Chapter 1: A Dirty Welcome
The VIP lounge at The Delights never changed. That was the point.
Rico pushed through the velvet curtain with the practiced ease of a man who owned every inch of what he surveyed. The room exhaled around them—a slow, smoky breath of whiskey and expensive perfume that clung to the back of the throat. Low-slung leather booths curved along the walls like dark animals waiting to swallow their prey. Backlit bottles glowed amber and gold behind the private bar, casting everything in a honeyed haze that made the ugliness of the outside world feel like a distant memory.
The customer behind him was new money. Rico could always tell. The way he held his wallet too tight, the way his eyes darted everywhere and landed nowhere. He'd come in asking for "the best," which meant he was either rich or stupid. Sometimes both.
"Welcome to the inner sanctum," Rico said, spreading his arms wide. His gold tooth caught the light as he grinned. "This is where the magic happens."
The man—Derek, he'd said, just Derek—nodded nervously. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something. Rico clocked him in three seconds flat: mid-thirties, married, probably never done anything wilder than a lap dance at a bachelor party. The type who'd drop five grand tonight and feel guilty about it tomorrow.
That was fine. Guilt was good for business.
Rico gestured toward the far corner where the neon pulsed blue and pink against black velvet. Candi Fontaine was already working, which was exactly why he'd brought Derek to this particular spot. She moved like water with a grudge, all fluid hips and deliberate cruelty.
The woman on the couch beneath her was some businessman's wife, rich and bored, letting Candi straddle her thighs while the dancer rolled her hips in slow, grinding circles. The wife's head tipped back, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent prayer. Candi's platinum wig caught the pink neon light and turned electric. Rhinestone pasties glittered with every sway, and that tattoo—the flaming heart on her left thigh—seemed to pulse with the bass coming through the walls.
Rico watched Derek swallow hard.
"That's Candi," Rico said, keeping his voice low, conspiratorial. "Eight years in the game. She's read more men than a shrink with a mirror fetish."
Derek's eyes didn't leave the couch. "She's... yeah."
"Best in the building. Hell, best in the city." Rico stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But you don't want the show, do you? You want the experience."
The word hung there, heavy and suggestive. Derek's jaw tightened. He was a man talking himself into something, and Rico knew exactly how to push him over the edge.
"Here's the deal," Rico continued, gesturing lazily at the room. "This whole floor is yours. The booths, the bar, any bottle you want—it's all available. For the right price, she'll give you a private dance that'll have you forgetting your own name. Champagne showers if you're feeling generous. The works."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. The bass thumped through the floor, a steady heartbeat that matched the tension building in the room.
"And if you're really serious?" Rico leaned in, his grin widening. "There's a backroom. For a man with deep pockets, a girl like Candi will do anything. Absolutely anything."
Derek's breath hitched. Rico could almost smell the anxiety bleeding off him. The man was playing a game with himself, and losing.
On the couch, Candi shifted position, her movements unhurried and deliberate. She looked up, caught Rico's eye, and gave a tiny, knowing smirk. They'd done this dance a hundred times before.
"Let me get you a drink," Rico said, clapping Derek on the shoulder. "You look like a man who could use one."
He signaled the bartender—a wiry guy name Vinny who'd been mixing drinks here for fifteen years—and leaned against the counter. Vinny slid two bourbons over without needing to be asked.
"You think you're ready for that backroom, Derek?" Rico asked, pushing a glass toward him.
Derek grabbed it like a lifeline. His hands were shaking, and he downed half the bourbon in one gulp. "I don't know. I've never... I mean, my wife—"
"Your wife doesn't have to know." Rico's voice was silk wrapped around steel. "What happens here stays here. That's the whole point."
He let that sink in, watching Derek's face shift from guilt to desire to something that looked a lot like surrender. The man was already gone. He just didn't know it yet.
