Page 68 of When Hearts Ignite

Gritting my teeth, my eyes flutter open and I stare at the way the late afternoon sunlight reflects on the ceiling, the ripples dancing on the smooth surface like a lover’s embrace, as if it’s latching onto it, knowing as soon as the sun moves position, they’ll be torn apart and have to wait for another day to be reunited.

Whimsical thoughts. Irrational dreams. All symptoms of a sickness only she can cure.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I get up from my chair and drop to my haunches by the floor, picking up the binders and pens scattered on the carpet like blood splatter in a crime scene.

I heave in a breath, exhale, and repeat the motion. I sort the binders and pens by color and place them in their proper spots on the desk. Red on one side, black on the other. Three pens of each color are precisely aligned by the notepad.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing, the slideshow of Grace in my mind wouldn’t stop playing. The peace and calmness wouldn’t come. The longing, which abated briefly when I held her into my arms, when I almost fucked her in public, comes roaring back in full force.

Ping.

Grabbing my cell phone, I swipe to the incoming text message.

Ryland

Grace Peyton works as a dancer at Trésor. She goes by Genevieve. Her shift begins in half an hour. Don’t do anything rash, Steven.

Too late.

I’m already shrugging on my suit jacket, grabbing my keys and halfway out the door before the sentence fully sinks in.

I need to see her. I need answers.

And I want those motherfucking lips on mine again.

My fingers fiddle with my watch in a nervous rhythm. I’m probably getting smudges on the stainless silver straps and glass face, but I don’t care anymore. I take it off, tracing the carving on the backside, mind over matter, wishing it were that simple, that somehow, my mind can stop this desperate craving I have for her.

All I know is, behind these elaborate double doors decorated with an intricate, glass crescent design, I’d find the woman who has become an obsession, her absence only stoking the flames of the fire which began all those months ago.

The Rose floors, which take up several floors of this building, house different clubs and rooms for various proclivities. There’s something for everyone. Rumor is, there’s even an indoor “forest” with sounds of the nature, faux moonlight, and star-lit skies for people who like to do the deed in the great outdoors but don’t want to worry about a shutter happy paparazzi capturing photos that should never see the light of day.

I’ve never been to any of these specialty clubs or rooms because I’ve never felt the need to. One night with a companion every three months in a luxury suite equipped with adult toys and specialty furniture feels enough. Sufficient to slake an inconvenient urge.

An urge that vanished ever since she disappeared.

I can’t believe she’s been right under my nose all this time.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the doors and enter Trésor, the burlesque club I know many of my peers spend their evenings in, claiming the girls are sexy, the atmosphere is sinful without being gaudy, and the service is impeccable.

Sultry music plays from the speakers, the bass vibrating in my ears. The central space is large, almost three times the size of the bullpen at Pietra, with the walls lit up in dark violet, just like her eyes. Four lighted columns are at the corners of a rectangular stage, which is also backlit by the glass floor and punctuated by three silver poles, currently being occupied by three svelte women in glittering lingerie, contorting their bodies into impossible poses. Groups of men sit at circular tables surrounding the stage, apparently mesmerized by the dancers twirling around the poles.

My dick doesn’t twitch at the half-dressed women, my blood doesn’t heat from the spicy, smoky fragrance lingering in the air, my loins don’t stir as I scan the surroundings, noting several private rooms on the right and a row of private, darkened stalls on the left where some men are groaning as they receive lap dances from the girls.

Sex and sin are in the air, but my mind is only focused on one thing—finding Grace, or Genevieve, and the desperate tugging renews in my gut. Suddenly, the music changes to another sexy, jazz piece, a singer decked out in a sequin dress rasping sultry lyrics into the microphone, something about sirens and possession. The three dancers disappear into the small crowds and giggles and hushed laughter fill the air.

My breath freezes in my lungs as a vixen appears on stage, her rich brown tresses curled into loose waves, falling over her chest and back. She’s wearing a glittering, fitted jacket, which covers her entire torso, ending at the tops of her thighs, hiding everything, and yet showing swaths of skin and legs clad in fuck me, leather boots.

Grace.

She smiles coyly at the crowd, her hips swaying to the music, her fingers playing with the lone gold button keeping the blazer from falling open and revealing her charms. Her cleavage glimmers under the violet light, tempting anyone with a pair of functioning eyes. She bites her luscious, blood-red pout and dips her torso toward the floor, thrusting out her round ass, still mostly hidden by the jacket.

Blood rushes straight to my cock as the chattering in the room quiets into the background, the pulsing in my ears matching the sultry thumps of the song. My mind can’t reconcile the innocent intern who was temptation embodied in those early hours in the office and this sexual seductress on the stage.

My legs move of their own accord, my mind mucked with lust and heat, and I find an empty table in front of the stage and sit down, my hands grabbing the cool, marble table in a last-ditch effort to keep my wits about me.

Grace unleashes another deadly smile as she gyrates her hips to the music, her motions fluid and languid, her fingers trailing over the jacket to cup her breasts, giving them a thorough squeeze. Her lips part as if she’s moaning, and I almost come in my pants.

She flicks open the lone button on her jacket and the flimsy material pools on the floor, revealing her tight little body clad in a diamond-studded bra and thong, the lingerie barely concealing anything. Her tits sway and shake with the music as she closes her eyes, her hands trailing down the slender column of her neck, graze her luscious, creamy tits, smooth over her the pale expanse of her belly, and cover the little scrap of fabric over her pussy.

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