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“Right, there we go,” she proudly announces.
While she takes the time to brush her long red hair and correct her makeup, I unzip the hoodie and take it off. I’m wearing a black tank top with a lace trim beneath. It’s not really sexy, but it’s a lot better than the oversized hoodie.
While I wash my hands, I can feel Luce’s eyes sear into my skin, and when I turn around, her green orbs study the contours of my face. “You know,” she says, thoughtfully tapping a finger against her cheek. “The way they gravitate to you suggests more happened when I left you alone with them.”
I shake my head. “It didn’t.” It’s both the truth and a lie.
Nothing happened in the physical sense of the word; we didn’t do anything more than what I’ve already told her. But I still have to agree, because something shifted between us.
There was this thrum of… not just lust, something deeper spanned between us. Like an elastic band that kept us together, forcing us to only look at each other, and always touch in one way or another. The brush of a hand, a seemingly innocent shoulder bump, it all added up to something more.
“Alright,” Luce agrees easily as she opens the door.
When we return to the table, I slide back into the spot between Mickey and Soren. Their heated gazes linger on my cleavage for a beat longer than what’s appropriate, and I can’t lie, I fucking love it.
“You asked her to let her hair down, and instead she removed the hoodie completely,” Mickey says teasingly. “Maybe if we ask her to take off her shoes, her pants will be next to go.”
I burst out laughing. “You could try,” I rasp. “But I think I’ll need a few more drinks first.”
Although I have no intention of taking my pants off, I can’t help flirting back. The way they both move closer and give me all their attention is addicting.
Soren
Arriving at Cupid’s Court, we use the side entrance, away from prying eyes. The moment the heavy, velvet curtains of the club fall behind us, a swell of primal energy engulfs me. I inhale deeply, letting the thick, musky scent of arousal fill my lungs. I can almost taste the fervent desire that clings to the dimly lit air, mingling with the faint hint of expensive perfume and the sharp tang of sweat.
The club’s atmosphere is an intoxicating blend of opulence and carnality, a sanctuary where society’s rules are left at the door and baser instincts rule.
“Are you ready to play?” Mickey’s voice is a low murmur beside me, his breath hitching just slightly as he takes it all in.
I glance over at him, noting the flush of excitement on his cheeks, the hungry gleam in his eyes that mirrors my own. “Born fucking ready,” I confirm, the anticipation vibrating beneath my skin, resonant and insistent.
As celebrities, we don’t have to move through the throng of people to get to where we need to be. There’s a woman waiting for us off to the side, and after a final glance at the writhing bodies, we walk over to her. The moans and gasps we leave behind mask our footsteps, and just before we turn the corner, I turn back around to look at them.
It’s early evening, but by the way people are already going at it, you get the feeling they’ve been here a long time. Some are openly fucking, seeking the thrill of being watched, while others are lost in their own worlds. Not everyone here craves the privacy of a room; this is a place where exhibitionism isn’t just welcomed—it’s celebrated.
My lips curl up as we reach the greeter—a vision wearing a scrap so small it can barely be called a dress, the club’s logo, a stylized bow and arrow, barely covering her tits. Her smile is practiced, but there’s a glint of genuine interest as her gaze roves over us.
“Welcome to Cupid’s Court, gentlemen,” she purrs.
“Thank you. We’re ready to check in,” I state simply, offering no more than a curt nod in response to her advances. She’s attractive, sure, but she’s not for us.
“Of course,” she replies, undeterred by our lack of engagement. She moves on to taking our names and checking our IDs. “Right this way,” she says once the formalities are concluded, leading us down a corridor lined with doors, each promising its own secrets and sins.
As we follow, I can feel the weight of Mickey’s gaze on me, the silent conversation we’ve perfected over countless games on the ice and nights like these. There’s no need for words; we both know what we want, what we need.
The hostess halts before a nondescript door and retrieves a key from the plunging neckline of her scant attire. With a flourish, she unlocks the door and gestures for us to enter.
“Here’s your private room. You have until sunrise,” she says, her voice dripping with a seduction that fails to find its mark. “If you need anything… anything at all, just press one on the phone inside and I’ll be right there. Have fun,” she practically purrs.
I want to laugh at her choice of words since those are the exact words I had tattooed onto the skin just above my dick when I was younger. “We definitely will,” I rasp after her retreating form.
“Thanks,” Mickey grunts, his hand already on the doorknob, eager to close the world out and lose himself—and me along with him—in the dark promises of the night ahead.
The door shuts behind us with a definitive click, sealing away the cacophony of lust that permeates Cupid’s Court.
“So sexy,” Mickey rasps as he surveys our private sanctuary, a smirk playing on his lips.
My focus is drawn to the center of the room whereshewaits. “Yep,” I rasp, licking my lips in anticipation.
