Dance is our foreplay. The courting ritual before the bump and grind. Our bodies scope each other out through movement, and mine likes what it finds. His abs are solid, firm under a loose shirt. His jeans tight against his bulge, against his ass. My legs part for his, his toned thigh pressing in just the right places. “I got what you need, babe.” He leans in. “My place or yours?”
“Neither.” I take his hand, dancing him backwards through the crowd. I feel eyes on me but ignore them all, snaking out of view amongst the drinkers and the talkers, until the dancers are just a blur. The cool air of the smoking area hits hard, but not hard enough to sober me. I’ve been here before, dragged out too many Saturdays by my friends. Enough times to know the alcove behind the outdoor speakers. I pull my chocolate stud into the darkness, and he groans, his hot lips on my neck.
“Here? For real?”
My fingers are already working their way inside his fly. He’s a big boy, indeed. “Yes. Right here.”
He presses me against the wall. “Nice... Show me those curves, babe, I love a girl with curves.”
Just as well. His big hands palm my big tits, squeezing nice and hard before he peels down my dress, yanking aside the sturdy lace of my bra. My nipples stand to attention. He rolls them between his fingers until I gasp. I’m already hot for him, five songs worth of foreplay well long enough to get me wet and wanting. “Fuck me,” I whisper. “Don’t speak... just fuck me.”
“Wanna taste you.” He lowers his head, slurping at my tits before burying his face between them, the standard reaction. I close my eyes to blank out his, pushing my weight against the brickwork as his fingers find my panties.
“Please... fuck me...” I moan. “Hard...”
“You don’t wanna know my name?”
“I don’t need a name.”
“Might wanna see you again... might wanna see those gorgeous big tits of yours...”
It would never happen. “Fuck me, please... just fuck me.”
“Alright, babe. Alright.”
I turn to face the wall as he reaches into his pocket to fumble for a rubber. My dress tickles my thighs, barely enough to cover the swell of my arse.
“Gonna fuck you hard...”
Music to my ears.
My pussy is so ready, panties wrenched aside. His thick thumb slides its way in first, testing.
“Yes...” I reach down for my clit, bracing myself for his cock. But it never fucking comes.
“Gemma! What the fuck?! Not-a-fucking-gain!”
A screech I really didn’t want to hear. Chelsea Rawling’s pincer nails were on my elbow before I could register, yanking me aside before I’d even pushed my tits back in my dress.
“Jesus!” I hissed. “What?!”
I looked over Chelsea’s shoulder to find Tessa tagging along with her. Unlike the direct assault of Chelsea’s dagger eyes, Tessa’s gaze was firmly on the floor. Caught in the middle. Just like always.
“You can clear off,” Chelsea spat at my poor unsuspecting chocolate stud.
I felt his eyes on the back of me, but didn’t say a word. The moment was wrecked, finished, over. I hoped he knew I was sorry. Sorry and fucking mortified.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I groaned once he was out of earshot. “I’m twenty three years old! Who died and made you my babysitter, Chelsea? Can’t you leave the interfering bitch act alone for just one evening?”
“You’re drunk,” she snapped.
“I may be drunk, but you’re still an interfering bitch.”
She folded her arms, and fixed me in that Chelsea-Rawlings-knows-best stare she’s been giving me since reception class. She was worse these days, though. Our old Chelsea had been reborn as London Chelsea, the Chelsea that wanted to ditch her Hertfordshire girl upbringing and get herself an A-list boyfriend, some actor, or singer or sports star. Even a reality star would do at a push, she’d admitted as much, some Z-lister with hardly any brains and barely any money. Chelsea wasn’t fussy, just as long as they could get her in the papers.
“It’s about time someone gave you a few home fucking truths, Gemma Taylor!”
No prizes for guessing who that was going to be.
I made to brush her aside, but Chelsea stood firm, pouty lips pursed venomously.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “It’s about time you sorted your shit out.”
She had my attention. “My shit? What shit?”
She rolled her eyes. “I, we, thought you’d have grown out of this by now. Six months we’ve been here, six whole pissing months!”
“Grown out of what?” I folded my arms, sobriety threatening an unwanted appearance.