Page 7 of Lesson Learned

As she finishes the second half of her drink in small ladylike sips, I make my move, too enraptured to be patient, asking, “Do you want to dance?” then watching the answer shiver across her body like a wave of electricity; sparkling, tingling, alive.

It’s an interim invitation. One song, maybe two—the music isn’t bad—then I’ll progress to a more intimate request.

I help her dismount the barstool and walk to the dance floor. It’s kismet when the beat slows, an offer to hold her in my arms that I would never refuse, a chance to grind my body slowly against hers.

She keeps distance between us at first and her height is a challenge. Even with her outrageously high heels, she’s still a foot shorter. Her head turns sideways, the top only reaching my collarbone. Her hand rests against my side rather than my shoulder.

Each time she sways close enough to press against me, she jumps back, chewing her lip and frowning like she’s scolding herself. Her cheeks soon grow flushed, a few damp hairs cling to her face as we sway to the music. Heat radiates from her, making her skin glow under the dancing lights.

The longer we stay on the floor, the more she relaxes into touching me, her movements growing bolder as each song progresses. My two-song minimum long passed.

She tosses her hair, and my hand buries itself in the mousy waves, closing my fingers together to grasp it tighter. As I bend my knees, tipping my weight forward, my head angles down to rest against hers, my free hand sliding from her shoulder blades to her curve of her waist.

Another song starts, and she pulls away. My stomach sinks, expecting rejection, but she takes my hand in hers as she angles towards the rear exit door, spilling onto the patio, staring up at the stars.

The outdoor area is barely populated. One man smokes near the door while a couple explores each other at the table farthest from the lights.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, the words caught by the light breeze and whisked away. “It’s so hot in there. I just need a breather.”

The long length of her neck as her head tilts back is as divine a curve as the lengthy petals of a white lily.

Emilia. I whisper the name inside my head as I press my hand into the tantalising slope of her lower back. Whisper it again as she curves into my body like a heat-seeking missile bowing in the sky, target acquired.

I bend my body so my hand can stretch to brush against the hem of her dress, only having to lift it a centimetre to caress the lower curve of her arse. If she’s wearing underwear, it must be a thong. I certainly don’t encounter any material resistance as my fingers trace widening circles across the plump skin, her sharp inhalation in response siphoning half my blood supply straight to my cock.

The couple at the far table pull apart and stand, tugging their clothes straight. They nod as they pass by on their way indoors.

I steer her around the corner, into a small alleyway that runs alongside the club, access to the street barred by an iron gate. The dumpster near the entrance blocks most of the view from any passing pedestrians.

Not that there are many at this hour of the morning. Even Saturday nights have their limit, and this club is at the farther reaches of the central city, the footpath less populated than most.

Her arms hook around my back, body leaning into mine. My wandering hands move from the supple curves of her arse upward, one pressing against her upper back to support her, the other coming around her front, cupping the side of a perky tit.

When I rub my thumb over her nipple, it responds immediately, noticeably stiffening even through the fabric of her dress. I repeat the movement and it reacts again until it pokes forward far enough to pinch it.

The sharp pain makes her gasp, and her hips jerk forward, a clear signal she enjoys the sting.

It has never been this easy. It feels like she’s made for me. Like a benevolent god carved her from everything I enjoy and popped her in front of me as a reward, a tasty treat.

A leak runs from the overhead guttering; old enough to have a beard of green moss gleaming against the breezeblock wall. I’m tempted to shove her back against it, ruining her dress with the muck, the stain soaking into the fabric until her skin feels damp.

Instead, I press her against the blocks nearby. The brickwork is dirty, cold, but not wet.

She struggles a little, but I close my mouth over hers, swallowing the protest. My hand curves around the back of her head so the force of my kiss doesn’t accidentally knock her skull against the hard wall.

My free hand returns to her hem, my fingers dancing under the fabric, keen to explore. I rub against the outside of her underwear, feeling how wet she is through the tiny scrap of lace.

“Take off your panties,” I instruct her in a soft voice when I finally wrest my lips from hers. The whites of her eyes gleam in the darkness, one of the few points of clarity I have in the faint light.

Instantly obedient, she curls up her dress, hooking her thumbs through the elastic waistband and dragging it down. When she tilts to the side, I support her, helping her lift one high-heel clad foot, then the other, stuffing my trophy in my pocket, a prize to keep for later.

“Am I…?” her voice trails off in distress as her elbow brushes against the wall beside her and finds it wet. “I can’t get my dress dirty,” she says, the syllables so mushy it’s hard to make them out from one another.

“Shh.” I press her shoulders back, taking delight in her discomfort, the realisation her outside is now as filthy as her inside. My hands slide down her upper arms, her elbows, reaching all the way to tighten around her wrists like a pair of cuffs.

“You feel so good.” My nose burrows into her hair, carving a path until my teeth can bite into her neck, sense the pulse of her artery tremble through the skin.

A soft cry catches in her throat and her wrists tense, twisting inside my grip, putting forth their tiny battle for freedom and utterly failing.