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“Morrigan and him, they’ve always had this… connection. I think what she revealed tonight stirred him.” Not that he would ever admit it.
“But I thought that you and Morrigan had… aconnection.” He narrows his eyes on me, and I can’t help but roll mine, ignoring the comment.
I wish I could explain what I saw between them. “It was more like a wild beast recognizing its kind and latching onto it. And Madds doesn’t latch onto anything, ever. Only us.” But her and I… we’re a different kind of beast altogether. I don’t tell Carter that, though.
He nods, then leans back into his seat.
“Why are you going to Metamorphosis, Vincent?” The man rarely calls me by my name.
The waitress sets our drink order on the table with a soft smile, not lingering once the last glass touches the surface.
“I can’t help but wonder about E… Morrigan.”Shit.Carter quirks an eyebrow, but I cut off that train of thought quickly. “Her best friend owns a fetish club, and she would have supported her, especially now at the start. Which means she was there when we were. But I would have noticed her red hair.”
Carter raises an eyebrow, a smile pulling at his lip. “Yes, it’s certainly unmissable.”
“But… sinceit isher best friend. I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it all.”
“Interesting. Well, I hope you enjoy your journey finding that out.” The bastard smirks and I start laughing.
“I’m sure I will.”
* * *
The gold detailsshine in the darkness of the club. Metamorphosis was most definitely built with both style and comfort in mind, and as I sit on the upholstered barstool, sipping a glass of quality Bourbon, I have to give an extra point for that comfort. I didn’t think I would enjoy it much. I joined more because The Sanctum has to ensure it has a foot through every door in this city. But the anonymity is refreshing. Exhilarating even.
The music, the atmosphere, the people… it’s immersive.
The song changes, but it’s the raise in volume that stops me mid sip, and when the lights dim to the cusp of darkness, it pulls my attention away from the bar. The moment I turn in my chair, a fresh, wild scent envelops me, so different from the one that dominates this space. It submerges me into a visceral, yet untouchable memory, and like a warm summer breeze, it passes by me. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, before she disappears through the crowd. It was too dark to see more than the faint shine of her eyes behind the mask, but her scent lingers, and I don’t want to exhale just yet. I don’t want to let it go. It brought a strange wave of emotions with it, and they’re the good kind.
Suddenly she appears on the stage, the only light in the space aimed at her, but not blinding, just bright enough that it’s like an aura around her body. She wears a long skirt, her legs peeking through the high slits, this garment looking more like multiple scarves tied on her waist. The song intensifies just as she sprints the small distance from the steps to the pole, and jumps onto it, clutching the metal between her hands and bare thighs, the long skirt flowing as she throws her head back, eyes closed, spinning around to an ethereal tune. She’s pulled everyone’s attention, all eyes on the woman that I have seen dance once before. The one I couldn’t take my eyes from the first time I stepped in here. The same one that I finger fucked as we watched Carter in one of the playrooms. I recognize the mask, the hair… but mostly, I recognize her scent.
Her shiny, black hair flows in waves as she pole dances, switching positions slowly, following each note of the song. She’s treating the pole as her partner, each movement a testament to her passion for dancing, a testament of her sensuality. She moves like she’s all alone in this club, and considering the darkness around her, she probably feels as though she is.
I’m caught in this spell and somehow I feel guilty. Have I ever had this sentiment? I’m enthralled by this woman, while actively pursuing another, the one and only…
She lets go of the pole, filling the stage with an elegant, contemporary routine, but it’s the borrowed ballet movements that make me drop down from my seat. The moment she flies into the air, doing the splits mid-leap, I head straight toward the stage.
“It’s called a Grand Jeté, not jumping splits, Vincent.”
I can practically hear her voice in my head, correcting me again. I caught her dancing for the first time… and it was the first time I allowed myself to talk to her.
I catch glimpses of her as I walk between the people gathered to watch the routine, and by the time I reach the steps, she’s back on the pole. Before I get the chance to linger on her swaying curves, the beat drops… and so does she, sliding down the pole until her ass hits the floor at the same time as the bass booms, vibrating under my feet.
I feel it straight in my cock, or maybe what I feel is the effect of the woman herself—the pole is snug between her breasts, as she holds herself by it, arms stretched high above her head, and her legs spread wide, the crowd getting a clear view of her lingerie.
Now this stirs something in me—a jealousy I should have no business feeling, yet that’s not the dominant thought, because it stirs pride as well.
Everyone claps and cheers in unison as she rises to her feet, her lips curving into a shy smile as she bows her head gently. She runs off the stage as the light returns to its usual dimness, and her steps falter the moment she takes the first step down and notices me at the bottom. The closer she gets, the better I see behind the shadow of her mask, and her forest green eyes are so much clearer…
MyEve.
She cocks her head, and I wish I could see her expression. But in a split second, her hands shoot to the collar of my black shirt, pulling open the buttons with a clumsy urgency, and I know… I don’t need to see her expression. She knows. And I let her get her confirmation.
She pulls away one side of the fabric, and brushes her soft fingers against the scar she left there, on my left peck, a few months before. Her eyes shoot back to mine, and I’m not entirely sure what I see there—anger, shock, annoyance… relief?
I think the music stopped playing because all I can hear are her heavy breaths, echoing somehow, her chest rising and falling slowly, her nostrils flaring, and I feel like I’m waiting for her to strike.
What is the appropriate conversation starter with the woman you thought you last touched years ago, only it turns out it was much more recent than that, under the anonymity of a mask?
