Page 6 of Lesson Learned

She’s in genuine distress. It’s my duty to go over there and cheer her up.

A kind man would tell her what happened to her friends, wiping away the aura of abandonment that clings to her like a heavy cloud. I could explain, then see her outside and into a taxi, making sure the fare’s paid to her destination since she’s low on cash.

But it’s been two years and counting since I was a kind man.

What appeals far more is to dance with her a few times, pay for a shot or three, then take her onto the patio out back and ease her loneliness with a few hard thrusts.

She struggles to jump onto a high bar stool, balancing the drink and tugging at the hem of her short dress. As she glances around, eyes scanning the floor for her friends again, I hold my breath.

The girl really is exquisite.

When she handed over her ID to the bouncer outside, I saw her name, Emilia Parsons, and her age, twenty-three. She appears younger, but that’ll be because of her size.

I take my own survey of the crowd, noting at least two other men paying attention, aside from the bartender. That decides me. I can’t leave her to navigate these treacherous waters on her own. With large strides, my legs eat up the distance between us, pushing and shoving anyone in my way until I reach her side.

My face knows what to do, transforming into a friendly grin. “We meet again.”

Her expression brightens like my words flicked a switch. The reciprocal pleasure makes my heartbeat quicken.

She nods, frowning into her drink, then knocking back half her glass—more than half—in one go.

“Bad day, is it?”

Her laugh is as buoyant as butterfly wings caught in an updraft. “You could say that.” She shifts on her seat, wrinkling her nose and avoiding my gaze. “Thank you for paying my entry fee. I don’t…” Her words falter, and she leans across to replace her half-empty glass on the counter, nearly tilting off her chair.

I put a supporting hand on the side of her waist to stop her falling, an immediate flood of warmth to my cock hitting me like an electric shock. The moment she’s steady, my mind issues the instruction to pull away, but it’s like her dress is made from super-glue, sticking me in place.

My eyes travel over her features, gauging the reaction. Her expression says she doesn’t mind the contact. “You’re welcome,” I say when my brain prompts me to continue the conversation. “I know what it’s like to be cash poor.”

Her dress tells me a multitude of information, from its length to its colour to its style. What it screams above all else is that it cost far too much, more than any scrap of fabric should. It murmurs about privilege, about membership to a family dripping in wealth.

That she can buy this dress but can’t afford the entry fee suggests she’s under the hard press of a patriarchal thumb.

A poor little rich girl controlled by daddy. What’s not to love?

Her eyes finally lock with mine and a range of emotions chase each other across her face, landing her deep in the poetry of pure lust.

She clutches the edge of the stool, pressing her elbows together to thrust her tits higher. The cute biting-lip move tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing. Each inch of her body broadcasts a solid green light.

Then every move suddenly reverses itself and she stares at the counter, arms changing to fold over her chest, going into hiding.

In response to the slight retreat, the devil on my shoulder asks, “You’re not with your friends any longer?”

Her features pinch together as she hunches even smaller on her seat. “I think they’ve headed home.”

I nod, what’s left of my conscience poking at me to continue, to provide her with the narrative she missed. But when I lean close to whisper in her ear, I don’t give her that context, instead confiding, “My friend left, too. Do you want to keep each other company instead?”

She nods and gives me that beaming smile again, then twitches like she got a static spark, and tucks it away.

“You’re from Christchurch?”

“No, my family’s from around Wellington but I came down here for—” She jerks to a sudden halt, then adds, “for a change of scenery. What about you?”

As I make small talk, trying to connect, to get her comfortable, I watch a strange sequence play out. One where each time she physically responds to me, she moves to curb her reaction. A tease between what her body wants and what her mind will allow her to have.

A tease that comes down harder on my side the longer we chat.

My attempts at conversation soon grow tired. It’s hard to be heard above the music but too early to ask her outside, into the quiet night air.

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