Burn Down the Night

by M. O'Keefe

  “There’s no leaving this life.”

  “But you tried.”

  “And I came back, so it didn’t fucking work, did it?” he yelled and then held a hand up to his head again.

  “You want some painkillers?” I asked.

  “I want you to let me go!” He rattled the handcuffs. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, I came back for Dylan. So I get it and you know something, part of me respects this fucked-up, dangerous plan of yours. But I want no part of it. So unchain me and I’ll go. No harm, no foul.”

  “I let you go and you won’t kill me?” I asked, not believing him for a minute.

  “I was never going to kill you.”

  “Right,” I laughed. “You were only going to beat the shit out of me?”

  “I was going to fuck the shit out of you.”

  I sucked in a breath and it burned in my lungs. My pussy clenched, liking the idea.

  Here it was, my opening.

  I spread my legs again, giving him a good long look. “How about I fuck the shit out of you,” I whispered.

  The air in the room changed. It got thicker. Hotter. I had to open my mouth to fill my lungs. This was moving faster than I’d thought. I hadn’t expected to want this like I did.

  “What are you saying, Joan?” He spoke slowly, softly, as if he could sense the change in the air like I could. I watched his chest rise and fall a few times. The muscles in his belly under all those tattoos clenched and flexed and released like it was work.

  I felt the same way. Breathing in this hot thick air took effort.

  We were panting and we hadn’t even touched.

  He licked his lips like he could taste me. And my head felt heavy on my neck. My body felt heavy.

  This strange, dangerous desire was honey in my veins.

  Jeez. Now, who was the stupid, simple creature?

  “I’m saying, help me and I’ll make it worth the effort.”

  His eyelids lowered over those blue eyes, giving him a sexy slumberous look that was like catnip to me. I felt my own eyelids do the same. We were two fucking animals eyeing each other up. It shouldn’t be sexy.

  But it was.

  Because it was dangerous and wrong and that was just the way I liked my sex. This was my favorite flavor.

  “Rumor around the club was you only like women,” he said.

  I shrugged, dropping my face toward my shoulder, a practiced look that men liked. My bisexuality and what I liked about women versus what I like about men was complicated and none of his business.

  But when it came to sex, I was equal opportunity.

  “I do like women,” I said. “But I like men, too.”

  I let my fingers toy with the tiny scrap of fabric over my breast. I ran my thumb over my nipple so that it stood out hard and he could see it.

  “You think your pussy is so special that it will convince me to risk my life to go get your sister?”

  “I’m not asking you to risk your life and go get my sister. I’m asking you to make a phone call. That’s it. And yeah, I think my pussy is that special.”

  I pushed myself off the edge of the dresser, but still leaned back against it, because I wasn’t stupid enough to get close to him. Not yet. I ran my fingers down from my breast to the white scrap of fabric of the bikini bottoms and I pressed my finger against my slit, pushing the fabric into it so he could see the outline of the lips of my pussy.

  And the small damp spot, because I was turned on despite knowing better.

  On the bed, his erection was pushing at the boxers he wore. He was turned on, too. Despite himself. Despite the pain or maybe because of it.

  Maybe this was his favorite flavor, too. Desperate and mercenary and wrong.

  “My pussy,” I said. “My mouth. My ass. I’m pretty special, Max.”

  “Show me.”

  I blinked.

  “Show me that special pussy. Those tits. Show me your ass.”

  A show. I was good at shows. But nothing was free.

  “My sister—”

  “You want a phone call? We can talk about that.”

  “I need some kind of guarantee.”

  “You’re not going to get it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Trust him? Impossible. There was no trust in me.

  He stroked his dick with his free hand. “I want you, Joan. I’ve wanted you for months and you’ve wanted me. I promise I’ll talk to you about your sister. Now fucking show me something.”

  I had no idea if I could trust him, but fuck it. This was a crack in his armor. A possible way in. My shot.

  And if it didn’t work, if he refused, he was still chained to the bed.

  I could find another way.

  Resolved, I reached behind my neck and pulled the tie to my bikini top, but I kept my hands over my breasts, taking my time with the show. Max was still gripping his cock in his free hand, but he wasn’t jacking it. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed. I’d never seen him quite like this, and it was a huge turn-on. He was powerful and vulnerable all at once.

  That wet spot on my bikini bottoms got bigger.

  I dropped my hand and the cups from my bikini fell to my waist.

  “Fuck,” Max groaned. “I want to come all over those tits.”

  I smoothed my hands over them, touching myself the way I know looked good, holding them up for him. A show. For him.

  A breath of cool air blew over my body. Not the air conditioner, but a memory. The past few months at the strip club. Outside of that one dance for him in the front row, none of that had been sexy to me. The show for men’s eyes. The falseness of it.

  I eased away from my own excitement, and it was a relief in a way. To not be invested in this situation. To give him what he wanted, so I could get what I wanted. A transaction.

  Yes, better. Better than something authentic. Better than showing him something real, the ragged edges of my own self. Only showing him what I liked, what I wanted, so he couldn’t find a way to use it against me.

  I turned and pushed down the bottoms of my suit, showing him my ass, my pussy—all smooth because that was what made money.

