I don’t think we’re here for conversation.
I take a mouthful of my drink, my mind scrambling for something to say. I want to make things right between us. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I shouldn’t have lowered my guard enough to care. But I do.
‘Cam, I’m sorry.’
His fingers settle against my mouth. He hushes me as he glides the pad of his fingers across my sensitive lips.
He takes my glass and drains what’s left and then replaces his fingers with his mouth, parting his lips to allow a trickle of the liquor to pass from his mouth to mine in a decadent, provocative kiss.
I swallow, my lips clinging to his in silent apology. His kiss turns demanding, his tongue probing while his eyes burn into mine as if begging for something. Silence? Understanding? Escape?
He pulls back. ‘I don’t want to talk any more.’ His hands settle on my hips and his body starts to move to the pounding beat of the dance track. I move with him, lost in the intensity in his eyes, deep, dark desire concealing the earlier pain. I clutch the lifeline. The desire. It’s easier to chase because I want him, despite my other, harder-to-name feelings. Our need for each other is the only stability left now everything else feels as if it’s shifting underfoot.
He wants to hide. To retreat behind what we do, what we know—how to make each other feel good. I do too. Haven’t I done the same myself, more than once? Used him in the same way? Isn’t a part of me doing exactly that now? Avoiding the treacherous thoughts of us being more than this?
This whole proposition began because I wanted a distraction, and now so does Cam.
I loop my arms around his neck and kick off my sandals, my hips matching his rhythm, which is confident and inherently sexy—like everything else about him. He bends so low, our lips brush as we move, not quite a kiss, but somehow more, a presence, a reminder that the other person is there, breathing the same air.
His hands curve over my backside, his fingers curling and bunching up the silk fabric of my dress as he grinds me against his hard length. ‘Turn around,’ he murmurs against my mouth, his hard stare glittering with now familiar challenge.
I obey, pulse leaping. When I’m faced away from him, his big hands on my hips and my hands looped around his neck behind my head, I push my ass back to torture him some more. Him and myself. Because he’s hard and ready for me and I want him, as always.
We dance on, my back to his front, one of his arms around my waist and the other hand on my hip as we sway together in a way that’s more foreplay than choreography and would be completely prohibited in any other establishment in this country other than here in the privacy and decadence of the M Club.
The track changes, seamlessly blending into one that’s more sensuous. No longer content to merely tease, I drag Cam’s hands north to cup my breasts through my dress. He gives me a hint of friction, his thumbs and fingers rolling my nipples, but it’s not enough. I want more. I always want more of the way he makes me feel.
But can this, just this, ever be enough?
To switch off my mind, I tangle my fingers in the hair at his nape as I rest my head on his shoulder and turn my face to his, begging for his mouth.
‘Cam.’ His name sounds like a plea and it is. A plea to drag me with him into oblivion, to guide us both until we’re lost in sensation. Because otherwise I’ll think, and thinking about this man, and the way I am with him, is as addictive as it is foolish.
Cam presses his mouth to my neck, below my ear, and judders wrack my body—he knows how sensitive I am in that spot, knows it turns me on to feel his scruff against my skin and hear his breath panting because he feels the same need.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, twisting so I can capture his mouth, touch my tongue to his, swallow the sound of the low groan he lets free. I want to ensure everything is right with us after our fight. I want to know he’s still with me, still happy to travel to Singapore and then on to Sydney, our hometown, where this heady whirlwind will come to a natural end.
As if it’s still part of our dance, Cam nudges me forward, following close behind until I’m only inches in front of the wall of one-way glass that gifts us a panoramic view of the club. Before I can repeat my desire to take this upstairs to our suite, his hands slip to the button between my breasts and he slowly undoes one after another.
I gasp, the rational part of my brain tricked into believing the people dancing only a few metres on the other side of the glass can see us.
Can I do this? Here?
The answer is as clear as the window in front of me. The same answer as every other time Cam’s challenged me, or I’ve challenged myself.
Yes.
‘Tell me to stop.’ Cam speaks against my throat, his lips a sensual glide and his chin prickling my nerves alive.
Stop is what we should do. Not just this display of exhibitionism, but also the arrangement we made. Before I slip any deeper into the building feelings and before we push each other to expose more than we can recover from.
‘Tell me to stop.’ He presses his erection between my buttocks and I brace my hands flat on the glass, pressing my lips together to hold in the words. Because I want him. In any way. All the ways it’s possible to want someone.
I ignore the racing of my heart and the spike of adrenaline warning me to pull back. His hands continue with the buttons, his hips still swaying to the beat behind me, where I’m too turned on to do more than hold my body upright and glory in the decadence of his touch. While he scrapes kisses up and down my neck, he scoops the cups of my bra down, exposing my breasts.
The cool air hits me and I gasp at being naked here, in front of strangers.
With a grunt, Cam presses up even closer so I’m shunted forwards the last inch and my bare nipples touch the frigid glass. I groan at the foreign sensation. But I have no time to absorb the pleasure, because Cam slips one hand between my legs and delves inside my lacy thong to stroke my swollen clit, which is aching and ready.
‘Tell me to stop,’ he says, gruff, his face buried against the side of my neck. I hear him inhale deeply, sucking in my scent, and I almost smile, because I’ve done the same thing a hundred times, sniffing his sweater left on a chair or his tousled hair while he’s asleep.
At my answering moan, he taps my foot with his and bunches my dress around my waist from behind, his intentions clear. He’s going to do this, right here. And I want him with equal desperation.
I spread my feet wide, excitement rising when I hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zip. I can’t believe we’re doing this, but it’s as if we both need the reminder of why we’re here and only this—hot, demanding sex—will reset the boundaries.
His hand shifts from between my legs, and I cry out at its loss, only to press my mouth up against the glass to stave off the pleasure of his fingers, which he plunges inside me from behind, as if testing my readiness.
‘Cam, yes. I’m ready. Do it.’
His fingers disappear and I feel the fat head of his cock nudge my entrance. I tilt my hips back to allow him access, my palms pressing against the glass for leverage. He’s going too slowly. I want to control the pace. To chase away
