by Linnea May
God, he's sexy.
I stare up at him, dumbfounded and so dizzy that I fear I might collapse in his arms.
He gets closer, so close that I can feel his breath on my upper lip as he speaks.
"What drink?!" he repeats his question.
"Vodka!" I yell back. "Cranberry!"
"Vodka Cranberry," he confirms, before he straightens up and signals to the bartender.
He's rather tall, towering at least one and a half heads above me, and of course the bartender notices him immediately. My eyes are glued to his muscular arms as he leans over the counter to place his order. He's wearing a shirt that stretches across his undoubtedly muscular upper body, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his almost entirely inked-up lower arms. The view of this his ink sends odd shivers ricocheting through my body.
The drinks arrive in no time, and the guy hands me my Vodka Cranberry, while he holds what appears to be a Scotch. He raises his glass for us to toast, and I can't help but to stare blankly at him, following his gesture and taking the first sip from a drink I shouldn't be drinking. My body has switched into auto mode, while my brain is too busy trying to figure out the situation. Sure, I've been hit on in a club before and I've had guys buy drinks for me.
But never a guy like him. A guy who makes me so nervous that I feel close to fainting in my buzzed stupor.
He beckons for me to follow him, and as I've lost any control or will of my own, I do as he bids and follow him like an obedient puppy through the crowd. He's heading toward one of the more secluded rooms in the back. I hang on to the straw of my drink for dear life the entire time I‘m following him.
Just before we exit the main area of the club, he takes a surprise turn to the left and makes for the VIP area. My eyes widen in surprise when we're actually ushered inside. I find myself in a darkened room, surrounded by a handful of people quietly talking in separated booths around the room. It's oddly quiet in here once the door is closed behind us.
The Adonis guy makes sure that I'm still behind him before he leads me farther inside, beckoning me to take a seat at one of the few remaining empty booths in the far back.
My heart is racing, but at least the vertigo gets better once I sit down on the leather cushions. There's a little bowl with nuts in front of us on the table, and I vow to eat some of them, even though it's hard for me to eat when I'm this nervous.
He sits down opposite me, swiveling his glass as he looks at me. Awkward silence stretches between us, and I continue to suck on my drink as if my life depends on it, knowing that it's probably not a good idea. But I can't help it, he's just too damn handsome, and I'm confused about where I am.
Who is he? And why is he not saying anything?
Chapter II
Sara
The sound of my shrilling phone yanks me out of my comatose sleep. The Dance of the Little Swans has never sounded more cruel and invasive, and it is joined by a piercing pain at the side of my head when I try to open my eyes and reach in the direction of the music. Even in my miserable state, I can picture the choreography in my head - cou de pied right foot devant on count four, traveling right, change coupé back and front, step right, cou de pied left. The steps are so deeply ingrained, I can't help it.
My hand blindly wanders to the side, hoping to find my phone on the shabby little table next to my bed.
But the table is not there. My hand grasps nothingness.
And this is not my bed.
Where the hell am I?
I groan in misery, still unable to open my eyes and tortured by the worst headache I've ever had in my entire life. I feel like a mole that's been hit over the head with a shovel - blind, confused, and in terrible pain.
"Hello?" I croak. My throat is sore and feels as if I've been screaming all night. Maybe I was?
Everything is hurting, and it's so damn bright in here. Why is it so bright? It feels as if I'm being hit by direct sunlight. Aren't my blinds down?
This is not your bedroom.
"Hello!?" I croak again, now sounding a little panicky.
My phone is still singing from somewhere to my right. The little swans are still dancing... cou de pied, left right, right foot devant, change coupé back and front.
"Hello?!"
The ring tone stops. Whoever was trying to call me has given up on me. Instead, I can hear a door opening, and it’s followed by steps coming from the same direction as my phone's ring tone. I try to open my eyes again, but am met with a beam of sunlight and another sharp pain.
"Please," I whimper to whoever just walked into the room.
I don't even know what I'm begging for, but the person does something incredibly helpful nonetheless: he or she walks over to the source of the sunlight and closes the God damn curtains.
I sigh with audible relief and try massaging my temples, as if I could rub the pain away. Within seconds, the ache is getting better, now that I'm surrounded by darkness. Those must be some thick curtains, judging by the stark difference to before.
The person who has joined me is walking around the bed and sits down at the edge to my left.
"Drink this," I hear a male voice say.
I'm confused. Who is this?
Now that I'm no longer blinded by the sun, I should be able to open my eyes, but I don't dare. As of right now, I can still drift in infantile fantasy and uncertainty. As long as I don't see him, he doesn't see me.
But curiosity gets the better of me, and when I finally open my eyes and am able to see, I sort of wish I had just remained asleep.
It's the most beautiful man who has ever walked the Earth. He looks immaculate, handsome brown hair, the edgy haircut and that sharp jawline, as neat as a pin with his clean shave and the black shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing muscular arms that are almost completely covered in ink. There’s a familiarity to him that I cannot quite place.
He's holding a glass of water toward me, looking at me with an expression that could be anything between annoyance and absolute languor.
