Twenty: Harlow

TWENTY

HARLOW

The following weekend

T he only thing I hated about Lounge 22 was the mandatory phone check. Since it hailed itself as “the perfect place to go missing,” everyone was required to lock away their cell phones at the door.

To enhance the “missing” vibes, they kept the dance floor dim so the partiers could dance as wild and free as they wanted. They also covered the red signs over the exits with caution tape.

I’d stayed up far too many nights watching “1000 Weird Ways to Die,” and since “Club Stampede” was number 51 on the list, I always danced near the closest door.

“Oh, wow!” Sasha high-fived me when I entered the powder room. “I love your outfit!”

“You don’t think it’s too tight?” I caught my reflection and second-guessed myself. The sleeveless pink dress was knee-length and practically shrink-wrapped to my body.

The matching shiny stilettos were gifts from a stripper I once served at Le Sacre Coeur .

“It’s perfect.” She clapped her hands. “You’re giving me beautiful, yet classy, with a hint of naughty thotty vibes.”

“T hotty ?””

“Slutty.”

“Oh, thanks.” I smiled, and she handed me a drink.

“A guy in VIP wanted me to give that to you. He’s emitting some 'morally grey', but potentially 'cinnamon roll,’ with a hint of 'he could fall first' after 'just one night' type of aura.”

“Can you give me the non-romance-author translation, please?”

“He's a very nice businessman who wants to dance with you, and potentially take you home for a one night stand.”

“I’ll pass on everything except the dance.”

The only guy I wanted to have sex with was far across town with his children, and I knew that would never happen.

“Did I tell you that William is trying to crawl?” I asked. “He does this rocking thing on his knees like he’s tempted to go for it so it’s only a matter of time.”

“You told me that days ago.” She shot me a pointed look through the glass. “I believe it was after you sent me a picture of Charlotte bobbing her head to a song.”

“I think Olivia is being bullied at school.” I tapped my lip. “I was reading one of her homework assignments, and she was?—”

“ Stop . Stop this right now.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You’re not wasting your first and maybe last, off-weekend to talk about your job.”

“I’m worried about her,” I said. “She doesn’t have any friends.”

“Harlow, snap out of it before I slap you out of it!” She glared at me. “We came here because we want to forget about our problems. Your egomaniac boss, his sweet twins, and his little devil niece don’t exist tonight. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“We’re dancing with hot guys who will buy us drinks, and then we’ll do it again at another club, until we’re completely fucked up and feel like getting an Uber home. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

She looped her arm in mine and pulled me onto the packed dance floor.

The music blared so loudly that the walls shook.

I shut my eyes and swayed to the beat.

After ten songs without hearing a baby’s cries or getting an alarm about a task that needed to be done ASAP, I felt free.

Oh, I’ve missed this…

As the DJ shuffled to a bass-heavy mix, strong hands gripped my waist from behind.

He swayed along with me, matching me beat for beat. With every song transition, he adjusted his tempo, forcing me to follow his lead.

Grinding on him, I felt his cock hardening against me.

“Do you fuck as good as you dance?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.

He probably didn’t hear me.

Unbearably horny, I grabbed his left hand and pulled it toward the front of my dress.

I’d never let a stranger touch me here, but the way he was moving against me was compounding the urge. My body was begging me to let him.

I pushed up the fabric, silently giving him the go-ahead to touch me, to make me slip away from this darkness, but he stalled.

“Please touch me,” I whispered. “Please…”

His hand didn’t move, so I vowed to move on to someone else.

I started to walk away, but the stranger gripped me harder, holding me still.

Giving me what I wanted, he slid his hand under my dress and pushed my panties to the side.

Then he took things further and pressed his mouth against my neck.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath as he trailed hard and long kisses against my skin.

His mouth feels so good…

I didn’t want to ruin my fantasy with reality, so I didn’t turn around to see his face. With every touch he gave me, I envisioned Mr Dawson.

He pressed the pad of his thumb against my clit, rubbing it in a slow, tortuous circle.

I gasped, and he gripped me harder to prevent me from turning around.

“This is what you call beneficial? ” Mr. Dawson’s deep voice was in my ear.

Not giving me a chance to react, he slid two fingers deep inside me, keeping the rhythm with his thumb going with ease.

“Harlow?” He bit my neck. "I don't see how this benefits anyone but you…”

“Maybe that's what I meant then.”

“I see.” He stalled his hand briefly, leaving me balancing on the edge of pleasure. Then he bit the shell of my ear.

“Ride my hand,” he commanded.

“Now,” his voice was harsher. “Show me how you’ll ride my dick when I fuck you.”

I steadied myself to grind against his wrist, using my hips to slide up and down his thick fingers.

"Good girl,” he said. “I would fuck you a lot harder than this, though…”

I could no longer hear the music. All I could hear was his voice in my ear, my heart beating recklessly in my chest.

He held me taut as I came apart, preventing me from falling face forward on the dance floor.

When my breathing slowed, he spun me around to face him.

Even in the dim lighting, I could make out the conflicted expressions on his face.

“Here.” He yanked off my panties and slid them into his pocket. Pulling the handkerchief from his blazer, he slid it between my legs, wiping me dry.

“Are you going to say thank you?” he asked.

“For what?”

“Giving you what you really needed,” he said, pressing his forehead against mine. “More than an off day…”

“I’m still taking Saturday and Sunday off.”

“I’m aware,” he said, his lips nearly brushing mine. He looked as if he wanted to take me home and finish what we started, like he wanted nothing more than to kiss me senselessly and finally cool the simmering tensions between us.

“Don’t lie to me again, Harlow,” he said instead. “Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good.” He stepped back. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

When I retrieved my phone from the coat check, he’d sent me a text message.

Mr. Dawson

Regarding your question from earlier…

No, I don’t fuck ‘as good as I dance.’ I fuck a lot better…