Candi chose that moment to strut over, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown. She'd left the wife sprawled on the couch, dazed and smiling, and now she sidled up to Derek with the grace of a predator who'd already eaten and was looking for dessert.
"Rico. You brought me a gift?" Her voice was honey laced with gravel. She ran a finger along Derek's jaw, and he went rigid, breath catching.
"This is Derek," Rico said with an easy grin. "He's looking for the full experience."
Candi's eyes narrowed slightly, sizing the man up in one quick sweep. She saw everything—the wedding ring, the nervous energy, the way his pupils were blown wide with a cocktail of fear and want. She saw it all and fileted him with a single raised eyebrow.
"Fresh meat," she murmured, tracing the collar of his shirt. "I do love a challenge."
Derek opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He just stared at her like she was a hallucination he didn't want to wake from.
Rico clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward. "Go on. She doesn't bite." A pause. "Unless you pay extra for it."
The joke landed, and Derek let out a nervous laugh. Candi took his hand and led him toward the back, her platinum hair swishing against her bare shoulders. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Rico, and a silent message passed between them.
Got another one.
Rico stayed at the bar, nursing his bourbon, watching them disappear through the crimson curtain. He toasted himself with the glass.
Another night, another swinging dick with a fat wallet. In a city this dirty, the money never stopped flowing. And The Delights would always be ready to catch whatever fell out of their pockets.
He drained the glass and set it down with a satisfying clink. Somewhere behind the velvet, Candi was working her magic, turning fear into cash and guilt into gold.
The night was young. And the city hadn't even begun to bleed.
And the city hadn't even begun to bleed.
Rico was three bourbons deep when the commotion started near the main floor. He heard it before he saw it—the sharp, nervous laughter, the scrape of a chair, Vinny's voice rising above the bass in a tone that said trouble.
He set his glass down and moved through the curtain with the unhurried pace of a man who'd learned long ago that panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. The main floor was busier than he'd expected for a Tuesday, bodies writhing against poles and each other under the strobe lights. But his eyes found the source of the disturbance immediately.
A girl stood near the stage, all legs and wide eyes and desperate energy. She was young—too young, maybe, but the bouncer at the door had a habit of not checking IDs too closely if the tip was right. She wore a silver slip dress that looked like it had been bought at a mall two hours ago, still carrying the creases from the packaging. Her hands were shaking.
Vinny had his arm out, blocking her path. "You can't just walk back here, sweetheart. You gotta go through the proper channels."
"But I—" Her voice cracked. "I called yesterday. I talked to someone. They said to come in tonight."
Rico sized her up from across the room. Young. Green. A face that hadn't learned how to hide what it was feeling. A body that hadn't figured out the power it held yet. She was a liability, the kind of girl who got in over her head and dragged everyone down with her.
But she was also desperate. And desperate paid well.
He crossed the floor, threading through the dancers and customers with practiced ease. Vinny saw him coming and stepped aside without a word.
"Hey there," Rico said, landing in front of her with his most disarming smile. The gold tooth caught the light. "I hear you're looking for work."
The girl's eyes went wide. She swallowed, trying to compose herself. "They said to ask for Rico."
"Good. That's good." He looked her up and down, not bothering to hide it. She was trembling, but there was something underneath that—a core of steel that had walked her through the door in the first place. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Bianca." She said it like she was testing it out, seeing if it fit. "Bianca Reyes."
Pretty name. Innocent-sounding, like the girl wearing it.
Rico tilted his head, studying her. "How old are you, Bianca?"
"I'm nineteen." The words came too fast, rehearsed. She'd definitely practiced that lie.
He could have pushed it. He'd thrown out girls for less. But there was something in the way she held herself—shoulders back, chin up, that desperate spark in her eyes—that reminded him of a girl he'd known fifteen years ago. A girl who'd walked into a club just like this one with the same hungry look.
That girl had become his best dancer for six years before she'd burned out and vanished.
"Come with me," he said, not waiting to see if she followed.