"Drink," he repeats.
I slowly gather myself and push myself up into a sitting position, but as I sit up, I realize I'm naked. The blanket falls down, revealing my small breast. He chuckles when I hurry to cross my arms in front of my chest to protect myself from his view.
I stare at him, heat rushing to my face as I try to figure out where I am. Who is he? Why does he look so familiar yet like a stranger at the same time? I look around and take in the room. It's a spacious bedroom, that's for sure. It's also clearly a man's bedroom, with steel gray walls, dark hardwood floors, and nothing but a dresser and a bed, both in white. Everything looks extremely minimalistic and modern, but costly. The silk linens I'm wrapped in are in a similar color as the walls; cold, steel gray, but they feel softer than any I've ever touched before.
I also notice a human-sized X on one of the walls opposite the window. It's black and has leather cuffs at each end, to tie up wrists and ankles. A St. Andrews cross, if I'm not mistaken.
Did we use this last night? I blush at the thought of it. No, I would remember something like this, wouldn't I?
My eyes wander back to him, narrowing as I try to place him and this room.
"Who... where am – ?"
"Drink this," he repeats, holding the glass closer to me, practically forcing me to take it.
I gather up the blanket to cover my boobs and hold it in place while taking the water he's offering. I'm hung over, and I know that dehydration is causing my terrible headache. The water is cool and has a soothing effect, not only on my water imbalance, but on my sore throat, as well. I finish drinking it in one big gulp and hand him back the glass.
"Good girl," he says, as he sets it down.
I tuck at the blanket again, pulling it so high that it almost reaches my chin.
He watches me and shakes his head, laughing.
"What's so funny?" I ask, trying to frown at him, but my head is hurting too much to make that facial expression work.
"You trying to hide yourself from me," he says. "After what we did last night."
After what we did last night? What happened last night?
I give him a blank stare, as I try to remember the events of last night. Never in my life have I had a blackout from alcohol before. Never.
"What the hell did you do?" I hiss at him. "Did you drug me?"
He raises his eyebrows. "Hell no, I didn't drug you. You took care of that yourself."
"What do you mean?" I ask, pulling the blanket even closer around me.
He looks at me with a skeptical expression, and then his eyebrows arch with realization.
"You really don't know," he says. "Don't you remember anything?"
I slowly shake my head, ashamed of myself. Here I am, completely clueless, naked, hungover, in the bed of a perfect-looking stranger - and he has to fill me in on my shameful decisions and actions of the night before.
Chapter III
Lux
She slouches over her drink, sucking on it as if she was breathing in the drink and not the air around it, while her big, shy eyes dart back and forth between me and the people surrounding us. This is definitely not her first drink, and probably not her second either. I could tell that she was already quite buzzed when she was stumbling over to the bar, but I didn't think much of it. Everybody in here is drunk.
But I should have taken into account the kind of person she is.
She's the most delicate creature I've ever seen, so tiny, so petite - and so strong at the same time. She's more than just athletic, every ounce of her seems to be made of muscle. Her movements are somewhat unnatural, her posture too straight and erect, and her steps too deliberate. Except when she was dancing. It was as if she had rid herself of a shell, releasing the wild beast lying underneath. There was a surprising strength behind her dancing, and a wisdom that reflects impeccable understanding of her own body and how to move along to the beats of the music.
It was mesmerizing to watch her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. There was something about this tiny, dynamic girl that kept my attention more than any other girl in the club. She looks so fragile, so pure and elegant - but at the same time boasts a fiery energy. Her attributes are clashing in a deliciously exotic way.
I've never had a girl like her. I can't help but picture her, naked in front of me, riding my cock like a good girl.
I bet she can be a good girl. The kind of good girl who won't submit without a fight.
Fuck, I need a challenge like her.
But right now, she's giving me nothing but that fearful and confused look. Her body is swaying ever so slightly, and I'm beginning to worry that she might just collapse on the table. If she loses consciousness, then that was it. Necrophilia is not my thing.
"Stop inhaling that drink," I tell her.
She stops immediately. Her lips let go of the straw reluctantly.
"Or else?" she asks, her eyes flickering.
I like her already.
"Do you really want to find out?" I ask her, while waving at one of the few waiters roaming through the VIP area to bring us some water.
"Suck on that instead," I tell her once a giant glass of ice water is placed in front or her.
She looks at me through narrowed eyes, contemplating how she feels about being ordered around like this. I can see the thoughts forming in her head. Eventually, she decides to obey and takes the straw out of her vodka cranberry drink and places it in the water glass instead.
"Good girl," I praise her. "Finish it."
"I'm gonna‘ be sick," she says.
"You will if you don't finish it."
She pouts with the straw still between her lips. It's the cutest expression, and it makes her look so young that I find myself worrying for a moment.
"How old are you?" I ask her.
She doesn't answer right away, but only because she's still busy following my last command and finishing her water. The glass is filled with so many ice cubes that I knew it wouldn't be that much of an effort for her to drink all of it.
