Page 32 of Saving Pookie

His jaw smacks, over and over again. Chomping, chewing, biting, but not aggressively. Smoothly. He spins his shirt over his head and launches it somewhere into the crowd. His hips buck and roll, and when he lowers himself almost to the ground, propped up only by his muscular thighs, his boxers inch above the waistline of his shorts.

Hands crawl under his arms and find their way to his chest, caressing and massaging. He tilts his head backward and looks to the catwalk above as he raises his arms above his head. He's rocking his body against the person behind him, and to my surprise, it's not a woman he's grinding with. It's a tall, muscular man wearing a backwards cap.

I wonder if Braxton knows.

I wonder if he cares.

I'm not a dancer. Not really. I've learned to bite through the discomfort of offering my body for display at Mr. Pinks because it's part of the fucking job description. But in my free time? No, I don't dance.

My head begins to bob, though. It begins as a gentle sway, finding my way to the beat of an electronic remix of 'I Drove All Night' by Celine Dion. And then I can feel myself being carried on the waves of whatever the fuck this feeling inside me is. Combing a hand through my hair, I feel a rush floating through my innards. I dig my feet into the concrete beneath me, steadying me where I stand.

A body shifts against mine, and my trauma response kicks in. I stumble forward, my heart scattering almost just as fast. When I turn around, there's a bearded man wearing nothing but a light-up harness and a leather jockstrap. He passes me a half-cocked smile, the kind that creases at one corner and opens wide on the other side. He doesn't make a move, though. His gaze is unflinching, daring me to approach.

And I wouldn't.

Under normal circumstances, I'd be halfway to the exit.

But this freedom? It's intoxicating.

I bite down on the memories of every time Cameron laid hands on me. I swallow the trauma, but it doesn't go down easily. It gets lodged somewhere in my esophagus before I force myself to stuff it down and approach the nameless man.

He grabs me by the hip and spins me around until my body is parked against his muscular frame, my ass nestled against his leather-clad dick.

Scruff on the side of my neck, hot air flicking at the lobe of my ear. Strong hands that grip, but don't squeeze. He's so much stronger than me, but not for a moment do I think I'm in danger. Quite the opposite, out here on this dance floor with this complete stranger, I feel... safe.

Is it the drugs?

Or is it the touch of a man who isn't Cameron?

I crave to feel every part of him, for him to feel every part of me. A rough hand trails beneath my shirt. It's clear he's a working man. Uses his hands for a living. Probably a carpenter or a bricklayer.

"So fucking sexy," he purrs, his husky voice rattling my ears. "Dance for daddy."

Behind closed eyes, I inhale his scent—musk and burnt cinnamon.

One of his hands finds the hem of my shorts and skirts upward, pushing at the fabric until his fingers brush the bottom of my white briefs.

And when I open my eyes, I find Braxton staring right back at me with an inexplicable grin, lobbed somewhere between pride and euphoria.

I smile back.

The music scratches to a halt as white lights flood the dance floor, painting the faces of everyone in sight. I squint and cover my eyes with one hand, blinded by the light. The crowd erupts in jeers.

And then the warehouse fades to black as the beat drops.

Break Freeby Ariana Grande.

Braxton rips me forward by my hand, screaming in my ear, "This is my favorite song!"

I search for leather jockstrap daddy and spot him over my shoulder. He waves his hand in the air, surrendering in defeat. He probably thinks Braxton is my boyfriend or something, which he clearly isn't. But I don't mind. It was fun to dance with a stranger, but I'm not ready for anything more than that.

Besides, I've never seen Braxton like this.

He closes the distance between us, holding each of his hands to each side of his head, curled up into little fists as the spirit of Miss Grande overtakes him. He mouths every word, and I can't help but lose myself in the euphoria of watching this straight man strip free all the pretenses society would chain him with.

His body inches closer to mine until our noses are practically touching. And when he moves, when he shifts his body, we bump against each other. He grabs me by the arm and turns me in a circle until he's dancing behind me. It's not enough, though. Never enough. He grips a hand on my waist, guiding me to the rhythm. He's in control here, which is nothing new for me. I'm not a being in controlkind of guy. Not a leader.

His fingers dance underneath my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my side. His touch sends shockwaves through my body, bolts of pheromones that awaken long-lost memories of what it's like to want and to be wanted.