The offices behind the club were cramped and cluttered, but Rico had made his into something that passed for respectable. A cheap desk, a leather chair, filing cabinets that held more lies than paperwork. He gestured for her to sit, and she did, perching on the edge of the chair like it might bite her.
"So," he said, settling behind the desk. "You got any experience?"
Bianca shook her head. "No. But I'm a fast learner. I can—I can do whatever you need."
"Whatever I need." Rico let the words hang there, heavy with implication. "That's a dangerous thing to say in this business."
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't back down. "I mean it. I'll do anything it takes."
Rico studied her for a long moment. The desperation was honest, at least. That was worth something. Around here, the honest ones were few and far between.
"Alright," he said finally, pushing back his chair. "Most girls start slow. Waitress. Maybe a stage set. But I got a feeling you want to prove yourself."
Bianca nodded, her eyes bright with hope and terror.
"VIP room. Tonight. You'll get one dance to show me what you've got." He paused. "Before you say yes, you should know—it's not easy. First time in front of a crowd, most girls freeze up. And the VIP crowd? They're not gentle."
"I won't freeze." There it was again, that steel in her voice.
Rico smirked. "Good. Get changed. Candi will find you some pasties and a pair of heels that fit."
Thirty minutes later, Rico was leaning against the wall of the VIP lounge, watching nineteen-year-old Bianca Reyes walk through the crimson curtain with the posture of a soldier heading into battle.
She'd traded the silver dress for something that barely qualified as clothing—a scrap of red fabric that covered barely more than a string, rhinestones digging into her hips. The pasties Candi had lent her were silver, catching the neon light from every angle. Her legs were bare, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked absolutely terrified.
The customer waiting for her was a regular. Some tech bro with more money than sense, mid-forties, a wedding ring he never took off. His name was Gary, and he came in every Tuesday to spend a grand on whatever new girl he could find. His eyes lit up when he saw Bianca.
"There she is," Gary said, grinning. His teeth were too white, his tan too orange. "Rico wasn't kidding. You're fresh."
Bianca hesitated at the edge of the booth. Her hands were shaking again. Rico caught her eye from across the room and gave a small nod.
She stepped forward.
The music shifted—something slow, something pulsing, a bassline that felt like a heartbeat. Bianca approached Gary with the uncertain grace of a deer testing thin ice. She settled onto his lap with a stiffness that made Rico wince.
This was going to be rough.
But then something shifted. Bianca closed her eyes for a second, took a breath, and when she opened them again, the scared girl was gone. What was left was a predator, learning to stretch its claws.
She rolled her hips in a slow, deliberate circle. Gary's hands gripped the leather of the booth, keeping them where he'd been told. Bianca leaned back, arching her spine, letting the gesture pull her body impossibly close before pulling away again.
Rico watched, fascinated despite himself. She was awkward, unpracticed, but there was something hungry in her movements. A natural instinct she hadn't unlocked yet.
The song built, and so did she. Her movements became fluid, less mechanical. She slid off Gary's lap and turned around, presenting her back to him, looking over her shoulder with an expression that bordered on defiance. She dropped lower, grinding against him in a movement that was almost insulting in its directness. The music throbbed through the floor, through the walls, through her.
Then her hands went behind her back.
Rico straightened, eyes narrowing. He hadn't told her to do that. Most girls saved that move for the second or third visit, once they'd built up the confidence to actually pull it off. But Bianca was undoing the clasp of her top with shaking fingers, letting the scrap of fabric fall away, exposing herself completely.
Gary's breath caught audibly. His hands clenched into fists.
Bianca turned around, still straddling him, giving him the full show without reservation. Full contact. Every inch of her pressed against him, moved against him, the neon light painting her skin in shades of blue and pink.
Rico let out a low whistle under his breath.
The girl had balls.
