My heart races, and my hand flies to my chest, holding the cups in place. “Trace.”
“Danni.” He shifts closer, closer, until his necktie brushes my spine, his palms cup my bare shoulders, and his forehead rests against the back of my head. “Come upstairs with me.”
That sounds like an invitation for more than a movie. Then again, I tend to have an overactive imagination, and it shoots straight out of my mouth.
“I’m hungry, Trace.”
“I’ll feed you.”
“Will you feed me what we both want?”
His hands clench on my shoulders, and his breaths quicken. He’s thinking it, wanting it, even if he won’t admit it out loud.
In a moment of insanity, I loosen my grip on the bra and let it fall to the floor. My nipples harden against the cool air, and my breaths catch the tempo of his, growing louder, shorter, ragged with desire.
Standing behind me, he can’t see my breasts, but if he lowers his hands just a few inches, he could hold them, play with them. God help me, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched there I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from begging.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.
If he’s trying to convince himself, it doesn’t work because his hands are already moving over my body. One sweeps across my upper chest, and the other caresses a path around my hip to flatten against my abs.
My breasts feel heavy, tingling for attention, but he ignores them. With his arms folded around me, he holds my back to his chest as his mouth lowers, feathers along my neck, pressing harder, growing rougher, until he’s kissing, sucking, and greedily biting my skin.
Every lick and scrape of teeth shoots a current of pleasure between my legs. I let my head fall to the side, giving him better access. The hand on my stomach splays wider, dipping, sinking beneath crystals and satin to stroke the trimmed hair on my mound.
Oh, Jesus. Please don’t stop.
I melt against his chest, my hands falling back to the hard bricks of his ass and digging into the fabric of his slacks. We’re both panting, shaking, grinding together as he reaches deeper between my legs, sliding over the wet waxed flesh of my folds.
His engorged cock prods my backside, and my knees weaken. Stars blot my vision, and the pound of my heart roars in my ears. If his long confident fingers plunge inside me, I’m done for. I’ll come instantly, and the whole casino will hear me. But I don’t care. I need this. I need him.
He rolls his hips against my ass aggressively, frantically, simulating sex. I bask in the claiming, in the heat of his harsh exhales on my neck, the fingers tracing my slit, and the massive body curled around mine. Teeth graze my shoulder, and his panting strengthens into a deep groan.
Until he bumps against the ring on my labium.
His breaths cut off, and his entire body goes still.
“What’s wrong?” Dread knots in my stomach, suffocating the flames of my arousal.
His hands leave my body, and he steps back, taking all the air with him. The same reaction he had when he touched the ring on my finger three months ago.
“It’s just a piercing.” I’m frozen with hope. Hope that he’ll snap out of it and finish what he started.
Oppressive silence pushes against my back. I cross an arm over my nude chest and fight to keep my shoulders from hunching. Then I shift to face him.
With a hand on the wall supporting his slumped posture, he holds his other hand beneath his nose, as if smelling me on his fingers.
“What just happened?” My voice is low, hoarse.
His gaze lifts, locking on mine as his hand balls into a fist and drops to his side.
“A lapse in judgment. Forgive me.” He stands taller, blanking his expression. “I made a mistake.”
My airway constricts, and chills crash through me. I feel injured, insulted, but the pain is minuscule. I’ve endured worse. Survived worse. Nothing compares to burying my heart in a grave of ashes, and my body seems to recognize this. My limbs go numb. My chest lifts, and the tingling pressure behind my eyes evaporates.
“Good night, Trace,” I say softly and swivel toward the shower to adjust the faucet.
The door clicks shut behind me, plunging me into the cold familiarity of loneliness.
I don’t come out until I’ve washed away the sweat, makeup, and glitter…and the resentment.
Maybe I’m too forgiving, but in my mind, there’s nothing to absolve. For a standoffish, reserved man, he’s been straight-up with me. He’s attracted to my body, but he doesn’t want the messy relationship. Yes, he had a weak moment. So did I. And he shut it down before it went too far. Before he hurt me. Deep down, I admire his restraint.
Adding to my clemency is my conversation with Father Rick at the homeless shelter earlier this week. I donate most of my income and while dropping off a check, Rick mentioned The Regal Arch Casino has been matching my gifts to a ratio of 3:1. For every dollar I donate, Trace has been giving three dollars on the sly. Maybe he saw an opportunistic tax write-off. But after all his huffing and puffing about giving my money away, he jumps on the bandwagon? What is he up to?
When I emerge from the bathroom, the dressing room is empty and quiet. But he left something behind. An envelope, propped against a can of hairspray on the dressing table.
I pull on a casual strapless dress, slide on some flip-flops, and open the envelope. Inside is a concert ticket, and as I read the print, my heart slams against my ribs.
Presenting Beyoncé at America’s Center & The Dome
It’s a single ticket for tomorrow night in a luxury suite. I’ve seen my favorite artist live once, and it’d been from the nose-bleed section. But to watch her from a premium seat? In a private suite? Holy fucking shit, I’m going to explode.
I bound out of the dressing room in a frenzy of excitement, taking the long way through the gaming area to look for Trace. He might’ve left me feeling unsteady and frustrated, but it doesn’t overshadow how grateful I am for the ticket. The need to say thank you in-person has me scanning all his usual spots—the restaurant, gaming tables, two of the three bars, the lobby.
Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.
My strides careen to a stop, and the concert ticket crumples in my hand.
I wish I was one of those people who can shield their emotions. I want to give him a smile, maybe even a small wave, and continue on like there isn’t an invisible band around my ribs, crushing my chest.
Be cool, Danni. Don’t overreact.
The muscles in my face ignore my demands. They contort, bunch, and turn cold, expressing everything I don’t want him to see.
Humiliation.
Hurt.
Regret.