by Linnea May
Copyright © 2015 by Linnea May
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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A steamy scene with the protagonists of my other BDSM Romance novel ‘I am Yours’.
His Unknown Side
Content
1 – Discovered
2 – Revealed
3 – Unleashed
4 - United
1 – Discovered
“I have a very specific way of giving
and receiving pleasure.
And I sense that you might be a
good match for me in that regard.”
CHAPTER I
I watch as my friends turn their backs to me and weave through the crowd to head for the exit. This had to be expected, but I still feel disappointed. Yes, they gave it a chance, and yes, they have warned me ahead of time that they would leave if the club turned out to be as underground and “grungy” as they thought it to be.
But still.
A not-so-little part of me had hoped that they would like it after all. That they would be positively surprised and not just come here for my sake, but stay and enjoy it, because it was a lot more fun than they had expected.
Instead, they lasted little more than an hour before all three of them decided that I had indeed bad taste when it comes to music - and when it comes to picking locations that we can spend our Friday nights at.
It disappoints me, but not to the degree that it spoils my evening completely. After all, I am having fun. I have been wanting to visit this little basement club for a long time.
‘A hidden gem’ it was called by my equally non-standard roommate Yuka. Too bad she had to work tonight. She would have been the perfect company and much more inclined than my old college friends
I have moved in with her just a few weeks ago, after my last living arrangement with an aged and unsuccessful artist turned out to be a bit too crazy, even for my taste. It was fun for a while and in the beginning, I enjoyed the idea of never knowing what I would come home to. Another spontaneous vernissage, either displaying her own work or that of an artist friends of hers, or a new temporary roommate - human or animal. She has been using her apartment for all kinds of visitors and events, played host to a refugee family, a snake, a bunch of abandoned kittens and someone she introduced as her daughter, but who miraculously disappeared after a few days and was never heard of again.
It never got boring.
But things spiraled out of control and at some point it just stopped being fun to come home to a new kind of craziness every single day.
Especially when part of that craziness was an unannounced gangbang with a bunch of aged and kinky guys who were happily frolicking on my living room couch when I came home on a late Friday night, exhausted from work and looking forward to a quiet and relaxed evening in front of the TV.
So it was time for a change. My new home provides its own kind of folly, but one that I am sure I can handle. Yuka grew up in Japan but has been living in this city since she finished High School. Her father married a Japanese woman and both her parents stayed back in Tokyo while Yuka couldn’t wait to cross the ocean as soon as possible.
Her plan was to obtain an undergraduate degree in business at an American university and then apply for a well paying job while looking for the perfect, American husband. Japanese men - so she says - are just ‘not her thing’ and so is her home country in general.
But, similar to me, she never actually finished her degree and dropped out of college when she stopped seeing the point in the whole endeavor. And just like me she has been working several part-time jobs since then, never willing - or able - to really commit to a full-time position. The fact that both of us value freedom and flexibility above security and a more comfortable living standard made it easy for us to get along instantly. Yuka is an artist as well - a musician - and she is quirky, anything but normal. But I feel that her quirkiness will never reach that uncomfortable level my former roommate exhibited. Or so I hope.
She works at a bar tonight. Otherwise, she would be here with me, joining me in eye-rolling at my friend’s ignorance.
How could they not see it? This place is great! Yes, it is a bit grungy and underground, but nowhere near as filthy and creepy as my friends made it sound before they couldn’t take it anymore and left.
It was awkward at first, but after just a few minutes I really don’t mind being by myself. The place is full, but not overly crowded, leaving enough room for me to own the dance floor. The best thing about my mainstream friends leaving is that I don’t have to be considerate of their embarrassment in regard to my erratic dancing.
Granted, I don’t dance pretty. I’m not cool and I know I’m not a sight as lovely as most girls try to be when they move along the music. Apparently, I am quite “a spectacle”, as one of them called it before. And she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
As I am throwing my arms up in the air, waving and swinging uncontrollably while closing my eyes, I am beginning to wonder why I even bother to go out with them anymore. This is so much more fun than the nights I have spent with them when we went to places that one of them had picked.
It has been more than an hour since they left and I am sweating and breathing heavily when I finally decide to take a little break. I wipe off the sweat from my forehead and hope that my strong make-up really is as waterproof as it claims to be as I stumble over to the bar.
“Beer!” I yell at the bartender, who miraculously can hear me even over the loud bass of the music. Delicate as a flower, that’s me.
I lean against the counter, sipping on a cheap - but wonderfully cool - beer when I notice him for the first time. A guy, standing a few feet away from me, leaning over the counter to place a drink order. He is ridiculously handsome, with dark hair that flees from his head in a rumpled, yet organized and thoughtfully styled manner and a three-day stubble on his well-defined face. He is tall, a lot taller than most guys and he looks to be about my age, maybe a bit older.
