Love So Dark: Billionaire Romance Duet

by Stasia Black

  He puts a hand dramatically to his chest like he’s wounded. “Aw man, cute, that’s the kiss of death. I’ve been downgraded from handsome to cute?”

  I’m about to respond back when he holds up a finger and says he’ll be right back. Unfortunately, the bar is swarmed with people wanting drinks as the club really hits its peak traffic. I finish up my vodka tonic, enjoying the slight warmth that settles under my skin from the alcohol. It’s the only drink I’ll have for the night, but it’s brought a lovely looseness to my limbs. I manage to catch Cute Bartender’s eye and toss him a finger wave as I head for the dance floor.

  I slip, squeeze, and push my way through to the center of the dance floor. Being surrounded by so many people doesn’t make me feel claustrophobic. It’s actually one of the few places I feel safe.

  A Lady Gaga classic blasts out of the speakers and again I soak up the beat through my feet. It’s so loud and enveloping, I can feel it throbbing in my ribs. My body can’t help but move and I lift my arms up over my head. My movements are barely just a hip sway at first but soon my whole body is in sync with the music. I roll my torso and then pop my hips back on every downbeat.

  The song switches to a dark, industrial techno mix and I close my eyes and sink into it even more. It’s so awfully sensual. Erotic. My hand runs from my neck down the sides of my body. I feel my nipples pucker and the telltale slickness between my legs.

  Yeah. Hell yeah.

  I drop down and then slide slowly back up, my hands rubbing the insides of my thighs as I go. Everyone around me is dancing similarly. Grinding. Sex and desire steam in the air around the floor as the dance goes on and on. My arms float back up into the air as I groove deep in the dirty rhythm.

  The music swells as electric violins drop in on top of the techno, sending the melody through the roof. Goddamn, I feel like I might be having an out-of-body experience. My head goes loose on my neck as I drop it and continue dancing with the beat.

  Until suddenly there’s a body at my back.

  Invasive hands on my hips.

  Someone grabbing me. Not letting go.

  And in my head I’m back there. Always in that room. Always hearing his voice: I’m taking everything from you, you shit piece of nothing.

  Oh God oh God.

  Wearing out every hole—

  I can’t breathe.

  No no no no no no no no no no no NO!

  The word galvanizes me into action. I swing around and bring down my arm in a t-bar action to knock his hands away from me.

  The dude jumps back with an oof of surprise, rubbing his arm that got the brunt of my fist. “What the hell?” He looks at me like I’m nuts. A stranger. Not Gentry. He’s not Gentry.

  “Crazy bitch.” He turns away from me and disappears into the crowd.

  And then the noise and crush of bodies that seemed so comfortable and inviting moments ago is suddenly jarring and just way too much.

  I gasp in half a breath and then choke it out again. I press my palm against my chest like I can force my lungs to expand correctly.

  Dammit, I’m past this.

  I’m stronger than this. Goddamn mother fuck shit cunt—

  I manage another half a breath but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

  I only feel more lightheaded. So goddamned weak. Something I swore I’d never be again.

  I look around and see a couple people watching me. Most are too busy dancing, lost in their own worlds. Men with their hands on women and women grinding right back up against them. Normal. Not freaking out because a guy touched them. Fuck.

  I stumble out of the center of the dance floor. I swallow, over and over. Sometimes that helps me breathe again.

  It’s not working tonight. The guy at my back— It was too much like—

  It sent me immediately back to that place—

  Hands grabbing me, all those hands.

  Almost blindly, I keep stumbling forward. I’m still hiccupping for air. Shit. Fuck.

  This is a panic attack. I haven’t had one in weeks. Goddammit. Why here? Why now?

  Sweat soaks my forehead and I keep staggering forward until I make it to a wall. Somehow I’ve managed to stay on my feet in spite of these ridiculous heels. I have no fucking idea how. I sag against the wall and bend at the waist, trying to remember what the therapist chick said I’m supposed to do.