"Why?" she asks once she's done drinking.
"I'm curious," I say. "Are you even allowed to be here?"
She frowns at me.
"I'm old enough to drink," she hisses. "Do you think I'm a teenager?"
I shrug. "Just making sure."
"I guess I'll take it as a compliment," she says, shrugging her shoulders.
Her black hair is falling down her shoulders in ruffled waves, sticking to her sweaty body in an unusually sharp contrast to her white skin. She'd look like Snow White, if her lips were painted red. But as far as I can tell, she's not wearing any lipstick. What a pity. I bet it would look divine on her porcelain skin.
"Why am I here?" she asks abruptly. "Why did you buy me a drink? How come you have access to the VIP room?"
"So many questions at once," I reply. "And you should know the answer to one of them. Why do men buy drinks for women?"
"To get in their pants," she shoots back.
I laugh. "Exactly."
She raises one of her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side, visibly surprised at my honest reply.
"Then there's only one question, really," she says. "Why do you have access to this room?"
"Why is that interesting to you?"
She rolls her eyes. "So this is your game. Never giving a straightforward answer to a question."
I shake my head. "Only to the ones that bore me."
"Fine," she says, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms in front of her small chest. She's wearing a black blouse that falls loosely around her slim shoulders and would reveal a good look at her cleavage - if she had any.
I can tell that she's regaining her spirit. Ordering the water was a good idea.
"Who are you?" I ask her.
She furls her eyebrows again, shaking her head.
"And that's not a boring question?" she asks back.
"Not to me," I say.
"Well, it is to me," she says. "And a very vague one at that."
"What's your name?"
"Sara."
"Nice to meet you, Sara."
"And you are?" she wants to know.
"Lux."
"Wow!" she exclaims. "A straightforward answer! I don't know if it's a truthful one - because, seriously, what kind of name is that? But at least you didn't mock me again."
She's a cheeky one, I should have anticipated that.
"I never mocked you, young lady-"
"Young lady!" she interrupts me. "I have no idea who you think you are, but trust me, you're not much older than me. I'm twenty-two!"
I cast her a smirk, half annoyed and half impressed. She's older than I thought she'd be, but if anything, it's a relief. If what she says is true, I at least won't have to worry about picking up an underage girl.
"That's still young," I tell her. "Don't be offended by me stating the obvious."
She huffs and takes another sip from her vodka cranberry drink.
Without permission.
My hands twitch involuntarily. She deserves a spanking for this. I didn't tell her that it was okay to drink from that glass. I didn't allow it. She didn't ask for permission.
But she also doesn't know that we're playing this game.
"I didn't give you permission to drink from that glass," I say, casting her a threatening look.
Sara arches her eyebrows, pausing for a moment, before she takes the glass again and takes another sip of the drink, her eyes fixated on me with a provocative expression.
"What makes you think I need your permission?" she asks.
"I paid for that drink, didn't I?" I remind her.
She rolls her eyes. Again.
"To get in my pants," she says, trying to sound cool and nonchalant. But her voice is shaking, and so are her hands, as soon as she doesn't have them wrapped around the glass in front of her.
She looks at me, her eyes flickering, as she ponders what to say next. I can tell that she's curious and intrigued. She
didn't jump up from her seat, leaving me after erupting in an outraged outburst at my impertinent suggestion.
Sara is different. She wants to know what this is about, and a part of her may already sense the promise behind my words. The promise for more. A promise that is associated with taboo and a carnality that is enjoyed only by a few.
"So, that's what you do," she says, narrowing her eyes. "You buy a girl a drink and then execute full power over whether she may drink it or not?"
I suggest a nod.
"In a way," I say. "I'm only acting in your best interest."
She huffs. "Sure. My best interest."
"You're a dancer?" I ask, ignoring her remark and changing the subject.
She purses her lips and tilts her head to the side. "How did you know that?"
"I didn't," I tell her. "It was just an assumption. But I appear to be right?"
Sara brushes away a particularly heavy strand of hair and tucks it behind her ear, exposing her long, slim neck. I bet my hands would look good wrapped around that neck. Or a collar.
"I'm an apprentice at Anaheim Ballet," she says. She states it in a matter-of-fact tone, as if being a ballerina at one of the best ballet companies in the country is nothing special.
Her eyes fixate on mine, communicating a silent warning not to ridicule her.
"A ballerina at Anaheim," I say. "That's quite impressive."
She observes me, unsure whether I'm making fun of her or not.
"I'm only an apprentice," she adds. "So far."
"Don't belittle yourself," I tell her. "From all I know, getting into Anaheim is anything but easy. I'm quite impressed."
I'm just guessing here, but I want her to feel flattered. And it works. A blushed smile travels across her pretty face, and she moves her shoulders up to her ears, as she tries to think of something to say in reply to my compliment.
"I could tell you must do something physical," I continue. "You must be limber as fuck."
She blushes again, before a cute little frown appears on her face.
"First of all, ballet isn‘t only just physically challenging, it's just as much a mental challenge," she says. "And second of all-"
