Shame rolled in hot, but it didn’t come alone. Right behind it was hunger, thick, raw, undeniable. I wanted her whip on my skin, her strap splitting me open. I wanted her laugh in my ear, telling me I’d been caught touching myself like a needy little slut in her presence.
I pressed my knees together, biting down on a whimper and froze.
Because across the haze of bodies, through the dim light and the smoke, another pair of eyes were on me.
James.
He wasn’t on the stage. He wasn’t watching the couple still trembling under Dahlia’s hand. He was watching me.
My stomach dropped, heat flooding my face. Had he seen? Had he watched me shove my hand between my thighs, grinding against my own fingers like I couldn’t control myself?
Of course, he had. His stare was heavy, confident, hungry. Like he’d been there the whole time, waiting for me to lose myself enough to forget I wasn’t alone.
I tried to sit back deeper in the booth, to shrink into the shadows, but it was too late. He moved.
Slow, deliberate, every step a reminder of the power coiled inside him.The crowd seemed to part for him naturally, drawn into his orbit but not close enough to touch. His black shirt clung to his chest, chains catching the low light, his slacks hanging low on his hips like temptation had been tailored just for him.
My pulse hammered as he closed the distance, eyes never leaving mine.
Shame knotted in my throat, heat still wet between my thighs. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve fixed my dress, smoothed my hair, pretended I hadn’t been caught fingering myself in a club full of people.
But I couldn’t.
I was caught, by Dahlia’s wink, by his stare, by the truth I didn’t want to admit: I wanted them both to see me fall apart.
James didn’t stop until he was standing right at my table.
I couldn’t breathe. My thighs were still pressed together, sticky and hot, my pulse slamming in my ears. He looked down at me like he could see every filthy thought still written across my skin.
Then he slid into the booth beside me.
The leather seat dipped under his weight, his thigh brushing mine, the heat of his body wrapping around me before he even touched me. He leaned back, arm draped casually across the back of the booth, but his eyes, his eyes burned.
“You were touching yourself,” he said, voice low, gravelly. Not a question. A fact.
My stomach flipped, my lips parting, shame and arousal colliding in one violent crash. “I—”
“Don’t lie.” His hand slid under the table, brushing against my knee, climbing higher. “I watched you. Couldn’t even help yourself, could you? Not when she looked at you.”
I shuddered, heat exploding through me. His fingers teased higher, dragging slow up my thigh, until I thought I’d combust just from the threat of it.
“James…” My voice cracked, betraying me.
He tilted his head, a cruel little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You liked her whip, her strap. You wanted it to be you bent over that stage.”
I gasped, shame clawing at my chest even as my pussy clenched hard enough to make me dizzy. “Stop.”
“You don’t want me to stop.” His mouth brushed my ear, his breath hot. “You want me to take you right here and make you come louder than you did for her just now.”
I was shaking, torn between pulling away and crawling into his lap, when a shadow loomed at the table.
I snapped my head up, breath caught. A staff member stood there—tall, dressed in Provocateur’s signature black, a silver pin gleaming at his collar.
“Ms. Patterson, Mr. Carter.” His voice was polite, formal, but carried weight. His gaze flicked to James, then back to me. “Your presence has been requested. Privately.”
James' hand stilled on my thigh. My breath hitched.
“Both of you,” the staffer added smoothly. “Follow me.”