The song ended. Bianca pulled away, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat glistening on her collarbone. She didn't look victorious—she looked like someone who'd just survived a car crash, adrenaline and disbelief warring on her face.
Gary was already reaching for his wallet.
"Damn," he said, pulling out a stack of bills he didn't even bother counting. "Where did you find this one?"
Rico pushed off the wall, crossing the room with lazy confidence. He took the money, thumbed through it, and nodded. "She's a natural."
Bianca was pulling her top back on, hands still shaking. She looked at Rico, and something passed between them—a silent agreement, a pact.
She'd proven herself. Now she just had to survive.
Rico walked her back to the dressing room afterward, letting the money burn in his pocket. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all."
Her eyes searched his, looking for approval she hadn't earned yet. "Do I get to stay?"
"Stay?" He laughed. "Sweetheart, you just became my new favorite investment."
He left her standing there with a dazed smile on her face, already pulling out her phone to tell someone her big news.
Rico walked back to his office, counting the take in his head. Tonight had been a good night. The new girl was going to be a gold mine, Candi had closed another deal, and the city was still humming with that electric current that meant trouble was never far away.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen and frowned.
One new message from an unknown number.
He'd read it later. Right now, he had money to count. And somewhere behind the velvet curtains, the night was just getting started.
The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. Rico glanced at the screen—another unknown number, same area code. He tucked it away without reading the message, stepping back into the main floor where the bass hit him like a physical wall.
The club was in full swing now. The dance floor writhed with bodies, silhouettes twisting beneath the strobes. Every pole occupied, every booth filled with men nursing drinks and fantasies. Vinny was moving fast behind the bar, pouring shots and collecting cash with the mechanical efficiency of a man who'd seen it all.
Rico allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. This was his kingdom, his carefully constructed empire of sin and desire. Every dollar that changed hands in this building passed through his fingers eventually, leaving a little skin behind on the way.
Then he saw her.
She was standing by the main stage, bathed in a shaft of red light. He'd never seen her before—he would have remembered. Nineteen, maybe twenty, with jet-black hair cut into a sharp bob, bangs grazing dark, knowing eyes that held a smirk mirrored on her lips. She wore a cheap black dress that clung to her like she'd been poured into it, and she was watching the dancer on stage with the detached appraisal of a critic at a gallery.
Blake. The name came to him without effort, and he knew. This was the girl who'd texted him. The one who promised she could do things the other girls couldn't.
Rico crossed the floor, weaving through the crowd with the ease of a shark cutting through water. She saw him coming and smiled—a slow, confident smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You're Rico," she said. Not a question.
"And you must be the girl who doesn't know better than to text strangers after midnight." He returned her smile with interest. "How old are you, Blake?"
"Old enough." She dug in her purse, produced an ID. Wisconsin driver's license, birth date making her exactly eighteen as of last month. The photo looked like her—same sharp gaze, same knowing smirk.
Rico studied it, then her. "You're young."
"I'm an adult."
"You're barely an adult."
She shrugged, a gesture that made the thin straps of her dress slip slightly. "I'm here, aren't I? I heard you're the man to see if you want to make real money."
Rico handed back her ID, let his fingers brush hers just to see if she'd flinch. She didn't. "Walk with me."
He led her past the dance floor, through the velvet curtain, into the darker, quieter world of the VIP lounge. The music was muted here, intimate, the air thicker with perfume and want. Candi had finished with Derek and was lounging in one of the booths, counting a stack of bills with the practiced nonchalance of a bank teller. She looked up as they passed, eyes narrowing at the new girl.
"Fresh meat, Rico?" she called out. "You're collecting them tonight."
"Just giving a tour," he answered without stopping.
Blake followed him like she'd been here a hundred times, and that was interesting. She moved through the velvet maze with the sure-footed confidence of someone who'd already walked here in her imagination, rehearsed every step.
They stopped at a private booth near the back, the one with the good sightlines and the frosted glass that turned silhouettes into shadows. Rico gestured, and Blake slid into the booth with a grace that seemed almost predatory, legs crossing, showing a flash of thigh.