  Step one: Acknowledge the attack. Right. I’m fucking having it. Got it. Then I wince. She talked about not just realizing it’s a panic attack, but acknowledging that there’s nothing to do but wait it out. There aren’t shortcuts. Damn it.

  I. Hate. This.

  I try to suck in more breath and fail.

  Breathing techniques are next. Belly breathing. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I blink rapidly and try to slow down and breathe in the way she taught me. Not these quick shallow breaths from my chest, but breathing in deep from my diaphragm. That apparently means from your belly.

  After another few hiccups, I manage a breath where my belly expands and I know I did it right. Now if I can just manage another one.

  Try to remember your panic is based on a fear about something that’s not actually happening in the present. I remember the conversation in the counselor’s cozy little office like it was yesterday, even though it was actually several months ago.

  I went back to the women’s center I’d gone to when I first got pregnant. After that…horrible Day Which Will Never Be Spoken Of, I wanted to get a full panel of STD testing done even though condoms had been used.

  My breathing stutters, even letting my mind near the periphery of thinking about it. I close my eyes and take another deep belly breath. I scheduled an appointment with a counselor only because I knew I ought to. I forced myself to keep the appointment because of Charlie. He didn’t need a mom any more fucked up than I already was. So I went.

  Usually the fear is based on something that’s already happened or something that you’re afraid will happen in the future. To really get rid of the attacks, we need to get at the root of that fear. Why don’t you tell me what you think is driving the panic, Callie?

  I never went back. I love my son and will do anything for him, but I can get through this on my own. I know the source of the panic, of course. The Day Which Will Not Be Spoken or Thought Of.

  No doubt the nice counselor lady would want me to break a cardinal rule I’ve set up since then and, you know, talk about it. Which would require thinking about it. Both of which are strictly off limits.

  It’s the past. It has nothing to do with me or my future.

  Or it wouldn’t if I didn’t keep having these fucking flashbacks and resulting fucking panic attacks.

  But getting pissed about it doesn’t slow the attacks down. I’ve learned that well enough. There’s nothing to do but ride them out.

  So I do. I give myself up to it, do my best to belly breathe, and ride it out.

  This one isn’t as bad as others I’ve had. Within five minutes I’m able to stand up and I can breathe mostly normally again. Just a few hiccups here and there.

  I glance toward the exit to the club. The easiest thing to do would be to run with my tail between my legs. But what then? I go curl in terror under the covers for another week? After all, I’m just a poor little victim. I’m what they fucking made me.

  See? Sometimes it takes just one session to break a bitch.

  I shudder at the memory of Gentry’s voice.

  But this time it doesn’t bring on another attack. I let the anger burn through my veins. My eyes pop open and I ignore the fact that I’m sweaty and probably look like hell. I glance around the dark little alcove I’ve been freaking out in. No one’s even noticed me back here. This club has lots of dark little cut-outs in the walls. If I squint my eyes, I can just make out some shadows in additional alcoves that I imagine other couples have discovered when looking for a discreet escape from the crowd.

  Interesting.

  Then I turn back to the dance floor and march my way
back out into the mass of people. I start to move to the music, but I don’t lose myself in it this time. Every move is calculated. I dance my way through the people, eyes scanning every man as I go. I pass by the ones already attached to a woman.

  I see a couple guys working the crowd. They approach a woman dancing on her own, always doing that move of coming up behind her and then putting their hands on her body. Without her consent. Some of the women welcome the hands, others don’t.

  I’m not naïve, I know this is how it goes in clubs. It still makes fury burn in my belly and I want to go stab the pointy end of my stiletto into their instep. I want to yell at them: ask permission—never touch without asking! Instead, I ball my hands into fists and pass by.

  I edge by a group of women who are all dancing together and laughing. Obviously friends out for a good time. I pause, then smile and join the periphery of their group.

  I’m easily welcomed in. One of the girls who’s voluptuous with wild, curly hair holds out a hand to me. That’s more like it. When I grab it, she spins me. It startles a laugh out of me. I dance with them for awhile.

