THE END
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INSATIABLE
By
JD HAWKINS
Chapter 1
Jax
I walked into the bar.
That might not sound like anything impressive, but that’s where you’re wrong.
Let me tell you something. I can tell how a woman fucks by the way she moves; you can tell how a man handles business between the sheets by the way he walks.
And my walk says one thing very loud, and very clear. I’m the best fuck there is.
When I lean onto the bar, I don’t need to get the barman’s attention. The club’s attention is already on me.
“Hey Jax,” he says, sliding a beer towards me. “Brando coming?”
“Yeah, he is,” I reply, taking off my shades and turning around to get a feel for the scene.
When you’ve been hitting the clubs as long as I have, you learn to read the signs as easily as traffic lights.
The girl with too many wrinkles in her tight dress? Her hair not perfectly straight? She’s been dancing all night. She’s not a regular – I’d know her if she was. She likes it all night, likes to be on top, so she can move at her own pace.
That woman who isn’t laughing as loudly as her friends? Both hands tight around her glass ‘cause she doesn’t know what to do with them? She’s been dragged out for the night. She’s shuffling awkwardly, like she’s cold. Like she’s not feeling the heat of the club. She wants to take it slow. My breath on her neck, our flesh barely touching, every move a surprise. Probably shivers when she’s ready for it.
The tall blonde bombshell – in the tiny black dress half her length - dancing to her own rhythm, slap bang in the middle of the bar? She’s looking for the highest high there is. Right now that’s the idea of having the whole club look at her. When she stops dancing, she’ll size the club up herself, and pick out the guy who’ll be prom king to her queen. That’ll be me – if I’m still here.
I turn back to my beer, take down half the bottle, and feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey,” the tall sensuous woman with amazing curves says. “Do I know you?”
I let her watch me rake my eyes over her, from the stiletto heels all the way up to the cockteasing shine in her eyes. I smirk. “Do you want to?”
She laughs with the kind of full-bodied voice that most women reserve for the bedroom. I check her out again. She’s got the kind of ass that I would let sit on my face for hours, cleavage big enough to lose your mind in and then spend the rest of the night trying to find it again.
“You look like Ryan Gosling,” she flirts.
“Maybe I am.”
She moves closer. “Are you?”
“No. I don’t wear make-up, and my lines are my own.”
I’m debating whether or not to buy her a drink when I see Brando enter over her shoulder. He takes a few steps into the bar, spends a couple of seconds dancing up against a drunk girl, then makes his way over to me. He’s shouting his order to the barman from across the room.
That’s Brando’s style. Loud, full of life, and always attracting attention.
“Hey, Jax,” he says, locking hands, “you feelin’ good tonight?” He shoots an appreciative glance at the woman beside me and she returns it.
Brando’s from Brooklyn. He’s got dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin, and he plays up his Italian roots every chance he gets. He likes to say he speaks French and Italian, but I think his knowledge begins and ends with the lyrics to old disco songs.
“Depends which girl I’m feeling,” I say.
Me; I’m more about finesse. I like well-made suits that fit right, places that look as good as I do, and women with an appetite. When my clothes are on, I’m the sharpest guy in the room, and once they’re off, I’m the kind of man who will make you feel like you’ve only fucked boys before. The kind of man who makes the pale imitations that follow feel like a compromise. The kind of man your mind will wander to when you’re naked in the bath…
“Who’s this pretty young thing?” Brando says, turning to face the curvy girl.
“I didn’t get her name yet,” I say, giving Brando the in. “But I was just about to.”
“It’s Sophie,” she purrs.
I rub my left eyebrow – it’s the sign me and Brando have for ‘she’s all yours’ - and turn towards the club.