“Is Marlo working tonight?”
If he’s not, I’m making a run for it. Sarra willhave to catch up.
“Oh, Merlot? His fine ass goes on in—” he checks his watch, the band flashing rows of rainbows, even in the dimmed lighting, and my stomach knots, “—about three minutes.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, tapping the bar and easing back into the crowd until it swallows me.
The next few minutes feel like an eternity as I lose myself in the motion of bodies swaying and the beat changing. Lights flash around me, warping everything from faces to lips, tongues against others, muscles coiling. All of it filters down like a kaleidoscope of grinding bodies and wandering hands.
Women openly kiss.
Men, too.
Sarra was right.
I scan the room in an attempt to find her, to right my compass with something familiar in this unending unknown and come up empty. She’s gone from our standing wall table, her drink left behind on its surface and my chest cinches tight.
I shouldn’t have left her alone.
“Oh, fuck.”
Searching the crowd, I weave between bouncing dancers until a flash of bright red hair catches my eye.
My next breath is all temporary relief and stolen just as fast when the lights dim. The song changes. And a single beam illuminates a pole in the center of the dance floor.
Sweat beads at my temples as I stare at the stage surrounding it, waiting for …
I don’t know what.
The show? The dancer? The lights to change once again and the crowd to swallow me whole?
And then it all stops at once when he emerges.
Chills race across my heated skin as Marlo struts his way to the center stage, each step a match to the beat that vibrates in my chest.
He’s just as glittery, vibrant in the purple lighting, and wearing nothing but a small patch covering his junk.
Then he grips the pole, strong hands lifting himself easily into the air where he flips, legs spread straight out, and flashes us the thong string between his cheeks.
Sound erupts around me and I jump, startled back into reality with my pulse pounding hard. My breaths come in pants, and I whip my gaze around.
No one is staring at me.
No one is watching me.
They’re all looking at him.
Swallowing hard, I shove my trembling hands into my pockets and find him again.
He’s twirling now, showing off the muscles that hold him up like the steel in his grip is a piece of him.
I can’t help but admire him even more. The dexterity. His flexibility. The strength andconfidenceit takes to do what he’s doing.
Him kneeling on the stage, undulating his body to the thump of bass as his hand travels south over his abs, has my mouth filling with saliva.
He grabs his crotch, the material covering him barely containing his length, and I jerk behind my zipper.
Fuck, it’s like he reached out a grabbed me from the stage.
