Beginnings

A Million Questions

~18+ Warnings: Descriptions of sex, crude language. ~

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Part 1, The Booth

The booth I'm sitting in is nestled in a corner of the Shady Rock, a club I frequent in. I have the perfect view of the people writhing against each other on the dance floor and the rest of the shaded booths where I can just make out what the couples are up to. It's scandalous here, watching all these people dry hump each other on the dance floor and either give handjobs, blowjobs or finger fuck or ride in the booths. I come here often. Some might say it's creepy, but it feeds my imagination, and my writing flows like I hit the jackpot. Because I did.

"What are you doing here?"

A deep voice pulls my attention from the laptop, and I find myself staring into the inky black depths of his eyes. Zev Wilder. My one-night stand—the guy I ghosted the morning after out of sheer self-preservation—only to later discover he was the 'situationship guy' my friend couldn't stop obsessing over. he a rich, narcissistic asshole. Needless to say, I don't like him. In fact, he's the one person I despise because I hate disloyal people. Hate them. Hate him.

"I should be asking you that," I snap, scowling as he takes a seat across from me, lounging as if he bribed the owner to reserve this booth just for him. "Whatever. I'm not talking to you," I add, turning back to my laptop.

"I don't mind that. Don't talk. I'm only here to give you some inspiration for your novel—and fuel for your wet dreams," he says, winking with that infuriating smirk, relaxing into the seat with his arm draped casually over the backrest.

I try to ignore him, like I always do, but the words on my screen blur, replaced by the image of his face. The things I wanted him to do to me. The things I let him do that night. 

I scoff quietly, the bitterness seeping through, poisoning whatever seductive spell he might have over me.

When we did the devil's tango, I had no idea who he was. I was tipsy, he was there, and we had fun. But the next morning, when I saw the picture in the hallway of his massive house, I realized exactly what I'd done—and who he was. I bolted out of there as fast as I could. 

After that, fate wouldn't leave us alone. I kept running into him—again and again—for three months. But this is the first time I have no escape, no buffer. And I'm done running. I refuse to act scared anymore.

It's a cruel, endless loop. He wants me; I can feel it. I want him; I know it. But I can't give in. I cannot afford to. The guilt is too much. It's the first rule of the girl code, a friend's crush is off-limits. 

I look up at him. His white shirt is tinted pink in the fluorescent red lights of the private club. His neck, strong and corded with muscles, connects to a square, sharp jawline. A slightly tilted, bumped nose sits on his face, showing that he isn't perfect and doesn't need to be. A scar runs from the side of his neck over his collarbone and disappears into his shirt, adding to the bad boy, rugged appeal he's got going.

I shake my head as if that will dispel the pull he has on me and look at my screen. The images I have described play in my mind, wet heat pools low in my belly and I bite my lip my heartbeat picking up its pace. This is bad, god, this is really bad. The scenes I described in extensive detail are all about sex, in any position I could think of and though I will never admit it out loud I could only imagine them with one person and one person alone. 

I look up through my lashes and find him looking at me, stripping me bare with his eyes, and it's then that something shifts for both of us. We stare for hours or minutes; I really do not know, and my laptop goes to sleep in my periphery. He leans forward, shutting the lid, and I stare at his lithe, long fingers, the veins in his forearm mesmerizing. I can feel them on my skin as if they were on me only yesterday. I follow the arm up and meet his eyes. His breathing is laboured; he's affected and he's not the only one. He comes around the circular table to my side. When I don't look at him, he lifts my chin to meet his eyes. One finger on my chin, pulling me up—that's all it takes for me to stand and follow him.

He leads me to the dance floor with a hand on the small of my back. Once surrounded by bodies, he moves and our bodies flow together to the low bass of the music reverberating throughout the club. He guides my hips, moving them from side to side. My back is to his front, and I can feel the heat from him, but he keeps me a few inches away from him, close but not touching. At that moment, all the repressed feelings bubble up and all the stolen moments from the time we met flash before me. The lingering stares, the prolonged touches, the dirty fantasies. Something within me snaps, and I know what I'm about to do is reckless and might hurt my friend, hell it might hurt me more, but I'm done ignoring this evident attraction. One more night, I lie to myself, just one more night to live the fantasies I dream about before bed. Just one more. 

His breath is closer; I feel it hot on my exposed shoulder. His lips brush against the back of my neck, goosebumps race down my arms and a shiver travels through my whole body. I reach behind me and sink my fingers into his lush hair, pulling him to me so that the stubble on his jaw rubs against the side of my neck, our cheeks pressed together. The top buttons of his shirt poke against my bare upper back and I feel his erection resting happily a little above my ass. His hands grip my hips with a bruising intensity, and I grind on him. With all my inhibitions out the door, I feel sinful, powerful and free. We stay that way for a while and I can't help but notice how well we fit together. 

I turn and he rests his forehead on mine. Our breaths mingle, and I glance at his plump lips. I close my eyes, waiting for him to do something. He holds my wrists, loosening my fingers that were rumpling his pristine white shirt. I expect him to pull me close and lessen the distance between our lips, but instead, my hands drop to my sides, and the heat of him vanishes. I stand there with my eyes closed, embarrassed and cold until the song ends. I turn, walk back to the booth, pack my things and leave. Will I ever learn?