But all of that - despite his very appealing features - is not why he caught my eyes. It’s the way he is dressed. He is wearing a business shirt and what appears to be dress pants. The shirt is dark and rather low-key, but he still stands out. He is too clean, too well dressed for this location.
No one else is donning a look like this. This is a place for worn-out jeans, old, crappy band shirts, and even punk or goth-inspired get ups. Handsome or not, he looks like the perfect business yuppie who got lost and finds himself in a place he doesn’t belong.
He might be the owner, though. Instead of asking for a drink, he might just be checking up on his business. Or he really is lost and is asking for directions.
All these assumptions are cast aside when I see the bartender placing a beer in front of him. The same cheap bottle that I am drinking. Our eyes meet for a split second when he grabs it and looks over to me. I think, he may even be about to raise his drink to me - but I quickly turn away as he catches me staring.
My heart is beating inexplicably fast as I lift my own beer and take an unnaturally big sip from it. What the hell was that? Since when do stuck-up yuppie guys draw my attention? It could only be worse if he was actually wearing a suit and a tie.
I despise people like him. Corporate slaves, narrow-minded workaholics. People who have nothing els
e on their minds than their career and fitting in. People who follow the boring mainstream path that forces them to get up at six in the morning, dress up in their corporate uniforms, spent eight to ten hours in an office with equally uninspiring people and fall sleep in front of their TVs in the evening - just to repeat the same procedure on the next day again.
I will never understand why the majority of human beings still acquire this life as a goal in life. Sure, they may live in nicer places than Yuka and me, they may get to eat at fancy restaurants and spend more money on clothes and other accessories that are supposed to make their life shine and sparkle.
But when do they have time to think? To create? To enjoy life? There is so little room for creativity in their lives, so little room to think outside the box. I almost feel sorry for them.
And even worse, he might be one of their tyrants. The boss, the CEO - a leading figure. Not a slave himself but a slave driver.
Then again, right now this guy is at the same club, doing the same thing as I am. For whatever reason.
I feel as if he is still looking at me, but I don’t dare to check. Instead, I decide to distance myself from him and the bar counter and to finish my beer somewhere else. There is a strong urge to turn around and look back at him to see whether my intuition is right, but I am able to withstand it and continue my way through the crowd next to the dance floor.
Let’s see who else is here.
I lean against a weirdly located stone pillar in the middle of the room that marks the edge of the dance area and scan my surroundings. A lot of interesting and alternative characters are shaking their limbs in front of my eyes, more wildly than one might see at other locations, but still - as far as I am aware - a lot better looking than the spectacle I turn out to be every time the music hits me.
Lots of pretty boys, too. With wild clothes and hair, tattoos and spikes, rough facial hair, and tattered jeans. But none of them really manages to draw my interest. In an environment like this, they are the ones who fit it - and it appears that my weird brain always looks for the one who stands out from his surroundings, no matter what that entails.
So I catch myself looking for him. The out of place yuppie who does not adhere to the dress code that is expected at this particular club. But he is nowhere to be found.
It might be for the better. With my luck, his story is just as boring as his looks would be to me if we had met somewhere out on the streets.
A good song comes up and I decide that my break has been long enough. I quickly finish my beer and get back on the dance floor.
As usual, my moves cause confusion and irritation, for the people around me, even in this crowd. But I don’t care. This is how I dance, this is how I enjoy myself. I am not dancing for others, but for myself.
My eyes are closed as I cherish the music in my own way, deeply immersed in my little universe of otherness. Even though I am not drunk, not even tipsy, I feel as if I am floating, all alone, dizzy with devotion. Intoxication is so overrated - who needs drugs and alcohol if you can have music.
Once again, I cannot help but lose myself in it. I spin and turn, shaking my body without regard to others - until I brutally bump into someone and almost knock them over.
“Oh, sorry I-” I hurry to yell, opening my eyes to see who I stumbled into.
It’s him.
The smug yuppie from the bar is standing next to me, smiling and holding onto my arm as if he was trying to keep me from running away. I stare back at him in surprise and form the word “sorry” with my lips again before I free myself of his grip.
He is standing so close that I can sense his smell - and he smells good, yummy. Damn.
I hastily turn around and flee.
There is something about this guy that irritates me - or appeals to me. I don’t know what it is, but it frightens me. He is so different to the guys I have fallen for before. Completely different. And he looks like someone I should hate. Why is he rattling me so much?
I need some fresh air and head for the door. The bored bouncer hardly glances at me as I squeeze out through the narrow exit next to him. It is getting late and by now more people are leaving the club then entering it. I have my mini shoulder bag with me and could go home if I wanted to. But I am not ready for that yet. I feel that there is at least one more song in me.
