The pulsing beat of the music vibrated through my chest as I strode into New York’s hottest gay club, Pulse. Dim red lights bathed the crowded room, silhouetting writhing bodies on the dance floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, cologne, and unbridled lust.
Fuck, I needed this.
I shoved through the crowd, ignoring the hungry stares following me. Let the pathetic fuckers drool. I wasn't here for them.
I threw back a shot of whiskey, savoring the fiery serpent that slithered down my throat. The bartender's lecherous gaze dragged along my body, lingering on every intricate line of my tattoos before meeting my icy glare. He stumbled back in shock, nearly toppling over someone's drink. Amateur.
"Another," I barked, slamming the glass on the bar.
He hurried to obey. Smart fucking man.
“You need to slow it down,” the bartender squeaked.
“And you need to shut the fuck up.” I grabbed it and turned, surveying the dance floor. A sea of nameless faces, none worth my time.
Until a flash of blue hair caught my eye. A twink in tight jeans and a mesh shirt, grinding against some beefy bear, his eyes closed and head thrown back in abandon.
Well, well. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total waste after all.
I downed the shot and cracked my neck, anticipation unfurling in my gut. It was time to hunt.