  Wow, I didn’t realize how much tension I’ve been carrying. It works its way out of my shoulders as we dance. It feels good to earn my sweat this way. It’s also a good cover to watch the crowd and keep up the hunt.

  That’s when I find him. My target for the night.

  He’s medium height and build. Medium’s a good word for him all around. Not too handsome, but far from ugly. He’s not aggressive in his dancing, either. He approaches women to dance, but he does it from the front. He moves into their space and holds out a hand in invitation to pull them closer. Giving them the choice to accept or decline.

  More often than not, the women give him a semi-apologetic shake of the head no. I roll my eyes in disgust. A lot of those same women are fine with the backside grinders, but this guy’s a gentleman and he gets the brush off for it. The song changes and the woman he was dancing with moves away from him. I roll my eyes. Idiots.

  That decides it. He’s the one.

  I thought I might have to dance in his vicinity waiting for him to be free, but no, looks like I can move in right away. I head toward him.

  The transition to the next song is smooth and it’s a sultry beat. The guy is just turning in the crowd, still moving his head with the music a little awkwardly like he’s trying to figure out where to go next. I slink up to him, eyes at half-mast and licking my lips for good measure.

  I’m not big on subtlety.

  His eyes widen when he notices me. A smile lights up his face and he starts moving with the music more. He looks like he’s about to do the not-so-smooth-move-into-my-space-ritual I’ve seen him do with the other girls, but I beat him to it. I step into him and drape my arm around his neck, my breasts crushed against his chest.

  “Wanna dance?” I hiss into his ear.

  “Yeah,” he chokes out, nodding his head at the same time.

  I smile, but barely pull back. Instead, I drop my face into his neck. He smells good. Well, he might have overdone it a little on the cologne, but at least it’s not one of those obnoxious smelling ones. He didn’t douse himself in Axe or anything. It’s a fresh, cool beachy smell. It feels like everything else about this guy—a little overeager, but really kind of sweet.

  I slide my leg in between his so I’m straddling his thigh. Then I dance the fuck out of the song.

  And when I say fuck, I do mean fuck.

  I’m all but humping his leg as I writhe my hips back and forth to the beat. I keep my arm hooked around his neck but let my upper body loose. I throw my head back and arch my body, breasts thrust up, held up only by my grip on the back of his neck.

  I can feel his absolute focus on me, how completely I’ve captivated him. To him, I’m a goddess who walked out of nowhere and chose him.

  Oh yeah. My blood heats. I feel the beginning of the rush I’ve been seeking all night.

  I roll my torso once, twice, then I pull myself back up toward him in a dramatic whip so that my fake hair flies and a little bit of the lightheaded feeling comes back.

  It only feeds my high. I grab Mr. Nice Guy’s face and kiss the fuck out of him. I don’t bother with the tentative, questioning kisses. No, my tongue immediately goes for the invasion. And after one stunned second, he’s reciprocating.

  His hands drop to my waist.

  My waist.

  He’s so fucking adorable. Even with me mauling the hell out of him, he doesn’t go for the ass grab.

  Now that’s a gentleman.

  I pull back from the kiss, taking his bottom lip in between my teeth in a way that elicits a low groan from him. I can feel from the tent in the front of his pants where I’m pressed fully against him that this isn’t just a one-way street of sexual interest. Good.

  I give his lip another nip and then move to his ear again. “Come with me.” I have to shout to be heard over the music. I back away from him, but not before I’ve firmly grabbed his arm to pull him behind me through the crowd.

  An upbeat song with a techno beat blasts through the speakers and the crowd is going nuts. The hour has grown later and later. Bodies grind against one another. The raw sexual energy charges the floor. Instead of it making me squeamish, I absorb it. This club isn’t one of those super classy joints. I picked it for its mix of grunginess, clientele, and secluded corners. Finding all those alcoves earlier was just a bonus. Even more dark little spots than I thought.

