This is one of those times, except she doesn’t know Asher and doesn’t care that he’s a suspected criminal. She also doesn’t realize that we’ve already hooked up… and I never got my happy ending.
Okay, so I’m still hung up on that.
He couldn’t wait thirty more seconds?
Oh, and err… obviously the threat to my wellbeing is the most dissuasive part about Asher. I can’t ignore the fact that he is dangerous and so far out of my league. The hook up feels like a fluke, a lapse in judgement on both his part and mine. His, because he thinks I’m pathetic. And mine, because I can’t even be around him without shaking in my boots.
I sigh. “We look good together, sure, but I want more than that.” It’s my turn to sound crazy. “I want a guy I can talk to comfortably. Someone who makes me feel safe and wanted and beautiful.”
It goes unspoken, but we both know that Asher isn’t that guy. I don’t think he even embodies one of those four qualities. Hell, I’m not even sure why Aimee thinks he’s a realistic option. It isn’t like he wants me. It’s unlikely that he’ll suddenly express interest after calling me, and I quote, “pathetic.”
Plus, I asked for her advice on staying alive not dating, but clearly I went to the wrong person.
Aimee groans. “Ugh, you’re depressing me.” She sits up and goes to my closet. “Come on. We’re going out. Let’s find a guy to take your mind off of this. When was the last time you had sex?”
I can’t even remember it.
It’s not like I’m against sex. I enjoy it, but I’ve had other priorities—like staying alive in foster care; staying alive despite my psycho ex-foster dad; staying alive while traveling to dangerous countries; and now, well, staying alive despite one very pissed off mobster.
“High school?” I finally answer.
It may have been the end of senior year with Ethan Winters. We hated each other, but it didn’t stop us from having explosive hate sex. I grin at the memories. Aimee turns to me, slack jawed. I wait for her to say something. She doesn’t, which makes me laugh.
“Seriously?” I say, still laughing. “The only thing that renders you silent is my lack of a sex life? I should bring it up more often.”
“Ha. Ha. Laugh away, Virgin Mary.” She throws something at me. It lands in my lap. “But you’ll be thanking me when you get laid tonight.”
I look down at what she tossed into my lap. It’s my little black dress. The fabric is tight, reaches mid-thigh, and shows an uncomfortable amount of cleavage. It’s sexy, sexier than what I’m used to, but when I spotted it at a thrift shop in Morocco, I knew I had to have it.
I remember when one of my many foster mothers told me that every girl should have a little black dress. Something that makes her feel sexy. Confident. On top of the world. This is that dress for me. I still have yet to find the right moment to wear it, but apparently, Aimee thinks this is it.
So, I give up on bickering over this. I strip and throw it on, because Aimee is impossible to fight with anyway. She likes to argue in circles until the person she disagrees with gets a headache and gives up. I like my head just how it is, thank you very much.
And honestly, I’d much rather fix my nonexistent sex life than the looming threat Asher poses to my well-being. Do I think a night of sex will fix my problems? No, but it’ll take my mind away from them. Plus, a few orgasms have never hurt anybody.
Horny Lucy nods her head in agreement and beats her chest from inside the mental cell I stuck her in when Asher and I were brushing lips. Looking back, I realize that I’ve gone full circle. This all started with Asher pressing me against the wall in the alleyway outside of Rogue, then Bastian pressing that blonde girl against the wall in the restroom hallway. And finally, a few hours ago, I was in the same position again with Asher.
As I get ready, I don’t bother with any makeup. I have mascara on, and my face is clear enough that I don’t need foundation. We’re probably going to a club, where I’ll sweat any makeup off anyways. After digging through her bag, Aimee tosses me a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm.
It’s mine.
I roll my eyes as I swipe it across my lips. I’m good to go. I toss the lip balm onto my klepto roommate’s bed, where it’s immediately lost in the mess. Seriously, I don’t know how she finds anything on her side of the room. I don’t even know how she sleeps at night when her bed is littered with knick knacks.
