“The Morning After Dark” by Timbaland.
Something about the beat always had her swaying her hips, the impulse hard to ignore. Hell, why ignore it? As a hot-blooded woman, she had a passion for movement and sensual play. Sheused the sway of her hips, the thrusting of her bosom, and a seductive glance to wield her power.
That first performance changed her life. She’d stepped forward in the darkness and startled slightly as the spotlight above her blazed on.
That morning, it had taken her hours to decide on what to wear for her first performance—it was make or break; she either did well and kept making money, or she crashed and burned. And what she wore made a first impression she couldn’t afford to waste.
She’d worn black leather pants as tight as second skin, with crisscrossing ties along the outside of each leg securing them to her thighs. Her deep-red corset showed the narrowness of her waist and the mounds of her breasts to perfection. The sexiest black knee-high boots she’d ever worn encased each foot and calf. Her costume elicited appreciative whistles and hoots from the audience, and a blush warmed her skin. Sexual energy flowed from the darkened room, and the unseen heated stares of the men in the crowd caressed her flesh. She felt desired. And wicked.
Naughty girl.
When the music began, she grasped every ounce of courage she had and forced it into her veins.
The music empowered her, and she needed that more than she needed anything else. Warmth stole over her skin, heating her face and extremities, and she jumped over the brink into something incredible. No longer a blushing ingénue, she stopped cowering behind her innocence. What had her innocent ideals given her? Where had her starry-eyed daydreams taken her? Nowhere she wanted to be again. After meeting Elgin, she’d quickly learned that sweet, naive small-town girls were raw meat to ravaging lone wolves. Her irresponsible choice in husband’shad skinned her alive and left a crumbling spirit inside her body. She never wanted to be a sad, scared girl again.
Ever.
She pushed aside the frightened little girl and dug deep. Wrenching the true woman inside her up from the fetal position, she pulled her to her feet, brushed her off, slapped her hard, and dragged her into the glaring stage lights.
With more sensuality than she ever possessed before, she swung her hips to the tempo. She sensed something crawling beneath her skin, begging for release, writhing in hunger for the passion searing her.
She smiled seductively from behind the silken curtain of her loose, long black hair, her luscious movements and rapturous expressions feeding the starved appetites of the men at her feet. The pull of the music entranced her. It was her master, she the slave.
Her breasts tingled as they rubbed against the satin of her top. The inside of her thighs grew wet, sweat gathering at her mons, making her leather pants slick. Perspiration beaded on her skin, the cool air of the club like ice kisses against her hot flesh.
Still, she danced. Her heartbeat met and married the music; her breathing quickened, and her muscles loosened. When the moment seized her, she clasped the top button on her corset and popped it from its hole. The whistles in the room turned into anticipatory groans.
Next button,pop. Third button,pop. Fourth button,pop. Last button—she drew out the anticipation, aware it was her last chance to hide away. She popped the final button and, on an upbeat in the song, pulled the sides of the corset apart, exposing her breasts. They glimmered with sweat and a generous dusting of fine gold glitter.
She placed her left arm over her breasts, playing the coy siren, and cast a shy look at the audience. She slid the fingers of her right hand over the skintight material on her hips, trailing the seam into the space between her legs, all the while maneuvering to reach the single high-backed chair at the rear left of the stage. As the song slowed, she lowered to the seat and spread her legs, one downbeat at a time, until they spread wide, exposing her leather-sheathed crotch.
Haven caught her breath and prepared to go further, to reveal more of what she’d hidden away for years, unwilling to go back. She’d leave that stage nearly naked and finally free of the naive little girl.
Her dance would rid her heart of fear and exorcise the ghost of hatred and bitterness choking her spirit. No hiding. No going back. Only forward.
With her left arm still over her breasts, she made her gaze heavy and sultry, and parted her pouty lips in a look of shuddering excitement. She slid her fingers down her left boot, and up again, grasped the zipper, inched it down, exposing the black leather pants beneath, and exhaled. The sides of the boot fell away, and she released her overheated breasts from their prison beneath her left arm, allowing them scant freedom before covering them with her right. Her right boot hit the stage. After freeing her legs, she stood and threw her arms in the air, gathering her long hair behind her head, aware her movements thrust her breasts up and out—like dangling a morsel of food in the face of a coyote—or a room full of them.
Her leather pants were the last piece of armor, the last wall of defense she had to demolish. Her glistening skin twinkled under the lights, and her heart raced—she came alive under their stares. She slapped her butt, slid her hands over its curve, up over her hips, her taut stomach, and over the rise of her breasts. On the way back down, her hands collided with thebows holding the crisscrossing ties in place along the side of her pants. Feigning a look of surprise, her lips formed a deep pink ‘o’, and her eyes widened. Pulling the bows loose, their hold on her thighs slackened. She put one hand on each side of her waistband. Twitching her hips, she rocked to the beat. Rhythm invading her blood, she slid the pants down, beat by beat, bending forward to hide her final surprise from the multitude of hungry gazes. When the leather pants snaked their way to her feet, she slipped them off.
She straightened with the next upswing in the song, arching her back to push out her chest and expose the once-hidden area between her legs. A tiny strip of crimson cloth trimmed in black lace was the only piece of clothing left. She rolled and gyrated her hips. A smile creased her face, and she bit her lower lip to keep from yelling with excitement. She hooked her fingers beneath the lacy straps and tugged them lower and lower still until the top of the front panel kissed her most intimate place.
With a burst of laughter, she ticked her finger back and forth as if to say,“No, no, not this time.”While it wasn’t against the law to go nude, she didn’t want to reveal everything, so she teased with all the other goodies she offered. She turned and bared her backside, bending forward to present her ass in its firm, round, luscious glory.
Finally, when the last strains of music faded, she tipped her head back and let the sweat between her breasts shimmy down to her navel. She pulled her head forward and smiled at the men cheering at the tops of their lungs, calling for an encore, stomping their feet, and throwing their money on the stage.
They loved her. They lapped up the cream she’d offered like a litter of hungry kittens.
Bad little kitties.She drew her sexuality around her like a cloak and smiled wickedly before sashaying from the stage.
Ah, the memories.
A break in the music from her playlist brought her wandering mind back to the gym. The world of realities sank into her brain.
Haven glanced at the clock and cursed–she’d spent fifty minutes lost in thought, movement fueled by muscle memory. She gathered her belongings and headed for the locker room. Thanks to years of working crazy hours, she could shower and dress quickly. Once attired, she peered at her face in the bathroom mirror. After applying eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick, she gave her reflection a once-over.
Though she made a living dressing provocatively and often enjoyed the perks of low-cut shirts and high-cut skirts, she wanted to dress flirty but comfortable for the night. The attention, the catcalls, and the leering wearied her. For one night, she wanted to be a woman, not a sex goddess.
Her pleated, ankle-length skirt made of purple, deep green, and silver patches flowed carefree around her long legs. Her low-cut, deep-violet off-the-shoulder peasant blouse rose only high enough to cover the top of her black strapless bra. She smiled. She looked good. She always looked good.
