The distinction matters.
There are parts of myself that never aligned properly before—fragments that existed without context, pieces I kept hidden. With her, these disjointed elements find coherence.
She sees me.
I recognize the banality of it.How utterly predictable it is for me to fall into the cliché I spent years avoiding. But perhaps clichés persist because they contain some essential truth, one that’s impossible to articulate without sounding trite.
We sit together in the semidarkness, her question hanging between us. I could deflect with charm, but I don’t. The truth is simpler and more complex than either of us is prepared to acknowledge.
“I used to accumulate things, experiences. People, sometimes. Now I want…what I’m trying to say is that it’s a different kind of wanting.” The words feel inadequate. “Because when you look at things, they become worth looking at again.”
“That might be the smoothest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Yeah, well. Smooth is what I do when I don’t care.” She lets me hold her hand under the table. “This is messier.”
“Messy looks good on you,” she says softly.
I kiss her, gently at first, then with more intent when she responds. When I pull back, the saxophone shifts to a more sensual tone. “Now, watch this part,” I murmur, turning her toward the stage as the lights dim around us.
A spotlight blooms across parting curtains, illuminating a tableau of half-naked, glimmering bodies adorned in fishnets and corsets. A woman in crimson steps forward, rolling her hips, as a man follows, shirtless and dragging his hand across her torso.
“I’ve never…” She gulps. “Never let myself be so…”
“Comfortable with your sexuality?”
“That.” Reese hides behind her champagne glass, her eyes shyly skittering across the dancers. She scoots forward, intrigued but terrified, like she’s walking on the edge of a mountain.“I wish I could be. Connect with that part of myself, you know? That piece of my life has always been repackaged and sold. It’s always been directed for an audience. I’ve never had control over it.”
“What’s stopping you from taking control right now?” I slowly move her hair aside, kissing along her neck. There’s the smell of magnolia on her skin, which kills my self-control.
“Dante,” she whispers, a warning and a desire.
“I’m serious. The only person who can dictate that part of you is you. In the private and public eye. Your sexuality is yours, Reese,” I remind her. “And it’s splendid.”
“You think I can do what they’re doing up there?”
“Why not? Tell me what you see,” I command, wanting her to use her words. “Don’t miss a detail.”
“They’re dancing,” she quavers, and my cock strains against my trousers.
“I think you can do better than that.” I move my hand up her thigh. “Who catches your eye?”
“They’re all…” She pauses, biting her lip. “The redhead.”
“Why?”
The woman slides down into a split, her nails trailing over her legs before she snaps her head back, looking directly at Reese.
“Because she’s moving like she knows every eye is on her. She moves like she’s the star.”
“And the rest?”
She inhales sharply. I touch the strand of pearls at her throat. I drag my tongue along the cool gems until I reach my silver ring.
“Behind her—oh—” Her composure breaks, and mine threatens to follow. “They dance like something from a dream.” My hand finds her thigh and travels higher and higher until I reach the layer of silk beneath her cotton sundress.Now what do we have here?“The one in leather, feathers, a chrome mask—”
“Go on.” The words come out strained. I’m achingly hard now, every nerve ending alive.
“The music…” She’s struggling to focus, and I’m struggling to not take her right here. “It’s like watching heartbeats.” My fingers trace higher, searching for whatever other surprises she’s keeping hidden. When my thumb finds its mark, I trace wet lace, not her regular cotton panties. “The dancer in black in those restraints, like you’ve said in the past, the control and surrender.”