When I glance up at her, Aimee is already dressed. She’s wearing another colorful, sequined mini dress. She loves these. In terms of club wear, they’re pretty much all she owns. This particular one is a deep turquoise color that complements her pale skin tone.
Aimee’s light blonde hair is coifed into an elegant French twist, and her face is purposefully bare of makeup except for the bold red lipstick she always wears. She once told me that the first thing she wants a man to see when he looks at her is her lips. And after being her roommate for a month, I can vouch that this is exactly what happens whenever a guy looks at her.
Even our R.A. can’t help himself.
After putting on another coat of lipstick, Aimee is done. My favorite thing about her is how she can get ready in under ten minutes. She always knows what she wants to wear, and she doesn’t waste time putting on a lot of makeup. Neither of us can afford anything other than the essential products anyway.
We both put on heels—nude pumps for me and red stilettos for her—and walk to the street to wait for the Uber she called a few minutes ago. I don’t even know where we are headed until we get there and I immediately regret my friendship with Aimee.
Chapter Eight
If you could get up
the courage to begin,
you have the courage
to succeed.
David Viscott
I groan as soon as I see the sign for Rogue above us, a sense of dread filling my empty stomach.
“Aimee, I hate you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You suck.”
“Well, you don’t, because you’re going to get us into the club with your newfound connections.”
And I do.
Or it could be how we look tonight. Either way, the bouncer takes one look at us and ushers Aimee and me inside, much to the chagrin of the hundred-plus people that are waiting in line. When we’re personally greeted by a pretty bottle girl and led upstairs to the VIP level, I know this treatment has nothing to do with how we look.
Our first time at Rogue, we waited in line for hours with our stupid heels killing our feet. Now, we’re being treated like VIPs, ushered straight from the Uber inside the club and escorted directly to the VIP level. The only thing missing is a damn limo. This has Asher Black written all over it.
The VIP level is stunning. On the sides of the room are glass walls tinted white with bright lights behind them. Through the tinted glass, I can see the outlines of dancing bodies. There are five girls on each side, their shadows forming movements that are clearly the product of formal training. We can make out their shadows, but they can’t see us. It’s like a one way mirror in that regard.
A long but skinny table lays in front of an expansive booth-style bench. The open booth is made of blood red velvet and is pressed against the center wall. In the middle of the booth sits Asher. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. In fact, his handsome face is completely void of emotion, as hard to read as ever.
Aimee grabs my hand and drags me over to him. I nearly topple over my high heels. As we approach, I get a better look at him. He’s wearing a suit, of course, but it’s a dark navy blue this time. The fabric is tightened around his thighs from sitting, and Horny Lucy admires how muscular they are.
As excessive as Aimee can be, she’s right this time.
Horny Lucy needs to get laid.
I sweep a longing glance behind me, wondering if it’s too late to head to the dance floor below and find a suitable candidate for what I want. I’m starting to refer to the deviant side of me in the third person.
<
br /> This is bad.
How long has it been since I’ve had sex again?
Over two years.
I have to remind myself again and again, because I can hardly believe it. I went from having an almost-daily friend with benefits to quitting cold turkey for years. That has to be some sort of record. And not the kind I’d want advertised.
“Ladies,” Asher greets us when we reach him. “What brings you two to these parts?” He looks all too smug for my liking.
I avert my eyes but take a seat anyways.
Aimee speaks for me, “Lucy, here, needs to get laid.”
What. The. Fuck.
I’m going to kill her. She must be determined to turn me into a homicidal maniac. Maybe then will her fantasies of Asher and I living happily ever after actually be realistic. I glare at her, hoping that the longer I glare the more likely I am to forget that she just told Asher I need to get laid.
I am so mortified.
Asher laughs. It actually sounds genuine, but a part of me doubts that it is. Everything about this man is too controlled, too purposeful. Like if he doesn’t benefit from something, he won’t do it. So, what does he gain from having me up here? From laughing at me?
