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The man’s hand reaches in front, inching up her short skirt, and I inhale a short breath as his hand disappears beneath her red lace panties. Staring feels wrong, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away. There is no hiding the man’s fingers as they work in and out of her sex. He starts slow but picks up the pace to the rhythm of the music, his thrusts getting rougher and stronger. Her eyes fall closed. She’s lost. Her mouth parts. His arm lifts and wraps around her neck, allowing his mouth to capture hers. They kiss, their tongues dueling, while he continues to pump into her in the wide open on the dance floor.
“What do you see?”
I jolt, forgetting Damien behind me. His warm breath, once again, does things to my body. A shiver of bumps explodes over my skin. I don’t turn around. I’m embarrassed for him to see how flushed my cheeks are. I’m unsure how to even answer the question. I see so many things. A couple dancing. Lost in a moment. Lust. Sex. Passion. Nothing registers but the feeling they’re sharing as they touch each other.
Damien’s chest presses against my back, his crisp shirt brushes against the open base of my dress, sending another round of goose bumps pebbling over my skin. The couple continues to dance, and I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his hand working her. I imagine those hands on me. The feeling of being seduced out in the open. My breathing becomes labored with each pump.
“Do you think she’s enjoying herself?” His deep voice rings in my ear. My mouth parts, feeling dry. I lick my lips, needing moisture, completely forgetting the drink in my hand. I want to answer, but any words that want to come out are lodged in my throat. I’m so lost in the scene before me, I barely jump when his hand reaches from behind, caressing my thigh. His fingers trail up past the slit of my dress until he reaches the end of the opening. I fight to keep my own eyes open. I want his hands exactly where the man’s are. As if Damien can read my mind, he pushes away the dress and slides his fingers under the silk of my panties. I become lost. Obsessed with the couple in front of me. Aching for what Damien is doing. His warm finger enters me with ease. I’m soaking wet. Aroused. He works his finger in and out while I watch the man do the same. My legs begin to shake as I lose focus on the world around me. My head drops against his chest, wanting to rub myself harder against his working hand. Each thrust, each rush of endorphins he creates.
“What are you feeling?” His words feel just as sexual as the way he’s touching me. I don’t know why I’m not telling him to stop—why I’m allowing him to expose me and touch me in a way that’s meant to be private.
“I want more,” I say in a trance as the man’s hand works her harder, faster. The woman’s expression screams pure ecstasy as he finger fucks her violently. Damien picks up his pace, matching the man’s. Yes. God, yes. I become so lost. The woman opens her eyes, catching me staring at her, but she doesn’t turn away or make her lover stop. She doesn’t give me a look that tells me to look away. She holds me with her stare. I feel like I’m violating her privacy, but also sharing something with her—every emotion, expression. She’s close. So close. Fuck. Fuck. What am I doing? Faster. Harder. God, I’m going to come. My eyes locked with hers as she explodes, and I lose my own fight. My throat locks, my mouth opens, wanting to scream, moan, anything, but I’m silent as the orgasm ripples through me.
The glass of club soda slips from my grip, shattering on the dance floor. Reality crashes into me instantly—what I just did, watched. I open my eyes to the smiling woman who continues to dance as if nothing just happened. I whip around, throwing my head into Damien’s chest. “Get me out of here,” I whisper into his chest, embarrassed beyond belief, but he already has me cradled under his arm escorting me through a side door before I finish my plea.
I stay hidden under his hold until I hear the unlocking of a door before it opens and shuts. I hesitantly pull away from his comfort and open my eyes to realize I’m in a lavish one-story loft. “Where are we?” I ask, taking in the modern décor.
“My private loft.”
I quickly turn to see him walking to a mahogany cellarette. He pulls out two glasses and a decanter, then pours the amber liquid in both glasses, handing me one of them.