"So," she said, leaning back. "What do I have to do to work here?"
Rico settled across from her, draping an arm along the back of the seat. "First, you tell me what you bring to the table. You've got the look, I'll give you that. But looks are a dime a dozen in this place. What else you got?"
Blake's smile widened, and there was something wolfish in it. "I've got drive. I've got ambition. And I've got a way of making men forget their own names. I've been told I'm memorable."
"Memorable." Rico tasted the word. "Tell me more."
She leaned forward, forearms on the table. The neckline of her dress gaped slightly, offering a glimpse of pale skin, a hint of a lace bra beneath. "You're a businessman, right? You want girls who'll keep the customers coming back. I'll give you that. I'll be the reason men choose this place over every other club in the city."
"Big talk. You got anything to back it up?"
For a long moment, she just looked at him, reading him like a roadmap torn across the rain. Then she pushed her chair back, stood, and peeled the black dress over her head in one fluid motion.
"Does this back it up enough?"
Rico kept his expression neutral, though the room suddenly felt warmer. The dress pooled at her feet, and she stood before him in just the bra and panties—everything pale and smooth, skin like something you'd see airbrushed on an album cover. Her hands went behind her back, and with a snick, the bra came loose.
So much for saying he'd never seen it all. The room seemed to tighten around them. The faint music from the main floor filtered through the walls, a dull pulsing heartbeat that matched the rhythm of her hips. She took her time, watching him, her movements deliberately slow as she slid the straps off her shoulders, lowering the fabric inch by inch until her breasts were bare.
She was all smooth planes and shadowed curves, the dim light carving valleys across her skin. Small breasts with pale pink nipples that hardened in the cool air, prompting a satisfaction in her expression. She didn't cover up. She didn't try to hide. She just stood there, letting him look.
"I was going to save this until you'd agreed," she said, shrugging the bra all the way off and letting it drop. "But I thought maybe you'd appreciate a sample of what I can do."
Rico's throat had gone dry. He licked his lips, considering the angle. "You've got my attention."
"Good. Because I've got a lot more to show you."
She stepped closer, placing one knee on the booth beside him, and then straddled him, settling onto his lap with a weight that was unmistakably real. She was agile, supple—not a single hesitation, no flinching, as her bare chest brushed against the thin cotton of his shirt. The smell of her perfumed skin washed over him—something floral, something sweet, something that twisted up through his chest until all he could see was her face.
"You sound like the type who's always got a hand on every pot," she murmured, tracing a nail along his jaw. "Like the kind of man who hasn't been surprised in a long time. Am I wrong?"
"No," Rico breathed. "You're not wrong."
She leaned in closer until her lips were a whisper from his ear. "Then let me surprise you."
The way she moved was different from the other girls. There was no training in it, no practiced routine. It was pure instinct, pure nerve, a primal knowledge of what her body could do to a man. Her hips ground against his lap with an immediacy that made his own body tighten, muscles locking as he fought to maintain control.
"Let's find out what you're made of," she said, and then she moved off his lap.
She stood in the center of the private booth's space, a small, almost closet-like room with velvet walls and a low couch. The neon light from the main floor bled through the curtain seams, painting her body in stripes of red and green. And then, without ceremony, without coyness, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs.
The last scrap of fabric joined the rest on the floor.
She stood before him, utterly nude, utterly unashamed. A photographer would have paid a fortune for this sight—the way the light caught the flare of her hips, the soft curves of her belly, the dark triangle of coarse hair between her thighs that she made no move to cover. She didn't shift her weight awkwardly or cross her arms. She just stood there, letting him see all of her, letting him drink in the length of her legs and the dip of her waist and the swell of her breasts that rose and fell with her patient breathing.
"You like what you see?" she asked, smirking.
Rico's voice was rougher than he intended. "Come here."
