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Dozens of omega perfumes sour in my throat.
None of them are mine.
I want caramel sugar sweetness.
I want crisp apple on my tongue.
I find both scents in a dim back studio blasting a low, pulsing beat that stirs my veins.
When I open the door, it’s over.
The room’s choked in Lilah’s syrupy scent, and if the bass weren’t enough to blow out my brains, the way she moves would kill me fucking dead.
She spins high on a pole in nothing but ass shorts and a belly-baring sports bra.
So high, I’m terrified she’ll fall. My muscles torque ready to dart in for a rescue catch.
Then Lilah dips, arching her back and sliding to the floor in a controlled drop, and my knot inflates like a fucking bowling ball.
Lilah Darling will be the death of me.
And I can’t wait to suffer.
SEVENTEEN
LILAH
Inverted, clinging to the pole, I spin and spin, trying to purge myself after another day of Wyvern antics.
Hunter and Orion lean against the mirror wall, but I’m not performing for them.
I’m performing to stop them from taking over my brain.
My latest loss is caving to Orion’s unrefusable, puppy-dog-eyed request to stay at my bungalow instead of the one he was assigned because he “wants help with his homework.”
Uh huh.
Planning my routine is the only way I’m staying sane. I test tracks, trying to find a song that balances powerful sexy and slutty sexy.
Like, let me ride, but I’ll end you if you try shit.
That’s why I picked pole instead of another style.
Tap won’t get me knotted.
I tool around with floor work and spins, flipping through songs.
After fifty false starts, I finally find THE song.
All raunchy and bassy and sexy attitude.
I crank the volume and hit the pole to work out the kinks on a few spins and inversions.
It feels so good to spin.
To twirl in the air, hair flying out.
I dissolve into the music, adrift in a world where I do what I want, when I want, and nobody—including my own body—gets to force me into anything.
