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The bass is so loud it feels like a heartbeat. It harmonises with the vodka in my veins, and my body comes alive, dancing free amongst the crowd. The alcohol numbs me to the plight of my friends, shifting their dance circle in an attempt to keep me amongst the fold, but I’m long gone. Unfamiliar bodies press against mine only to fall away again. Spinning, whirling, free. I am the music, and the music is me.
My body registers him before my brain, grooving to his groove as he negotiates a path across the dance floor. He’s tall. Big. Not clumsy big, though. He dances like he’d know how to fuck, and I dance like I’d enjoy finding out.
I keep my eyes from his face. He is justman. Hot, big, sexyman. Chocolate skin and chocolate eyes. Big cock, too. I feel the swell of him against my ass as he makes contact, the heavy grip of his hands on my hips when I don’t pull away. I only break the connection when he attempts conversation, darting out of his grasp to dance around him, a whirling dervish, my tumble of red curls tickling my shoulders. I smile as he comes closer, only to intercept his words with words of my own.
“Don’t speak.”
He ignores me. They always do. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Tonight, I’m going to be... Carys.”
“Tonightyou’re going to be Carys?” His voice is low, his laugh like black velvet. “And what’s your name gonna be tomorrow?”
“Does it matter?” I smile wide, resting my eyes on his mouth just long enough to see him smile too. White teeth, gorgeous lips.
“Sure, whatever,Carys.” Hands on my hips again, grinding to the beat. “I’m Tr...”
My finger is on his lips in a heartbeat, my shush insistent. “Just dance,” I say. “I don’t need your name.”
Dance is our foreplay. The courting ritual before the bump and grind. Our bodies scope each other out through movement, and mine likes what it finds. His abs are solid, firm under a loose shirt. His jeans tight against his bulge, against his ass. My legs part for his, his toned thigh pressing in just the right places. “I got what you need, babe.” He leans in. “My place or yours?”
“Neither.” I take his hand, dancing him backwards through the crowd. I feel eyes on me but ignore them all, snaking out of view amongst the drinkers and the talkers, until the dancers are just a blur. The cool air of the smoking area hits hard, but not hard enough to sober me. I’ve been here before, dragged out too many Saturdays by my friends. Enough times to know the alcove behind the outdoor speakers. I pull my chocolate stud into the darkness, and he groans, his hot lips on my neck.
“Here? For real?”
My fingers are already working their way inside his fly. He’s a big boy, indeed. “Yes. Right here.”
He presses me against the wall. “Nice... Show me those curves, babe, I love a girl with curves.”
Just as well. His big hands palm my big tits, squeezing nice and hard before he peels down my dress, yanking aside the sturdy lace of my bra. My nipples stand to attention. He rolls them between his fingers until I gasp. I’m already hot for him, five songs worth of foreplay well long enough to get me wet and wanting. “Fuck me,” I whisper. “Don’t speak... just fuck me.”
“Wanna taste you.” He lowers his head, slurping at my tits before burying his face between them, the standard reaction. I close my eyes to blank out his, pushing my weight against the brickwork as his fingers find my panties.
“Please... fuck me...” I moan. “Hard...”
“You don’t wanna know my name?”
“I don’t need a name.”
“Might wanna see you again... might wanna see those gorgeous big tits of yours...”
It would never happen. “Fuck me, please... just fuck me.”
“Alright, babe. Alright.”
I turn to face the wall as he reaches into his pocket to fumble for a rubber. My dress tickles my thighs, barely enough to cover the swell of my arse.
“Gonna fuck you hard...”
Music to my ears.
My pussy is so ready, panties wrenched aside. His thick thumb slides its way in first, testing.
“Yes...” I reach down for my clit, bracing myself for his cock. But it never fucking comes.
“Gemma! What the fuck?! Not-a-fucking-gain!”
A screech I really didn’t want to hear. Chelsea Rawling’s pincer nails were on my elbow before I could register, yanking me aside before I’d even pushed my tits back in my dress.
