Page 17 of Unstitch

Her body is beautiful. So beautiful. Strong and curvy and sensuous. The way she moves almost brings tears to my eyes. She’s a free spirit, in thrall to the music and no one else, and it occurs to me that this is her secret. This is where her magic lies. The way she’s engaging with the stage, the music, the pole, feels private. She is absolutely, one hundred percent, playing for the audience, but the way she’s doing it makes me feel like a grubby little voyeur, watching a show that’s intended for no one else’s eyes but hers.

I don’t know how she does it, but it’s spellbinding.

This is no seedy strip club where the woman dancing is beholden to engage by the promise of tips, by the allure of potential tens and twenties and fifties if she pouts and winks and bites her lip and holds eye contact.

Oh, no.

She’s above that. She’s above us. She has no apparent interest in the roomful of men and women whose rapt attention she’s garnered, whose gazes are devouring her almost-naked form as their hands and mouths devour their neighbours’ bodies instead. The attraction, the arousal, only runs in one direction tonight, and she has all the power.

As soon as she takes her bow and exits the stage for the final time to rapturous applause, I push through the crowd, declining the advances of a very attractive blonde I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked in here before. I have the advantage, given the number of nights I’ve spent in here and Wolff’s pop-up JV with Alchemy, of being something of an insider.

Which is to say I know where the dressing room is.

I head downstairs to the basement as quickly as my erection will allow. It houses not only another, more hardcore playing space—The Vault—but six additional private rooms and a small dressing room the performers use. Darcy’s is the only performance scheduled for tonight, which means she should be alone.

I knock.

‘Who is it?’ she calls.

‘It’s Max.’

There’s a pause, and I shove my hands in my pockets as I wait.

She opens the door and stands there, one hand on the doorframe and one on her hip. She’s still in her bodystocking, obviously, since I gave her about a twenty-second head start before following her down here like a stalker.

And I look.

I take her in shamelessly.

Every curve, every tiny, glinting crystal on her body. The flush on her cheeks—from exertion and from the adulation she received, no doubt. The way the sheer black gauze turns her furled nipples darker while defining them perfectly and showcases the neat line of hair between her legs so light it’s barely visible.

She told me in France she was a natural blonde. I suppose that’s my evidence.

When I drag my eyes back up to her face, she’s surveying me in amusement.

‘Have you quite finished?’

‘I could look all night,’ I tell her. It’s true.

‘Clearly.’ She nods at my stiff dick.

‘You did that. Bending over like that at the end. You dirty, dirty girl.’

‘What do you want, Max?’

I lean in and kiss her on both cheeks, noting the heat radiating off her body. Not surprising, given the feats of athleticism it’s just performed. Her workouts would put my punishing gym regimen to shame.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Not a good idea.’ She gazes at me as I pull back, and the hunger in her eyes tells me it’s not because she doesn’t want me to. Rather, she’s upholding her sister’s bullshit rules.

I let my gaze flicker south again, to those perfectly taut little buds. I could stoop and take one in my mouth right now. ‘Do you get turned on doing that? Knowing every single guy in there wants to fuck you? Knowing that whichever poor woman they sink their dick inside now, they’ll be imagining she’s you?’

‘Obviously,’ she says, and I don’t miss her shuddery exhale.

‘Are you going to get yourself off now?’ I crane my neck to see if she has any toys lined up in there to help her.

‘Yep.’ She pops the p. ‘And I’m going to enjoy every second.’

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