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She starts to descend the stage, towards me. The next part, where she’ll touch me, dance for me, tease me until I touch her or I order her to pleasure me. We’ve gone through any number of configurations in the second stage of Selena’s seduction, but tonight, I don’t want her hands on me.
I’m not entirely surewhatI want to do. My cock is hard, aching, but not for her. And if I leave this room right now—
I also feel a little guilty, leaving her hanging. But not enough to touch her myself. Not when it feels like a betrayal, as ridiculous as that is.
“Get yourself off while I watch.” I wave a hand at her. “However you please.”
It’s dismissive—dominant, even. Another girl wouldn’t think twice about it, but Selena knows me well enough to know this usually isn’t how I play the game. There’s that flash of disappointment in her eyes again, but I see a gleam there, too, and I know she’s taking this as a challenge. She wants to make me break, to make me want her enough to fuck her the way she desires.
On a different night, before, that would have been a role I would have been happy to fulfill.
Selena sways towards the closet, the music still winding through the air, slow and seductive. She opens it, selecting something I can’t see, and returns to the stage. A moment later I see the thick toy in her hand, suctioned to the lacquered surface, and Selena kneels down, hovering over it as she spreads her legs. I can see how wet she is, the swollen folds of her pussy, aroused enough that her clit is peeking out. “This is what you want to watch, Dante?” Her voice is low and rasping, all sex, and when she wraps her hand around the toy, I know she wants me to imagine she’s gripping my cock.
But what leaps into my mind isn’t Selena kneeling in front of me, stroking me. It’s Emma the night she accidentally called me, in her bed, her hand wrapped around a toy as she pretended it was me fucking her. It’s the sound of her voice moaning my name.
That’s all I see as Selena lowers herself onto the stiff silicone cock, her lips parting on a gasp as she rests her hands on her perfect dancer’s thighs and starts to fuck herself like she’s riding me.
She’s exquisite. Watching a girl like Selena masturbate is art in and of itself—the way she moves, writhes, and moans. It’s a different type of dance, one meant to inflame and seduce, and she’s flawless when it comes to that. But I’ve never known what it was like to want another woman so much that it doesn’t matter what’s in front of me.
I’m not hard for her. I’m painfully hard for someone else, someone who might not even be thinking of me right now, and it feels like it’s driving me mad.
“Dante—” Selena gasps my name, her hips rolling on the slick toy, her hand between her thighs now. She’s moaning for me, but I can see she’s still putting on a show—holding herself open to give me the best view, angling herself so that the pleasure is all aimed at what might turn me on the most. She’s always holding something back, always offering something cloaked in artifice. Never the real thing, entirely bared and vulnerable.
Not what Emma gave me, the night she didn’t mean for me to hear it. Not what she gave me when she gave in to temptation in my penthouse and let me have her. Not what we had this morning.
I let Selena finish. I’m not a monster. I can see the confusion on her face—I haven’t even taken my cock out, just sat here with my hard-on on the verge of splitting my fly open—but she can only hold back for so long. She comes with a moan that’s almost musical, another part of her show—not the ragged moan of pleasure that I remember tearing from Emma’s lips. She rocks on the toy, dragging out the last tremors of her orgasm, and I stand up, throwing a wad of folded bills on the table. It’s more than enough for the show she put on—probably double, but she deserves it. It’s not her fault that I’ve found an obsession that blocks out all else in the world—even her.
“I need to go.” I see her lips part, maybe on the first protest that she’d ever allow, but I don’t wait to find out. I stride out of the room, my cock trapped painfully against my thigh, and straight outside to the back of the club. I don’t bother texting Jonas; he’ll figure it out. If I so much as touch my phone right now, I’ll call Emma.
I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching my teeth until I walk out, leaning back against the wall, feeling as if all of the blood in my body is currently throbbing between my legs. I reach down to adjust myself, on the verge of pulling my zipper down and stroking myself to a quick and messy orgasm right here, but that’s not what I want.
It won’t be enough. It won’t even start to take the edge off.
I’ve pulled my phone out of my pocket and found Emma’s number before I can think better of it twice. I lean my head back against the stone wall of the building, my other hand shoved into my pocket and clenched into a fist as I wait to see if she’ll answer.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Dante? A little late to set up an appointment, don’t you think?” The coolness of her tone tells me that she knows why I’m calling. She knows it’s not about the next session. It feels like ice on my skin, because I know she’s about to shut me down.
“I want to see you.” The words come out rough, hoarse, and more honest than I meant for them to. “Are you off work yet?”
There’s a moment’s silence, as if Emma is trying to decide what she wants to say. The ice coils in my belly, in direct conflict with the throbbing heat in my groin. I’m aching for her.
“I’m not your booty call, Dante,” she says finally. Her voice is firm, cold, but I think I hear a twinge of regret in it. A twinge of desire.
Or I could just be so far gone that I’m imagining it.
“I’m your tattoo artist,” she continues, in that same cool voice. “This has already gone farther than it should. We can’t keep doing this.”
“Emma—” I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I can’t argue that she’s not. It’s just that right now, I don’t fucking care.
“Where are you?” Her voice has a deceptively smooth sound to it, like cold silk. “I can hear the music.”
I should lie, but I can’t. “I don’t suppose you know what the Neon Rose is.”
Emma laughs, and I can’t tell if there’s actual humor in it or not. “Let me guess, you have a membership there.”
“I own it.”
