“DJ’s pretty hot tonight,” Sibyl says, lifting her glass. “Vane, be sure you get some usable pieces of content. Footage of Dorian dancing, all that jazz.”
Dorian flashes her a grin, his eyes still bright and dilated. “I’ll dance if you do.”
Sibyl holds up a long-nailed finger, playfully warning him off.“Give me a minute to get my drink on, and then we’ll see.”
We drink, and then the crowd begins to light up, stirred into motion by a pumping beat. Clutching his phone, Vane beckons Dorian onto the dance floor, and Sibyl pulls me along, too. Cherith and Noel follow, but Lloyd stays behind, nursing his drink and looking appropriately broody.
The warm flush of the alcohol slides along my veins, blurring the remnants of the sickening panic I felt earlier. A remix of DNCE’s “Cake by the Ocean” is the white-hot shot I need to start jumping, hands in my hair, letting myself go. Sibyl has her hands up, too, her voluptuous body swerving to the rhythm, chunky rings flashing on her fingers. I feel as glorious as she looks. The little gold-and-black dress hugs my body just right, and the shoes are wicked-looking but they’re not killing my feet.
More people crowd onto the dance floor, jiving, bopping, jostling. I try not to be continually conscious of where Dorian is, but I can’t help tracking him in my periphery. He’s dancing with Vane and Lloyd, his lean form undulating in a perfect body roll, his feet executing flawless steps, hips slanting, shoulders popping.
He flings back his head and throws a glance sidelong at me. When he catches me watching him, he gives me a snarky grin.
I turn pointedly away, hiding a smile. Sibyl has started dancing with a busty redhead, so I locate a guy with a neatly trimmed goatee and pleasant eyes, and I sidle over, intent on loosening the hold a certain angelic-looking devil has over me. I need an antidote to Dorian Gray’s flawless poison, and this guy’s cute in an earthy, healthy way. Not a hint of the supernatural about him.
My tattoos, piercings, and bold hairstyle tend to lure in the mild-mannered guys. They assume I’m a freak in the sheets or something, I guess. This dude is no exception; his eyes light up withimmediate interest as I sashay into his space. I pin my wrists together above my head and let my body writhe, sinking low before rising again. Whipping around, my back to the guy’s front, I let him place his hands on my hips, pressing my butt lightly against his crotch.
The contact feels good. I haven’t been touched like this in longer than I want to admit. Once I got to Charleston, I had a crapload of stuff to do, sorting out my aunt’s affairs, setting up my studio, and fulfilling art orders. I kept thinking I would make some friends I could go out with, but then I slipped into my routine, and it just…never happened.
I haven’t danced in a club in ages. The flashback is over; I’m past it, and I’m able to let myself relax. I forgot how good it feels to let the pounding music blur my existence into nothing but physical sensation and flashing lights and the touch of a stranger’s hands.
I sigh, leaning back into the guy, and he surges against me in response.
And then Dorian Gray fills my sight, a tall silhouette blocking out the slash of the blue and green lights.
He takes my throat in his hand—a caress, not a threat. His thumb grazes my jawline. Then his hand slides to my nape, tugs me toward him, and I relent, impulsively, willingly.
“Hey, back off,” begins the guy behind me, but Dorian takes a step—one step, every line of his body radiating dominance. His smile has vanished, and a glare of icy malevolence has taken its place.
“Whatever, man.” The goatee guy holds up his hands and moves away. I lose track of him immediately because Dorian’s hand has dropped to my lower back, and he’s guiding me with him, moving to the music.
The rhythm is a primal pulse in my brain, a giant black moth beating smoky wings in my chest. I don’t have much by way of dancemoves—I’m more Wednesday Addams than Shakira—but it doesn’t matter, because Dorian magnetizes me, drawing me with him, and the flow of my limbs seems to match his naturally, easily. Almost as if we’ve done this before.
His hands drift along my body, every touch a purposeful thread in the spell he’s weaving over me. The heat of his palm cupping my shoulder, the brush of knuckles along the underside of my breast, the graze of fingertips over my stomach, the press of his hand at my hip. I try to remember why we’re here, what he really wants from me, why he’s doing this—but it all slides together into a slick, melted mess, and there’s only his beautiful face and his exquisite body. His scent erases the faint odor of sweat and cloying cologne, replacing it with clean, sweet lavender and smoky sage.
I think if we were alone, I’d fuck him right now, ethical complications be damned. I’m two seconds away from asking him to follow me to the bathroom or literally anywhere we could get five minutes’ privacy.
And then Vane’s voice cuts through the music. “Dorian, I need footage of you withoutherin it,” he complains.
“Don’t you have enough?” Dorian doesn’t take his eyes from mine. The raw lust in his gaze tells me he’s been having desperate thoughts similar to mine, in spite of his claim that he doesn’t want me for a quick fuck.
“I want you to do that fire thing,” Vane persists. “My followers woulddie, okay? Come on, Dorian. For me.”
There’s a pleading intimacy in his tone that reminds me of what Dorian said—Vane’s good in bed. They’ve been together.
Of course they have.
I bite my lip, reluctantly pulling away from Dorian’s lovely longfingers. “You keep dancing. I’m getting another drink.”
Shortly after my return to our VIP booth, Sibyl comes back to the table as well, fanning herself. “I need some damn ice water.” She downs half a glass.
“Where’s your pretty redhead?” I ask.
“Oh, she had to leave. Got her number, though.” She sighs, pouring herself more wine. “Don’t let Vane bother you. He’s used to Dorian playing with everyone, and it weirds him out to see Dorian so focused on one person. Makes Vane a touch jealous, I guess.” She shakes her head. “Boy’d better watch himself or he’s gonna be out on his little bubble butt. Like I told you, Dorian doesn’t do jealous—doesn’t indulge in it himself and doesn’t put up with it in others. He keeps himself free, and anyone who can’t understand that—” She hitches an eyebrow and jerks her thumb over her shoulder.
“But he pulled me away from the guy I was dancing with,” I counter. “That seemed a little jealous.”
“Yeah, that was weird,” she concedes. “Not something he usually does. Where did you two meet anyway? He didn’t say—Oh god, is he going to do the fire thing again? Lord, don’t let him set the place ablaze!” She shields her eyes, peering through her fingers anyway.