  Which is exactly where I drag Mr. Nice Guy. Except that as I’m heading to one of the alcoves, I spot something even better. Along the back wall there’s a small hallway that leads not to the bathrooms, but just to a couple closed doors—probably some offices or the janitorial closet.

  Absolutely perfect. Private enough for what I need, but still public enough that I can feel safe. Still, I don’t lead him down into the shadowed depths of the hallway just yet.

  My shoulders are still moving to the music when I slam Mr. Nice Guy against the wall right where we are and press my entire body against him. My lips are immediately on his as I push my pelvis up and into his groin and give several swiveling hip rolls against him. I feel the rumble of his groan through his chest even though I can’t hear much because of the noise in the club. He tastes like stale cigarettes but I don’t care. Kissing isn’t especially about enjoyment for me anymore. It’s about getting where I need to go. Establishing an order to things.

  My hand snakes down the front of his stomach and I reach for his crotch. I squeeze unashamedly when I get to his dick. He’s nice and hard. I can’t feel too much about the size of him through his jeans, but he’s definitely not a shrinking violet. Always nice, though I’m not actually picky. It’s not about that for me.

  His body jolts a little when I make contact, but he doesn’t pull away. With all signals go, I slip my hand down the top of his pants. He shudders when I make skin-to-skin contact and his breath hitches while he kisses me. I don’t bat an eyelash.

  I suck his tongue further into my mouth as my hand closes around him. I wasn’t wrong. He’s got a fair size to him. Aw, a sweet guy with a good package. Jackpot. I wrap my fingers around his girth and grip him firmly, then rub up and down. He leans more heavily into me, pushing himself into my palm.

  I roll my eyes. Slow down, buddy. There’s only one driver on this train and it ain’t you. He’ll learn quick enough.

  I brace my arm against his chest and press him back firmly against the wall. He allows it for a few moments but then his hips are thrusting forward again into my hand. I shake my head and pull firmly away from his body. His face goes all desperate and his questing lips try to follow me, as do his hips.

  I just wave my finger in his face. Ah ah ah. Nope.

  “My way or the highway,” I shout in his ear.

  In the dim lights from the dance floor I can see the disappointment coloring his face. But that’s all it is. Disappointment, not anger.

  Which is all the confirmation I need to take his
hand and draw him further down the hallway to the darkest corner at the very back. There I push them to the floor, reach into my bra for a small foil packet, and then sit down on top of his thighs.

  In the dimmest light of an exit sign, I can see his eyes are wide as proverbial saucers. He swallows hard, watching every move I make.

  The music is only slightly muted back here, but I don’t bother saying anything. His dick is still out from a moment ago, so I rip the packet with my teeth and don’t waste any time rolling the rubber down over his length.

  His hands jump to my hips as I reposition myself to hover over him. I pause there for a moment, about to double check he’s cool with all this. He’s just staring at me all shocked looking. I’m the last person to want to take advantage of anyone if they’re on the fence at all—

  But then his hands on my hips grip tighter like he’s trying to drag me down onto his cock. Alrighty, I’ll take that as a confirmation.

  I smack both of his hands away hard, though. “I run the show, remember?”

  He jerks back in surprise and that’s when I sink down on him.

  His hands immediately try to come back to my hips but I grab them mid-air and reposition them, pinning one against the ground and lifting the other to my breast. His cock twitches inside me as his thumb braises my nipple.

  Finally. The rest of the tension twisted tight in the core of my body starts to unwind at the sight of this fucker held down underneath me. I squeeze my hips tighter around him, pinning him in place.

  Then I fucking ride him. His dick isn’t that big after all. Apparently he’s more of a show-er than a grower. But whatever. When I lean forward and grind my pelvis against him, my clit rubs at a good enough angle.

  “That’s right, you dirty fucker.” I glare down at him. “You just lay there and take it like the dirty fucking bitch bastard you are.”

  I slam down on him and it feels good. Not great. But good enough.

  That desperate sensation starts to spark low in my belly. I throw my head back and ride him with more fury. It’s been too long. God, way too long since I’ve been able to feel this.