nod solemnly. “You have a lot to say, Hazel. More than most.”
She tilts her head. “Would you prefer to be drinking with a woman too scared to tell you to go fuck yourself?”
“No,” I say. “No, I would not.”
I lead her into the private entrance, down past the dance floor, up a flight of stairs and, finally, to my private booth in the uppermost corner. We are completely isolated, a private place of red lights and plush purple seats, locked away with a door that closes with a loud click. The music quiets to background noise.
Of course, there is champagne waiting on ice for us.
“Look at you, Mr. Prepared,” she jokes. “Why don’t you be a gentleman and pour us a glass?”
I sit easily. “I think I will leave that honor to you.”
She eyes me for a moment like she might decline, but then, with a shrug, starts opening the bottle. It bursts with a loud popping noise and the cork goes flying, crashing into a red bulb and smashing it into pieces. Hazel puts her hand over her mouth as champagne gushes everywhere.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to—”
“It is nothing,” I say. “Pour. Relax.”
We shift down the booth, away from the glass. Neither of us have mentioned yet that my hand has found her thigh once more. The heat radiating from her legs is damn near burning. It consumes me, like a moth to the flame. She tightens her hand around my wrist, giving me a look halfway between begging me to continue and pleading with me—or herself—to stop.
“Carlo.”
The way she says my name almost makes me explode. A moan. A demand.
I recognize it for what it is—a cry for relief.
She sits back with a flustered sigh when I remove my hand. “Tell me about yourself, Hazel.”
“Well, I was born in a convent in the deep wilds of Alaska. More of a cult, really. We were told we had to worship the Great Mother. She’s a giant nun with ten tits and a vagina that produces holy wine. One day, she’ll come down to earth and rescue us from all the evils in the world, but right now she’s in a spaceship orbiting Mars, awaiting fuel to make the return trip.”
We meet eyes. Her smile dances in the dim light.
“So I’m not going to get a straight answer from you, then?” I say, raising my glass. We clink them together.
“You don’t deserve an answer,” she says, wiping the smile from her face. She sips the champagne. She’s constantly trying to convince herself she dislikes me, I can see. I can read her. And it’s not working. “We’re strangers to each other. Let’s keep it that way—”
I can’t stop myself anymore. Grabbing her shoulders, I pull her in for a kiss. Her champagne clatters to the floor, spilling, as our lips barely brush.
But before I can delve deeper, she pushes a hand into my chest, reeling back, lips red, cheeks flushed. “What are you doing?” she moans.
“Not such strangers anymore,” I comment.
“Carlo…” Again, my cock tightens at the way she says my name.
“Tell me to stop.”
A moment passes, then another. Her green eyes are all I can see.
“You’re an asshole,” she whispers. “Thinking you can take whatever you want, isn’t that right? Has anybody ever said no to you?”
I smile, my hand creeping up her shirt. One by one, I undo her buttons. The skin of her belly is soft, yet there is a tautness to her that makes me wonder how bouncy she is, how agile, how tight.
“Tell me to stop,” I repeat.
“Jerk,” she sighs, and then grabs the back of my head and pulls me toward her.
Our lips caress each other in angry, electric union. I can tell right away she doesn’t want to take it slow. I can tell she’s taking out some of her rage on me. Fine, let her have it. I want to give that to her—that release. I undo the last few of her buttons and pull her shirt off. She gasps through the kiss as I slide my hand beneath her bra, stroking the hard nub of her nipple.
She bites my lip, pulling back. I smooth my hand down her belly and tug at her jeans. Working together, we help her wriggle out of them so that they’re trapped around her ankles.
“I want you like that,” I whisper in her ear. Her sex is hot. “So you can grip me tightly. I want to fill you.”