She stepped back into his space, settling onto his lap once more. Her skin was warm against his, smooth as polished stone. He could feel the ribs beneath her flesh, the bend of muscle, the pulse at her throat. She smelled of vanilla and something darker beneath, musk and ambition and the faint trace of sweat from the drive over.
"Now," she said, "let me show you what I can do."
She began to move with the low, pulsing rhythm of the bass, her hips tracing slow, deliberate circles against him. Every rotation was a kind of torture, a promise, a reminder of how close she was. She arched back, pressing her hips against his with a hunger that left him breathless, her breasts grazing his chest each time she rolled forward.
"This what you want?" she breathed, her mouth at his jaw. "Or do you want more?"
Rico's hands found her hips out of instinct, fingers gripping the smooth curve of her flesh. He made a noise that might have been agreement.
She moved faster, harder against him, her nude body rubbing against the thin fabric of his slacks, creating a friction that bordered on unbearable. He could feel her warmth through the material, the heat radiating off her skin, the wetness gathering between her thighs. She reached down between them, her fingers working at his belt, and he understood with sudden clarity that this was not a lap dance anymore.
"Condom," she whispered against his ear, already fumbling with his zipper. "Tell me you've got one."
He found one in his wallet, which he later thanked for its foresight. She took it from him, rolled it on with practiced ease, and then shifted, straddled him again, and guided him inside her in one single, shocking motion.
The breath left him in a rush. She was warm and tight and wet around him, and she smiled, a catlike, satisfied expression as she began to ride him slowly, deliberately, her nude body arching and twisting above him as if she'd choreographed this exact moment a thousand times. Her skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, her breasts bouncing with the motion, her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat.
Rico watched her, helpless and captivated. She was, in every sense, the surprise he hadn't known he'd been waiting for. She was just 19 but looked even younger—petite, flawless skin, dark bob haircut sharp enough to cut glass, a mouth made for sinning. Her tattoos were few but deliberate: a raven on her collarbone, a serpent coiled around her ankle, and a single word in delicate script across her hip—*Voluptas*.
"You like the ink?" she murmured against his neck, her breath hot.
Rico's hands found her hips again, fingers digging in as she rode him with slow, deliberate precision. "I like the artist."
Blake laughed softly, the sound vibrating against his skin. "You're a smooth talker, Rico.
But does that energy translate on the dance floor?"
Rico smirked, his hands still gripping her hips as he considered her challenge. "You want proof? Problem is, I don't dance for free."
Blake's fingers trailed down his chest, pausing at his belt before continuing lower. "Who said anything about free?" Her voice was a purr, her dark eyes locked onto his.
A slow grin spread across his face, the golden tooth catching the light. "Damn girl, you're dangerous."
Blake shifted forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she murmured.
"I didn’t mean the floor."
Rico's grip on her hips tightened, his breath hitching at the implication. He had always been the one in control, the one who dictated the terms, the one who decided who got to play in his world. But this girl—this bold, eighteen-year-old enigma—was flipping the script with a single sentence.
He leaned back against the velvet booth, letting her set the pace. "You’re playing with fire, kid."
Blake’s smirk deepened as she rocked her hips against him, the friction sending a sharp jolt through his body. I turn 18 today ," she whispered, her voice a smoldering tease. “Old enough to do whatever I want. Old enough to take what I want.”
Rico’s fingers flexed against her skin, his control fraying. He had always been the one calling the shots—who got access, who got close, who was allowed into the back rooms. But this girl wasn’t asking permission. She was making demands.
“You’re pushing your luck,” he growled, though the words lacked conviction. His hips lifted involuntarily, matching her rhythm.
Blake laughed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated straight through him. To her soon to be embarrassment, two boys from her school were on their way to the room . She'd been the center of attention before—leading debates, winning competitions, dominating any conversation she entered—but this was something else. This was raw, electric heat, a current that threatened to burn them both alive.
