Dammit, I need to stop doing these privates.
“Sparkle,” he says, but it’s a plea, tugging at something deep in my gut that I don’t need stirred up right now.
I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just hear me out.” He runs a hand through his messy hair, trying to play it cool, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away. “I’m not easy to handle, okay? I feel things… deeply. Maybe too much. But?—”
I cut him off, not in the mood for this bullshit and ready to fucking bolt. “What do you want?”
“What doIwant?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You pulled me in. Then you spit me out like it was nothing. And it’s driving me fucking crazy.”
My pulse quickens, but I keep my face neutral.
What the fuck is even happening?
“You’re in my head. I can’t shake you off. And I’m not here to play games or bullshit around. I… I need to know what happened. Why you pushed me away.”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but his words are hitting all the wrong places. Or maybe all the right ones. Either way, I need him gone, even if he does have beautiful gray eyes.
“I—”
“You were into it.” He steps closer, his gaze pulling me in. “Then you just—” He breaks off, running a hand over his face, his frustration simmering below the surface. “Fuck, I sound insane.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, but it’s hard to hide how my heart is racing now. “And if you’d shut up for a second, I could tell you that you didn’t do anything, but I don’t want to talk. I can dance, or you can leave.”
I want to get this over with, grab my cash, and be done with it.Done with him. So, when he looks at me and doesn’t say anything more, I step over to the wall, hit play on the soundsystem, and the music swells around us. He watches as I push him back onto the couch, his body sinking into the plush velvet, completely willing.
Moving into the rhythm, I let Glitter take over. The music pulses through me, but the usual high I get from performing is still absent. I dance anyway, swaying my hips and sliding my hands down my body, hoping the moves will distract him from whatever conversation he’s trying to have.
“Sparkle.” He tries to talk to me again, but I keep moving.
This is a private dance, so I should be on his lap, but that is dangerous territory.
He watches me intently, his hands resting on his thighs, and there’s tension in him that looks ready to rip. His eyes follow my every move, but I can tell he’s not focused on the dance—his eyes never leave my face.
I want to spin around and give him my back, but before I can take another step, his hands are on me, firm but not forceful, gripping my waist. He pulls me onto his lap, and the sudden shift sends a shock through my body like a live wire.
His scent floods my senses—warm leather, amber, a hint of tobacco and weed clinging to him. It’s so intoxicating that I forget where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing. I shift on his lap, feeling every inch of him beneath me, the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers of fabric between us.
“Can you stop that shit and talk to me?” he asks lowly, seriously, back to pleading.
For a second, I think about pushing him away, about getting up and fucking leaving. Instead, I settle in his lap, my legs on either side of him, his hands steadying me. It feels almost too natural, too easy.
I watch as he struggles—reallystruggles—to keep his eyes on mine and not on my tits, which are practically in his face. It’s kind of funny how he keeps darting his gaze up like he’s trying tobe respectful, but I can see the effort. He’s trying, and for some reason, that makes me soften.
“What happened?” His voice catches me off guard. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… vulnerable. “What did I do? Did I… hurt you?”
The question lingers, heavy and uncomfortable. It wasn’t him. I was into it. Intohim. It’s not his fault he triggered something buried deep. I can’t tell him that. I won’t. He deservessomething, though. I’m not so cold-hearted as to let him think he crossed a line.
“No. You didn’t do anything,” I say, quieter than I intended. “It was probably a bad trip.”
“A bad trip?” His brow furrows, suspicion all over his face. “Fromweed?”
“Seems like it.” I shrug. “Sorry.”
He studies me, his gaze too sharp, like he’s trying to pick apart my thoughts. Like he knows I’m lying.
God, I’m so done with human lie detectors for one day.