  Yeah, I thought. Think of that. Think of all those waxing appointments, holding my buttcheek so some girl could wax my asshole. Nothing sexier than THAT.

  I was drifting further and further away from myself, and I could almost hear the heavy bass line of that Bruno Mars song I often danced to.

  I ran my fingers over the fat lips of my pussy. Dry now, because I was no longer interested. I flipped my hair over my shoulder and looked back at him, my bottom lip between my teeth.

  He no longer had his cock in his hand and his eyes, when they looked at me, were cold.

  I spread my legs wider, so he could see more. I licked my finger, using my spit as lubrication to slide it into my body.

  “Stop,” he said.

  “I don’t want to,” I said in a breathy moan.

  He rolled his eyes. “I know when a woman is faking it, Joan.”

  I stood up, leaning back against the dresser. Don’t get angry, I told myself. He’s playing with you.

  “I’m not faking it,” I breathed at him, hopping up onto the dresser and spreading my legs wide. I was so fucking naked. So uncomfortably naked and he wasn’t even looking at me anymore.

  “Fuck you, Max!” I said, angry despite all my warnings.

  “No, fuck you, Joan. I’m a man. Not a boy—a man. And I don’t need you putting on some fake show for me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I jumped down, grabbed my suit, and pulled on the bottoms.

  “You weren’t into that.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Jesus, Joan, I’m handcuffed to a bed. How about we cut the lies.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Like you care whether or not I enjoyed that.”

  “Clearly,” he gestured at his dick which had gone limp in his underwear, “I do.”

  “You can’t pretend you don’t
want me,” I said. “I won’t believe it. You’ve been eye-fucking me for months at the club.”

  “And you’ve been eating that shit up,” he spat back at me. “You think I didn’t see you watching me?”

  “That’s right,” I said with a smirk. We were throwing hand grenades at each other. Not caring if we blew ourselves up in the process, as long as the other one got hit. “I’ve been watching you and fucking allll the girls.”

  His cheeks were bright, his eyes were sharp, and they were right back on me. Where I wanted them. I felt like I had control if he was watching me.

  “And what have you been doing?” I asked. “Everyone knows you don’t touch the dancers. No one sees you with anyone. Not ever. So, we’ve been watching each other for months and I fuck who I want to fuck and you…what? Jerk off?”

  “Fuck you,” he said with just a little too much heat. And that was all the answer I needed.

  I made a sad little moue with my lips, but I was stroking the top of my breast, my fingers playing with my nipple. Just a little. Just enough. He couldn’t look away.

  I owned him. And the fact that he wanted me like this—despite his best effort not to—I liked it. I liked him a little better because he would rather have a real fight than a fake sex show.

  Interesting. Very…interesting.

  That thick wild honey was back in my veins.

  He was sucking in air like there wasn’t enough of it. And that beast between his legs. It was alive again, hard under the plaid cotton of his underwear, arching up toward his belly.

  “So,” I said, leaning back against the dresser, feeling back in control. “How about you cut the crap and tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to touch yourself the way you like,” he said. “I want to see what gets you off. I don’t want a show, Joan. I don’t want to see what every guy who could pay the cover charge got to see. I want what you don’t show other people. I want to see you.”

  And just like that, he took me out at the knees.

  “That’s not for sale,” I said. A small point of pride that, that had never been for sale. Me, the real me was not up for grabs. There were rumors about me at the club. About the girls I liked to fuck. I had men offer me thousands of dollars to watch me work another girl. But I never said yes. I’d strip and I’d spread and I’d pretend to get off on it, but none of it would be for me.

  None of it would actually be me.

  I made up the name Joan for a reason. Who I was, who I really was, had been buried deep in the last seven months and now…he wanted me to start digging her out.

  A few things, not much, had to be private. And my pleasure—authentic and real—was one thing I kept to myself.

  “The fuck it’s not,” he said. “You want my help. You need my help. So tell me what you like.”

  How the fuck had he done this? He was handcuffed to the bed! I was in control—his eyes were glued to me. Why was I considering opening up my chest and pulling out my secrets to show him?

  Don’t, I wanted to tell myself. You’re better than this. He’ll make it cheap or lurid.

  Give him Joan. Keep Olivia safe.

  “Joan?” he said like my window was closing.

  “You want to know what I like?”

  “It’s the only thing I want.”

  “A stacked blonde with a strap on,” I spat at him.

  He sucked in a breath. The beast in his underwear twitched.

  “What else?”

  “Two guys,” I said, pulling up some old masturbatory favorites. “One in my mouth, the other in my pussy.”

  “More.”

  “You. That night at the club. Watching me. Remember?”

  He sucked in a breath. My skin was so hot under his gaze, I could barely stand it. “Oh, I fucking remember.”

  He jerked his head back, his cheeks flushed, and fuck if I wasn’t into it again. This guy, this fucking guy. It was a chemistry thing between us, something animal and base. Unreasonable.

  “That night, I left the stage and I thought you’d come find me. I was waiting for you to come find me. But you didn’t.”

  He shook his head. All tight and restrained. Controlled. Oh God, I loved that. I wanted to pull at those restraints. I wanted to unravel them, one by one, and see what would happen.

