“I think I’m gonna dance.” He glanced at the floor, then back at me. “Wanna come?”
I followed his gaze. Bodies moving together. Hands everywhere. Asses grinding against groins like gravity itself demanded it.
Once, I would’ve said yes without hesitation. I’d have been too high to care, too chemically brave to feel awkward. But sober, I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my body without something in my bloodstream telling me how to move.
So, despite the hopeful look in his eyes, I shook my head.
“Maybe later,” I said, smiling in a way I hoped didn’t give too much away.
Whether it was the lighting or his restraint, he didn’t push. Just nodded, then turned and melted into the crowd.
I sank back against the couch and dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
“You good?” Riff asked.
I nodded, lifting my bottle again.
“It’s different,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah. Last time we were feral. Now we’re hydrating responsibly in the middle of a sex club.”
“Water’s important in sex clubs,” I said. “Keeps everyone clear-headed about consent.”
“You’ve been watching too muchFifty Shades,” he teased.
I elbowed him.
Then I saw pink.
Iggy was on the dance floor, back pressed to the bare chest of a tall, muscular guy with umber skin and braids. The contrast hit hard. Dark and light. Solid and slender.
Iggy lifted his arms, hooking them around the guy’s neck. A dark hand slid over his stomach, trailing upward until it disappeared beneath the chains on his harness. Iggy’s mouth fell open, his head tipping back against the man’s shoulder.
“You like him,” Riff said.
“What are you talking about?” I replied, eyes still locked on the scene.
“Don’t play dumb.”
He shoved my shoulder. I barely felt it.
The hand under the chains stayed there. Iggy rolled his body, hips pressing back, fingers tightening at the nape of the stranger’s neck. Dark fingers skimmed the waistband of those tiny hotpants, tracing the space between his hip bones until Iggy writhed, clearly enjoying it.
A sharp crunch snapped me out of it.
I looked down to find my empty water bottle crushed in my fist, knuckles white. And beneath the tight leather of my pants, my cock was unmistakably hard, heavy and betraying me in the worst possible way.
Fuck.
Not a semi. Not curiosity.
I was hard over Iggy.
Jealous in a way that tasted bitter and electric all at once. Wanting my hands on his skin. My chest at his back. His armsaround my neck as we moved together under the lights, sweat and heat and want blurring everything else away.
Riff reached over, peeled the crumpled plastic from my fist, and dropped it onto the small table in front of us. His hand settled on my shoulder, and he leaned in close, voice low in my ear.
“You like him, man. That much is obvious.” He tipped his chin towards the dance floor. “So why don’t you go talk to him?”