"You think this is a game?" Rico's voice was rough, strained as he spoke. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into her soft skin. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Blake's nails scraped lightly along his jawline, her thumb brushing over the gold tooth that caught the dim light. "I think life's too short for games," she countered, her voice a whisper against his ear. Why are you only feeling on my hips when you can feel all of me?" Blake’s hips shifted forward, teasing him with a slow, deliberate grind that left nothing to the imagination. Every roll of her pelvis was a challenge, a promise, a tease that left Rico’s breath catching in his throat.
His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in the dark bob of her hair. She arched into his touch, her body pressing against him in a way that felt less like a lap dance and more like a declaration. The neon light from outside painted her skin in alternating stripes of red and blue, casting her in an otherworldly glow. He moved on to her frontside —palming one of her small, firm breasts, kneading it just enough to make her gasp softly. His other hand slid down the smooth curve of her waist, past the dip of her hip, before finding the warm, slick heat between her thighs. She was wetter than he expected, her body already adjusting to him in a way that sent a jolt through his chest.
"You're soaked," Nico murmured against her ear, his voice thick, his control fraying. "You like this, don't you?"
Blake's breath hitched as his fingers explored her, slow and deliberate, teasing circles around her clit before dipping lower. Then the door opened and the boys from her school, clueless and blissfully unaware of the scene before them, shuffled into the private booth.
They froze when they saw her—completely naked on Rico's lap, his hand between her legs, her body rocking against him in a rhythm that left nothing to chance.
"Oh shit," one of them blurted out, his face burning red. The other just stood there, mouth hanging open like a landed fish.
Her face turned bright red, hot ter than the neon outside.
Rico didn’t stop moving.
His fingers still worked between her thighs, slow and insistent, while his other hand squeezed her breast, thumb flicking over the nipple hard enough to make Blake whimper.
“Out,” Rico said, voice like gravel. He didn’t look up. Didn’t stop. Didn’t care.
The boys didn’t move.
Or come have a look .
One of them shifted his weight, still frozen in the doorway, eyes darting between Rico’s hand between Blake’s legs and the rest of the scene that left nothing to imagination.
Rico’s fingers stilled for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Blake to feel the absence, to gasp at the loss—but then they resumed, picking up where they left off with a precision that bordered on cruelty. His palm pressed harder against her mound, two fingers slipping inside her with practiced ease while his thumb circled her clit in slow, relentless circles. And so the beet red blake saw them take a step closer, just as she couldnt help but moan uncontrollably, her back arching sharply, her nails clawing at his shoulder as the pleasure crashed over her like a tsunami.
“Fuck—” Rico growled, his voice rough, his hips lifting from the booth in response to her shuddering climax. His free hand found her hip, fingers digging into the flesh as he held her still, prolonging the bliss, milking every single tremor from her trembling body.
The two boys were still frozen by the door, their faces a mix of shock and fascination. One had his phone out, recording.
Blake’s breath came in ragged gasps, her vision swimming in the neon glow.
The boys by the door had gone still, their faces caught between fascination and horror, their phones glinting in the dim light. One of them—pimply-faced and wearing a varsity jacket from a school Rico vaguely recognized from the south side—had his phone pointed at them, recording.
Rico didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was too far gone, too deep inside her heat, too wrecked by the way she clenched around his fingers while her orgasm rolled through her in wave after wave. Her nails dug into his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his neck to muffle the cry that tore from her throat.
“Fuck,” Rico muttered again, his voice thick with restraint.
His fingers slowed inside Blake, drawing out the last of her shudders, each lingering caress making her whimper. His thumb finally easing off her clit, but his palm still cupped her, holding her open, keeping her warm and exposed. His free hand slid from her hip to her waist, then up her spine, where his fingers tangled in the dark strands of her bobbed hair. He held her there, pressed against him, her naked skin against his clothed chest, her breath hot against his collarbone.