Honeymoon confessions

ALERT

Rosalita sat in the seat. "One shot of Vodka!" She yelled over the music to the blond bartender. "Coming up!" He nodded at her. She spun in the chair to the crowd. Sweaty bodies littered the dancefloor, grinding on each other to the tune of the music. The pure stench of alcohol mixed with sweat fit right in the scene, almost hard to notice when all the booze settled in.

"Here you go." The bartender said in her ear. She felt his presence atop her head. "What is it?" She asked. He cocked his head to his side, taking some time to compose his words carefully. He was still after all, on the clock and she, a customer.

"How on earth did you get here?"

She cocked her head to the side and asked, "What do you mean?" Even now, she had her back to him. "I mean you're either pretty young or using some really expensive Botox." She finally faced him as she released a loud laugh. Although the only source of light was the multicolored disco bulb constantly turning and switching, his beauty shone very clear. His full beard created an aged aura, something she appreciated.

"Good Botox." She answered before stretching forth her hand.

"Henry." He pulled out his napkin and began wiping his counter. Confused, she put down her arm.

"You sound Hispanic" He started. "What brings you to America." She shrugged off the burning sensation of the alcohol, "you can say I'm chasing my dreams." He snickered. "Let me guess, young immigrant moves to the United States to "make it big. Good luck with that." He mocked. He had seen and met a lot of people like her and although his words harsh, he believed them. The United States was not how the leaders projected it to be to the rest of the world. The rich ran it, and it wasn't always leaders. They were just puppets. The true masters where those from old money-dirty money. Yes! They help control. They were those who could commit murder and get away with it although everyone in the community they committed it. But one thing about them, they didn't share their wealth with outsiders. The money made stayed within them. There wasn't any to go around to the lower class. This was Manhattan for crying out loud! Everybody knew what really happened there and who run it.

Her eyes honed and the left corner of her lips twitched a couple of times. She threw the remainder of her drink into her mouth, pushed her empty glass towards him and spat, "Bitch!"

A taunting smirk formed on his lips and shrugged. She would learn sooner or later the world she had pushed herself into. "Hey can I have a dry martini!" A voice called from the other side of the counter. His eyes followed her as she swayed her way into the crowd, "she'll learn," he muttered before throwing his napkin on his shoulder and turning his attention to his other customers. "Dry martini, coming up!"

Rosalita found her place at the center of the dance floor. With her eyes closed and now energized from the alcohol in her system, she allowed the music set in. Her roamed her long neck, down to the curves on her chest.

As the music dies, something in your eyes...

Her hips swayed, tauntingly, in accordance to the music. Hooded eyes, shamelessly followed each movement, each shake of her butt and that made her grin. She felt their gazes like bullets, piercing into her flesh. It did something to her ego, knowing her body could trap the eyes around her.

Am never going to dance again. Guilty feet have got rhythm.

Soon, she would feel a domineering aura behind her. The raw but expensive colon of a man gave her goosebumps. A sly smirk formed on her lips as she felt a presence behind her; hands on her hips, back against his hard front. The heat that radiated between the two would only cause him to press her soft ass to his now growing manhood. Her breaths got ragged with each wine and grind. His grip around her waist tightened.