He meets my eyes. “Well, I think I can help you take care of that.”
Wait… Is he actually acknowledging our hook up?
His words are said so suggestively, so flirtatiously, that I can’t conceal my shock. Aimee even gasps.
My face whips to his so quickly, I’m left dizzy for a brief moment. “What?” I whisper under my breath, but he hears it.
There’s mirth in his blue eyes when he continues, “The club is at maximum capacity tonight. There are plenty of suitable candidates below. You’re welcome to bring one you like up here for some more privacy.”
“Oh.”
I thought… Never mind what I thought.
My eyes narrow on him. I feel like he’s toying with me again, expecting me not to take him up on his offer. To instead sit here and pine for him like I have no other options.
So, I do the opposite of what he thinks I’ll do and agree. “Okay. I think I’ll do just that.”
I get up and leave. When I’m halfway to the stairs, I can’t help but turn back to stare at him, a smug grin on my face. But he isn’t even looking at me. He has his phone out, his mouth frowning slightly at the screen. Aimee’s not looking at me either. She’s too busy stealing peaks at his crotch.
The damn traitor.
I sigh and continue toward the staircase. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I scan the club for anyone that’s my type. Of course, no one looks interesting after seeing Asher here.
I choose a random guy to dance with. He’s cute and well-dressed, but he’s also significantly shorter than me and a little smelly. To be honest, I’m only dancing with him because he secured a position on the dance floor that has the perfect view of the staircase leading to the VIP level.
I tell myself that I’m only interested because I left Aimee up there with an alleged killer. I have to make sure she’s okay. It’s the responsible thing to do. Any good friend would do it, right? But when Aimee descends the stairwell and is replaced by the blonde from The Hallway Incident, I don’t go anywhere.
Aimee is down here, safe and alive, but I still can’t move. I don’t understand myself. I watch and wait, even when Smelly Guy wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me closer, invading my personal bubble with his putrid odor.
I endure his scent of pickled cabbages, focusing all of my brain power on the stairs until I can no longer smell it. And when Blondie finally descends with a livid expression plastered all over her pretty face, I can finally breathe again. I regret it instantly.
Two words: pickled cabbages.
Gross.
I can’t take the scent anymore, so I push away from the guy, mumble a quick thanks and head to the dance floor to find Aimee.
“He kicked me out,” she says as soon as she lays eyes on me. “Some chick came up to us, and he kicked me out.” She grins, mischievously. “She was glaring at me the whole time, too. I think she was jealous that I had him all to myself.”
I think I am a little jealous of her myself, but I’m having a hard time admitting my own stupidity
Nope.
I don’t have Romance Stalker Syndrome.
No way.
I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t. We dance instead, losing ourselves in the rhythm of the music. When strong hands slip around my waist from behind and Aimee’s eyes widen, I know that they’re Asher’s.
A part of me is convinced that I knew he was there before he even touched me. I’m definitely crazy. That’s for certain.
He molds his hard body into my back, and his lips brush teasingly against my ear. “Relax.”
I shudder at the contact but don’t reply.
He begins to move his body against mine in a hypnotic rhythm. “Act normally.”
I want to scoff. He’s touching me, and he wants me to act normally? A guy with his looks and his occupation is anything but normal. Plus, I can’t even spell the word “normal” let alone be it when I can feel each individual pack of his abdominal muscles pressed against my back. There are eight of them.
Eight!
“Think of this as an audition,” he continues. “I’m going to cash in my favor soon, but if you don’t pass this audition, I’ll have to ask you to do something else for me. And I guarantee you, it won’t be as easy as what I am about to ask you.” His right arm grips my waist tighter. “Okay?”
I mull over his words. Dancing with him is an audition? My thoughts flash to what this club used to be—a strip club. Does he want to turn me into a stripper? No, that probably isn’t it. After all, this isn’t a strip club anymore.