It is still early summer and the temperatures drop quite a lot during the night. But as I flee out of the club, covered in sweat and my body burning with the heat of exhaustion, the cool breeze outside feels fantastic.
There are a bunch of other people who are seeking refreshment outside, gathering in little groups in front of the club’s entrance, often spoiling the fresh summer air with cigarettes. I distance myself from them, but not without casting somewhat longing looks in their direction.
I could need a smoke right now - but I left mine at home as I am trying to cut down on my unhealthy habit. I have just turned twenty-five and haven’t been smoking for that long or even that much, but I feel like I am already feeling the bad effects from it - or at least imagining it. That might be Yuka’s influence, though. She’s the biggest anti-smoker I know.
I sigh and try to relax on my own, just me and the summer night’s breeze, no cigarette, no friends, no weirdly appealing yuppies.
Except, I am wrong about that last part.
CHAPTER II
He emerges from the club just a few moments after me and now stands close to the door, looking left and right as if he was searching someone. Did he follow me?
Apparently, he did. His search stops when he sees me leaning against the wall just a few feet away from him and the other groups of people who have gathered around the club’s entrance. He smiles and approaches me.
I look up at him with confusion as he comes to a halt in front of me, carrying a suit jacket on his right arm.
“I am really sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts me. “Real dancing should come with clashes.”
Alright. What does he want from me then? Instead of asking, I just shrug and try to return his smile, but I feel that it must come across as a bad effort. It is not sincere, after all. He smells fucking good - and I don’t like what his voice does to me. It’s so deep, strong and… pleasant.
“I know, it’s a lame opener, but: Do you come here often?” He asks.
I frown at him. “That really is a lame opener…”
He laughs. “I knew it.”
“You obviously don’t,” I add.
“Come here often?”
“Yes.”
“No,” he says, moving closer and leaning against the wall next to me. “I don’t. In fact, I have never been here before.”
He is so close, that I can feel his body warmth. And his smell. Fuck, he smells good.
“Doesn’t seem to be your usual crowd,” I comment, nodding towards his outfit.
“What do you think my ‘usual crowd’ looks like?” He asks, now looking at me defiantly. I pause for a moment, raising my eyebrows as I blatantly check him out.
“Meal at a fancy restaurant?” I say. “Followed by cocktails on the rooftop bar of some prestigious hotel. Or - if you’re in for a ‘crazy’ night - dancing at one of the hottest clubs in town after you’ve had to place yourself on the waiting list months beforehand. Maybe drinking champagne? Guess that depends on what level of corporate smug you are.”
He raises his right eyebrow, obviously offended by what I said, but not willing to let it show too much.
“Are you always this prejudiced?” He asks.
“No,” I reply. “But I am rarely wrong when it comes to people.”
“Still, tolerance and an open mind don’t seem to be your strong point,” he says, hitting me at a weak spot. “I honestly expected more.”
“Why?” I ask. “What did you expect?”
His eyes are still on me, his body dead still as he fixates me. Why is he still here? His intense gaze sends shivers down my spine - the kind that wou
ld usually draw me closer. I am still trying to fight it, but he attracts me. And what scares me most: I think he knows that.
“The way you dance,” he says, his eyes still fixed on me. “It’s enticing.”
I reciprocate his look and blush. He is intimidating. I want to look away, but I can’t. No one has ever called me or anything I do “enticing”. What is wrong with this guy? What’s his end game?
“In fact,” he adds, now whispering. “You are the most beautiful person I have seen in a long time. I couldn’t take my eyes off you since the first moment I saw you.”
“Oh, come on!” I object. “I mean, look at me! I am drenched in sweat, my hair is all over the place, and I am not even sure that my makeup is not running down my face in ugly black streaks right now.”
He shakes head. “It’s not, don’t worry.”
“But again, you disappoint me,” he adds.
“Why?” I ask.
“Your definition of beauty,” he explains. “So superficial. Why do you think I am talking about your body, your hair - your make-up even?”
I look up at him, dumbfounded.
“Of course, you are a beauty in that shallow sense,” he continues. “You see yourself in a mirror every day. You know that you are beautiful. Your pale complexion complements your dark brown hair the same way it does on Snow White. Your lips are red, even without lipstick, and your long, wavy hair may be a mess right now - but it still decorates your slim frame in a stunning way that anyone would describe as pretty.”
He pauses but keeps his eyes on me. I don’t know if he is waiting for some kind of reply, or just soaking in my reaction. I am not saying anything or deliberately showing any signs that I heard what he has been saying.
But now that he has stopped talking, I notice that my breathing has changed drastically. My mouth is half-open and I am panting. Why is he saying these things? Is he trying to win some kind of bet? Pick up a trashy hipster girl at an underground club, just to show his buddies that he could do it?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t seem to be used to hearing these kinds of things.”
