But honestly? I’ve never been great at pretending I don’t like the things I like. I can’t even lie, it’s turning me on just as much as it is him.
So yeah.
I lean into it.
I turn back to the music and dance like I'm putting on a show just for him. Because let's face it, I am. Slower now, hips rolling on purpose, dragging it out just to see how long he’ll hold himself back. Fuck being subtle. This is me daring him to make the first move. I glance back over my shoulder, just as the space between us disappears. It happens so fast I don’t even register it at first. One second I’ve got room to move, the next he’s right behind me.
Luna’s drifted off a few feet away without me even noticing, already wrapped up with some tall rave guy who looks exactly like her type. Brown hair, sweaty, tattoos everywhere, smiling like he just won the lottery because she picked him. She’s laughing, hands in the air, hips moving like nothing else in the world exists.
Good. She’s occupied.
Suddenly, his hands slide onto my hips like they’ve been there before, solid and sure, pulling me back into him without even pretending to ask. Not rough or rushed. Just confident in a way that makes my brain hiccup for a second. And holy shit. Iknew he was big—I felt it when I grabbed him, but having it this close, grinding against my ass, presses a whole different set of feral buttons.
Everything spikes at once. Louder, hotter, and so much fucking better. The bass hits deeper, and my skin feels way too sensitive, like the drugs turned my nerves up past max and snapped the knob off. Every little movement feels huge, amplified, and yeah, having him right there behind me is doing absolutely nothing to help my self-control.
I bite my lip without thinking, because apparently my body’s in charge now, and lift my arms back to hook around his neck. I sway into the music and into him on purpose, slow and deliberate, just to see what happens. Spoiler alert—I feel it. Feel how turned on he is, how much attention he’s paying to every fucking move I make.
That rush hits my head immediately. Because control like that? It’s power, plain and simple. The kind that makes me feel invincible, a little feral and way too pleased with myself.
I grin to myself, cocky and satisfied. I’m high, I’m reckless, and I’m fully aware I’m driving him a little fucking crazy.
And honestly?
Good.
He leans in, mouth brushing my ear, his voice low and rough through the noise. “You really do get off on danger, don’t you?”
I snort, rolling my hips back into him on purpose, slow and deliberate. “Or maybe I just like knowing how much of an effect I have on you. After all, weren’t you the one who invited yourself into my dance and pulled my ass back against you?”
His grip tightens instantly, fingers digging into my hip like he’s done pretending this is accidental. “So you don’t want this?”
There’s something in his tone—amused, dark, and cocky, that makes heat spark through me. One of his hands slides down my stomach, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.His thumb slips under the waistband of my thong, moving side to side, teasing, testing, seeing how far I’ll let him go.
My breath stutters despite myself. Every place his callused skin touches feels too sensitive, like my body’s already primed and he’s just pressing where it reacts the hardest. “You have no idea what I want,” I mutter.
“That so?” he murmurs.
His hand drifts lower, beneath the jeweled fabric, and I gasp when his fingers find exactly where I’m already slick and aching. The bass drowns out the sound that slips from my mouth as our bodies keep moving together, grinding like the music was built for this.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my ear, his teeth pulling on my lobe softly. “That’s a lot of confidence for someone who’s this fucking wet.”
It’s then I realize his mask is gone.
One hand never leaves me, still working me with slow, controlled precision, while the other lifts away. When I glance back over my shoulder, hazy and flushed, I finally see him—bright red hair damp with sweat, sharp eyes dark with hunger, a nose ring and lip ring catching the strobe lights, tattoos crawling up his neck like a warning.
He looks dangerous in a way that feels fucking intentional. Not that I’m complaining.
His hand cups my jaw from behind, firm enough that I don’t have a choice, and he pulls my mouth to his. The kiss is hungry and unapologetic, like he’s done holding back. I cling to him as his fingers keep moving, circling, rubbing, and pushing me higher while the drugs, music and the heat twist together inside me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips almost brushing mine. “Tell me again how I don’t know you want this. I fucking love hearing you lie, little valentine.”
My body tightens, breath catching, nerves lighting up all at once. Every touch drags me closer to the edge, his control absolute, his focus unbroken.
And the worst part? He doesn’t fucking stop.
Not when my breath starts to hitch and my legs shake. Not even when I realize how exposed I am with bodies packed around us, lights flashing, bass drowning out everything but the way his hand is working me like he owns the fucking right.
One arm keeps me pinned back against him, solid and unmovable, like I’d have to break myself just to prove a point. The other keeps moving between my thighs, hungry and unapologetic, like he’s done pretending this is accidental.
