thunder. All she could feel was the slick, hard push and pull of him inside her, the coarse texture of his trousers against the backs of her thighs, the desperate clutch of his hands.
“That’s it,” he growled into her hair. “Take what you want. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
She nodded, a frantic movement. It was. The champagne, the dress, the club—it was all foreplay for this moment of consumption. She was using him, and he was letting her, because using her back was the only thing keeping him from throwing her out.
His thrusts became harder, sharper, pushing up into her as she came down. The table rocked slightly. A glass trembled. She didn’t care. The coil in her belly was winding tight, a scream building in her throat. He shifted one hand, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, urgent circles.
“Come on my cock,” he demanded, his voice guttural. “Do it. I want to feel you.”
The command, the crude possession in his tone, shattered her. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around him, milking him desperately. She shook, biting down on the fabric of his shirt to stifle her cry.
Feeling her convulse around him was all it took. With a final, brutal upward drive, he came, his own release hot and pulsing deep inside her. A harsh, shattered breath escaped his lips.
For a minute, they stayed like that, locked together, breathing in the fetid, perfumed air. The sweat on her back cooled. The world, with its lights and noise, rushed back in.
Slowly, carefully, she slid off him, rearranging her dress. Her legs felt unsteady. He took care of himself, his movements efficient, practiced. He picked up the untouched glass of champagne and handed it to her.
She drank it in one gulp, the bubbles sharp on her tongue.
“Happy?” he asked, his voice restored to its usual calm, but with a new, weary edge.
She looked at him, at the faint smear of her lipstick on his mouth, at the possessive light still dark in his eyes. She thought of the penthouse, the rooftop sun, the black credit card on his dresser she’d been eyeing.
“Getting there,” she said, and set the empty glass down with a definitive click.
He watched her, a man who had crossed a line he couldn’t even see anymore, and signaled for the check.