It’s barely thirty seconds before she uncrosses her legs and pats the top of her knee in a summoning move.
I feel my lips curl at the gesture.
My empty drink hits the counter. I strum my fingers on the bar top, watching her, knowing she can see my coy smile, and as her head inclines in a silent question, I push away from the fixture and turn on my heel toward the dance floor again.
I’m just feet away from her when I peer over my shoulder to make sure she’s still watching.
That’s it.
Watch me.
Follow me.
I crook two fingers in her direction before the crowd can swallow me up. Two people walk in front of me, blocking my view of her, and in that second, she’s vanished.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BONNIE
I fucking love this.
Every body slamming and brushing against me makes my heart skip. I’m waiting for her hands to slide around my waist—for her chest against my back. Anticipation laces every passing second. Smoke hazes around me as I close my eyes to the steady beats. Hands lightly graze my hip a few times—just another person moving through the crowd. I scan the area for her again.
However, I don’t have to search long.
Because I can feel those sharp studs brushing against my back and my hips when the next body eases behind me, and I practically sink into her grasp as her hands creep around my waist. I shove my hair over to one side, tilting my head not just to allow her access to the crook of my neck, but also so I can see a glimpse of her masked face, make sure it’s her who’s touching me.
When I catch the neon pink lines in my peripheral and see her red hair swish over her shoulder, I succumb entirely.
A groan leaves me at her touch—at the desperate way I’ve been dreaming about a night like this these past few months. I don’t need to see her face to know how every inch of me is weeping with this close contact, this nameless, faceless game.
God fucking yes.
How do I simultaneously slow this down and speed through to the climax in the same breath?
Shit, I think I could come just from this. It’s been so long that I’m already throbbing. Her body moves with mine, hands somehow pressing my hips further into hers.
Song after song plays. I’m losing track of time and space, running out of fucks to give. I close my eyes and brace my hands against hers, moving them where I’m aching to be handled—across my stomach, cupping my tits—shit.
A shaky breath leaves me at how perfectly she squeezes my petite breasts. My shoulders draw up. My mouth sags. I tilt my head back onto her shoulder and entirely lean into her embrace. And when she slides one hand down my stomach again, fingers treading beneath the open waistband of my jeans to brush my mound, I jerk.
There’s a soft little chuckle in my ear that makes my hair stand. However, before I can comprehend that sexy little noise behind what’s definitely a voice changer, a glimpse of neon red catches my attention.
Zeb.
He’s standing a few feet away, a solid figure in the midst of dancing bodies. I know he’s checking in to make sure this person is the one I want touching me, ensuring I’m not drugged, drunk, high, or in any way inebriated or harmed.
I lift my pinky and thumb, then move my hand in a shaking motion—a sign he and I have adopted onstage just to ask if the other is okay.
He nods discreetly, then signals it back before pivoting into the crowd and disappearing.
My stranger doesn’t seem bothered by him, though the exchange is so quick, I doubt she noticed. I’m drawn back intoher void, the rest of the room melting away with one grasp of her hand on my waist.
“Fuck,” I barely hear myself whisper.
I need this situation off the dance floor before I let her finger fuck me in front of everyone—not that anyone here would care.
Still…