  “It’s a rule,” he said. “About fucking around where the club does business.”

  “And you don’t break your rules?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  Oh, I thought, we are going to break all kinds of rules tonight.

  “Show me your cock.”

  “Show me you’re wet,” he shot back.

  I sat back against the dresser again and pushed aside the bikini bottoms, splitting my lips so he could see the pink folds, wet and swollen.

  He pushed down his boxers and showed me his cock. Hard and pink. Thick, the head flushed nearly purple with blood.

  My mouth watered.

  My pussy watered.

  “You want to know what I want? I want you to make yourself come,” he said. “Not for me. For you. I just want to see it.”

  “Why? The show is prettier….” I whispered because I wanted to resist it. I was going to do it. I was going to come in this room in the next few minutes with his eyes on me. But I didn’t understand why he gave a shit. The show was enough for everyone else. The illusion was purchased and appreciated over and over again.

  Why did he want to be different? Why did he insist on more?

  “I’ve been living a lie for months, waiting for the bullet in the back of my head. And it seems like maybe you’ve been living your own lie.”

  He paused, like it was a question. I nodded in answer. I was living so many lies I had no idea what was real anymore. No idea who I was.

  “And I got no time anymore for shit that ain’t real. Revenge—that’s real. This thing between us—that’s so fucking real I can taste it. So, that’s all I want. And you want that, too, don’t you?”

  I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. Not entirely sure what I would even say if I could form words.

  Tension rose in my body. My fingers ached to slip between my legs. To touch myself in the exact way I liked. In the way I touched myself when I was alone and just trying to feel good. Just trying to beat back the despair and the darkness.

  “Save your act for other people. The lies and the show—I don’t want it. I want you. Fucked-up and crazy. I want you.”

  It was poetry. It was the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in a long time, and I had him handcuffed to a bed. I was offering to fuck myself to get his help to save my sister. I was a goddamn mess but that was sweetness I hadn’t heard in years. Since Good Boyfriend #1—and he never turned me on like this. Never like this.

  It was real and authentic and I couldn’t fight it.

  I couldn’t argue with him. I had no breath to lie.

  “Yeah,” I licked my lips. “And what will you be doing? While I’m stripping myself down to the bone for you?”

  “Thinking of what I’m going to do to you once you take these handcuffs off.”

  Now I was sucking in breaths, my chest heaving. This was nothing, I told myself. He wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t getting something from me. And I wasn’t giving him anything.

  But those were lies.

  “Show me, Joan,” he whispered. “Show me what you do when you’re alone. When there’s no one watching. Think about how good that would feel.”

  My fingers slipped down between my legs. Masturbation wasn’t about a show, I mean, I could make it one, and that could be fun, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to see me at my most private.

  “Do it. Just…fucking do it.”

  I stopped watching him, I turned my face away and sat back on the dresser, my back against the blinds. Fucking them up no doubt, but whatever.

  Sun came into the room in strange chunks and weird lines, splitting apart the shadows between us. My hand slipped over my pussy, humid heat filling
my palm, scenting the air. I wondered briefly if he could smell it, too.

  Don’t think about him, I told myself.

  My middle finger traced the seam between my puffy naked lips, finding its way in. Breaching my own defenses. I was wet and slick and warm and the touch of my own finger under the spotlight of his eyes was enough to make me gasp.

  Inside. Inside. More.

  I traced the path between my clit down to my pussy and back again, circling my clit until I jerked. And then jerked again, feeling like I’d been brushed with electricity. I did it until I felt like I was made of electricity. Until my skin felt too tight and my head felt too heavy and I needed something more or I’d break out of myself.

  Only then, did I squeeze my clit between two knuckles, finding the pulsing pressure between pain and pleasure. That’s where my satisfaction lived.

  He made a noise on the bed, part sex, part discovery. I opened my eyes long enough to take him in, the all-over flush of his skin. The riveting stillness of his entire body. Like every bit of him was focused on me and me alone.

  Oh, what I wanted to do with that calm. How I wanted to break it between my legs. Eat it with my fingers, take him apart, juicy bit by juicy bit until the truth of him was sliding down my throat.

  I bent one leg, and curled the other in front of me, hindering his view but opening myself up in the way I liked best. A slow steady pressure on my clit and a finger teasing the opening of my pussy. Flirting with myself, just a little.

  I heard his rattling breath from the bed and it was a soundtrack to my pleasure. A counterpoint to my own breathy moans. The deep sighs I couldn’t swallow down. Sweat, despite the air-conditioning, rolled down my chest between my breasts, over the soft folds of the skin at my belly.

  My head fell back and the blinds rattled. More pressure, faster against my clit. I stopped flirting and slid a finger deep inside myself and curled forward, my hair falling down around my face like a curtain. Yes, that was good. That was better. Because I didn’t want to see him and I didn’t want him to see me. Not my face, anyway. Not my eyes.

  I curled my fingers inside my body, finding that soft place that made me wild. That made me want to fuck everyone. Everything. There were plenty of people in the world who would judge me for the ways I found my pleasure, but they didn’t understand how fucking lucky this made me.