Does… does he want me to give him a private strip tease? That’s unlikely, too, because let’s face it. I was already naked and writhing in front of him once, and he was able to stop himself so easily. Plus, all he has to do is ask and any girl will be willing. He doesn’t need me for that.
But a part of me—named Horny Lucy, of course—isn’t all that opposed to the idea. In the grand scheme of things, that’s fairly tame in comparison to the other nefarious things he can ask of me. I think of Wilton and what I’ll be sacrificing if I don’t agree.
I make up my mind. He said that whatever he wants now will be easier than what he might come up with later, and I believe him. He may be super scary, but as far as I know, he has yet to lie to me.
I nod and tip my head back, leaning it against his shoulder, so he can hear me when I say, “What do you want me to do?”
“For now? Dance with me like you would any other guy.”
Except that’s an impossible task, because he isn’t just any other guy. He’s a guy I want to strip and hump like a dog in heat. He’s also a guy I want to cower and run away from. Horny Lucy and Sane Lucy are at war inside of me.
In the end, they compromise. I pretend that Asher is a robot, which makes him less intimidating. The thought even makes me laugh. Aimee, who has finally recovered from seeing Asher again, sends me a concerned look at the sound of my laughter. I ignore her, my mind focused on dehumanizing Asher.
Robot, Sane Lucy says in my head.
Sex bot, Horny Lucy amends.
Fine.
Sex bot.
I can do this.
Asher isn’t a human; he’s a sex bot, something for me to use for my own pleasure.
I reach behind me and grab the side of his thigh, pulling his lower body closer to me, until I can feel him pressed against my lower back. He’s soft right now, but I can tell he’s generously endowed, causing the contact to send a shiver through my body.
My other hand wraps around his neck and tugs until we are pressed tightly against one another from his neck down. I grind my ass against him, moving in a sensual pace to the magnetic rhythm of the song, an erotic club mix of Selena Gomez’s “Good for You.”
Asher
wants me to treat him like any other guy, and I am. If he was any run of the mill hot guy and Horny Lucy was in charge, I would discretely take advantage of him in public until I can have my way with him in private. I’m not a prude. I have nothing against casual sex. Hooking up with Asher a month ago is proof of that. My long dry spell has everything to do with a lack of opportunity and nothing to do with a lack of effort.
So, here I am, grinding against the Romano family’s fixer and enjoying it. Asher growls, turning me over and positioning me until my breasts are pressed against him. He slips a leg in between my thighs, and I automatically grind myself against it, my dress lifting up a little to reveal more of my skin.
I’m soaking through my underwear, and I hope I’m not leaving a wet spot on Asher’s clothes. I barely consider this, though. I’m too lost in the moment, embarrassingly close to coming. I even forget who he is for a second, simply enjoying his company instead of worrying about the inevitable consequences.
Asher lowers his head, burying his face in my neck. I grip his button down at the feel of his tongue running up the length of my jaw. His nose trails along my neck until his lips reach my earlobe, and he nibbles on it.
This is too much. I’m so close. I want to come. I need to. It’s been too long. He has to know what he’s doing to me. I feel the sudden urge to look into his eyes and see whether or not I’m having the same effect on him.
I sure think I am. After all, he has a massive hard on pressed against me. But my insecurities are there. They haven’t forgotten how he left me that night. How I was so close to coming on his fingers, his tongue against my clit, and he was able to walk away.
When I finally gather the courage to look up, I’m rendered frozen. I notice that all eyes around us are on Asher and me. That isn’t what unsettles me, though. It’s Asher, always Asher. His eyes are tilted upward, focused on a group of people that stand at the balcony of the VIP area. They’re looking directly at us.
Understanding floods through me.
This is all a show.
Why? I don’t know. All I know is I was so close to coming, and I still need the release. I thought that maybe—just maybe—Asher would be the one providing it to me, but I was wrong.
Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1) Page 7