Page 34 of Creed

“Jesus fucking Christ, Romano. If you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to just let her have the money and drag your ass out of here myself, private dance be damned.” A third voice groans out, his tone raw and smoky. Pure sex.

Like, Corvin King and Teddy Hamilton had a love child and their voices melded together to create the one that just filled the space of the small, private room.

The first guy grumbles under his breath and it’s quiet for another moment before a fourth voice nearly coos over to me behind the partition, his voice a soft balm to the other chaotic voices I just heard. “I’m sorry, uh, Star. You can start whenever you’re ready… I guess.” I almost don’t hear the last words from how quietly they’re said.

Hitting play on the playlist, the slowed version of Bow by Reyn Hartley starts to play and I take a breath, filling my lungs with confidence I don’t feel and step out from behind the partition.

Four men sit in various forms of what looks like grunge-wear on the two leather couches in the opposite corner of the room. I can’t make out their faces but I can feel all of their eyes on me. Well, most of their eyes. One of them looks to be passed out drunk. Good.

I take slow, calculated steps, swaying my hips to the beat. I rake my fingers up my body, fingertips tracing my curves over my hips, up my ribs, over my breasts and up into my hair. All three conscious men sit stock still, watching. Waiting.

The groups of men—and sometimes women—who pay for dances usually verbally spar one another for the first dance. But these men, they’re letting me choose. I feel a bit lighter mentally that they’re giving me a choice.

I keep my body moving, swaying, undulating, and dipping to the beat as I scan each of the men before me. My eyes land on the one in the middle. He appears to be a little more tense than the others, and there’s an air of nervousness that surrounds him. That similarity to what I’m feeling has me approaching him first.

When I’m close enough, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl seductively towards him.

“Fuck,” A low voice growls beside me, but I keep my focus on the man in front of me. He sits a little straighter, now aware that I’ve chosen to dance for him first. Now kneeling between his knees, I slide my hands up his thighs, and he makes no move to touch me. I note that his hands are firmly gripping the leather cushions on either side of his knees, as if to stop himself from reaching out and touching me. It actually gives me a little more confidence to dance.

Using his thighs to push myself to a stand, I spin in my skyscraper boots to face away from him. I tip my head back toward the ceiling and circle my hips, pushing my ass back toward him. I roll my body, hands sweeping up and down before I turn to face him. His breathing has picked up with his chest rising and falling faster. I slowly climb into his lap and straddle his thighs, my hands gripping his shoulders as I sway my hips forward and back, the motion looking like I’m grinding down on him without actually touching him too intimately.

Being this close to him, I take in his features in the faint light while continuing to move for him. He seems vaguely familiar with his intentionally messy hair and dark eyes and the freckles I can just barely make out on his face. His scent washes over me as he breathes in and out and it’s shockingly…clean. Like simple soap, citrus, and mint. It’s oddly comforting. I can feel his body vibrating and trembling with nervousness, so it must be what possesses me to lean forward and whisper, my lips brushing his ear.

“You can place your hands on my hips, but don’t pull.” I pull back and his sweet, dark brown eyes lock with mine. He looks so young, maybe close to my age. His eyes volley between my own, seeking affirmation for what I just told him. Probably remembering what Jett had threatened just before I started.

I give him a small nod and I feel the featherlight touch of his calloused hands on my hips.

“Ri—” The guy sitting at the other end of the same couch warns out but I hold up a hand to the man without breaking eye contact with the one in front of me. His eyes never leave mine the entire time I dance for him. Every swish of my hips, every time I press my breasts closer to his face, every touch of my hands, his eyes stay on me and his hands never waver, never wander from where I gave him permission to touch me, save for his thumbs drawing small, comforting circles on my hips. Never pulling, never demanding more.

The song comes to an end and somehow I feel…lighter. One down.

I feel the tiniest spark of hope in my chest, like the night won’t end as the shit show I imagined it would. The hands from the first guy drop from my hips immediately and go back to gripping the cushion. I offer him a small smile before sliding down off of his lap and come to stand before them again.

The men all wait quietly and patiently as the next song begins. Who Do You Want by Ex Habit starts to play and immediately I turn toward the man who called out a warning earlier. He’s sitting in a leisurely relaxed position at the other end of the couch.

I start the sensuous choreography for the song facing away from him, bending at the hips and dragging my hands up my legs, starting at my heels and ending with my palms resting on my lower back just above my ass before slowly twisting my torso back to face him, biting my lip and winking at him.

His body is slung haphazardly on the couch, knees spread wide and arms splayed across the backrest, and his head tipped back, watching me through a half-lidded gaze. Very much emitting the energy of a king perched on his dais, and I’m the harlequin entertaining him. The song picks up in energy and I spin toward him, my moves matching the intensity of the words. I take a step closer to him and I watch his hands flex and clench into fists, his control barely in check, but still he keeps them to himself.

I move to his lap and catch the first guy shifting in his seat, his palms brushing down his thighs in a nervous gesture. It makes no sense why a guy like that would be here at this club.

I don’t even have a chance to so much as breathe over the man beneath me before my world is spinning and suddenly I’m flipped and pinned beneath his hard body. All hell breaks loose as I squeak out a nearly inaudible scream.

The door bursts open, banging off the wall at the same time the bright lights are flicked on and voices are yelling from all directions around me. My eyes lock onto the shocked, ice blue glare above me and recognition slaps me in the face and my heart nearly stops beating in my chest.

His body is ripped from mine and I know I need to take a breath, but my lungs have long forgotten that knowledge.

I watch as Jett pins him against the wall with a hand fisted in his shirt and a forearm pressing into his neck. I jump at the feel of gentle hands at my shoulders that slowly, cautiously lift me back to a sitting position.

I turn my attention from the ghost of my past to the other men in the brightly lit room. I don’t know how the hell I didn’t see them before. Because I now recognize the man who helped me—the one I danced for first— as Riley Graves. The newer drummer for Dark Sins. Passed out on the couch behind him and oblivious to the chaos surrounding him is Tony Romano, or “Ritz”, their bassist. But the massive, brooding man standing next to Riley I recognize instantly.

“Bear,” I whisper his name. His long blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun and brows furrowed in confusion over his bright hazel eyes. It takes a second before recognition hits and his eyes widen to saucers.

“Holy shit.” Is all he says.

I can’t stop the nervous laugh that bursts from my lips.

“Star,” Jett calls out, getting my attention before I can say anything to Barrett. I turn toward him and the man he has pinned to the wall. Jett’s eyes swarm with concern. “It’s your call, sweetheart.” He says calmly. I know what he’s saying. He’ll drag each and every one of them out of here by the scruff of their necks if I told him so.

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