Chapter Four

The (Re)Meeting

“Where are we going?” I call out as Smith begins pulling me through the crowd. In return, he just squeezes my hand tighter as he leads me off the dance floor.

We make it back to the bar and he stops to talk to a security guard wearing all black and sporting a serious bicep/tricep combination. For a second, Smith listens, then nods his head. He shoots me a glance, his eyes a little mischievous, and I feel my heart rate kick up. Then, the guy hands over a key.

Smith motions for me to come closer to him, and when I do, he grabs my hand again.

“Still with me?”

He pulls back to look me in my eyes and I nod, biting my lower lip. His gaze flares a bit and he dips down to press his mouth against my ear.

“Follow me, okay? The VIP suite is at the end of the hall.”

Smith leads me around the side of the bar and down a small, darkened hallway. There are two restroom doors along with another unmarked door at the very end. He uses his key to unlock that last door and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm.

“After you, gorgeous.”

For a second, I hesitate. The door opens and all I can see ahead is blackness, along with an incredibly narrow set of stairs. I blink at them, then back at Smith.

“You’re not a serial killer, right?”

He cocks a brow and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Are you?”

I grin up at him, shaking my head. “Touché.”

Carefully, I step into the darkness, making sure my heels are hitting sturdy ground. Through the walls, the pulse of the music makes the space feel almost womb-like. I can sense Smith reach around me and, suddenly, the light above us flickers to life, casting a pale blue pool around our bodies.

I feel like I should say something charming or funny, but my brain is blank—completely and utterly empty—of any thought except for my desire. And I guess Smith feels the same way, considering it’s hardly a moment later that he’s got my back pressed up against the wall behind me.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Do you know that?”

Ordinarily, I’d shake my head. I don’t know that I’m sexy. I never feel particularly sexy or hot or even pretty half the time.

But right now?

Right now, I’ve never felt sexier as I slide one hand up into Smith’s hair and pull him even closer.

“I want you,” I whisper against his mouth, letting my tongue flick out against his.

That’s all the encouragement he needs and he practically growls as he lets his tongue press and slide against mine. His hands coast from my waist to my hips, and he pulls me closer into his body.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” Smith says, running his hands over my ass. “The way you move—especially out on the dance floor. Holy shit—I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard.”

I’ve never really been a fan of dirty talk—in most cases, it seems like it’s just an excuse for assholes to use pussy as much as possible. But Smith’s words feel visceral and authentic. They feel real—and I feel the exact same way. I lean forward and capture his mouth again.

“Touch me,” I practically moan into his mouth, surprising myself.

Good Girl Hyacinth—the responsible graduate student, daughter, teacher—well, she’d never say something so brazen. But this Hyacinth? Well, she lets her lips move to Smith’s jaw as she simultaneously shifts his hands back to her waist, then slides them up until they slip up to the smooth satin edge of her bra.

Smith manages to take over from there. Slowly, his index finger slides beneath the elastic and moves backward until his hand reaches the clasp. My skin feels feverishly hot compared to his, and I give a weak moan of something like satisfaction mixed with impatience.

“Are you sure?” Smith’s tone is almost strained as he asks the question, but I know he’d stop if I asked him to. Which, of course, I have no intention of doing.

Instead, I reach back and undo the clasp myself, letting the straps of my bra fall loose along my shoulders and slide down my arms. Seconds later, it hits the floor. After that, any semblance of “taking things slow” turns into “needing it badly and needing it now.”

Smith reaches up with both hands and covers my breasts, which have never felt more sensitive than they do at this very moment. He stares down at them like they hold the key to some sort of mystery, and then shakes his head.

“These are fucking perfect.” He sounds literally blown away, as though my body was something special, something miraculous. I think that feeling is making me more drunk than the actual alcohol I’ve consumed. Slowly, Smith brushes a thumb over each nipple and watches my expression as I suck in a breath. He adds in his index fingers, pinching lightly.

“You like that?” he asks, looking up to meet my gaze. His eyes are hooded, and I swallow hard as I nod. In the pale light, our skin looks almost ethereal, as though it’s glowing with a light source from within.

“What else do you like?” he murmurs, leaning to kiss my collarbone. I moan a bit.

“I just want your hands on me,” I say quietly.

“My hands are on you.” Smith cups the lower curve of each breast and continues to stroke the sensitive skin beneath. “And trust me, I could touch your tits all day. But I have a feeling there are better uses for my hands. And my mouth wants in on the action, too.”

I barely have time to blink then as he dips his head and captures a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it with a firm pressure that makes my eyes close automatically. I bury my hands in his closely cropped hair.

“Yes.”

The word is a cross between a plea and a prayer, not to mention a verbal thank-you note to the gods of sex in a club with a near-stranger.

“I want to get my hands on you, too,” I murmur. Smith pulls back a bit, admiring the taut, red peak crowning my left breast. As he moves to kiss along my sternum, I press my fingers against his abdomen and let them creep slowly toward his waistline. When they hit the button of his jeans, I flick it open and Smith sort of groans.

“Stop.” He grabs my hand, then nods at the stairs. “Let’s take this up to the VIP suite. There’s no one up there tonight.”

Translation: We’ll be alone to do whatever we want.

For a second, I hesitate. Then Smith leans in and captures my bottom lip with his teeth.

“Then I can continue tasting every inch of your body,” he half growls, “just like I promised.”

I don’t think I’ve ever scrambled up a flight of stairs so fast.

Too fast, apparently; by the time I get to the top, the world is sort of rocking back and forth, and I have to grab the handrail to steady myself.

“Whoa.”

I lean one shoulder against the wall just as Smith moves around in front of me. I blink several times and look up into his gaze. In a split second, it’s changed from heated to confused to downright worried.

“Hyacinth? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know—it might be the drinks—”

“Are you going to be sick?”

I bite my lip a little too hard and wince. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t miss a beat as he grabs my hand. “Let’s go back downstairs and find your friends, sweetheart.”

“But I’m supposed to take you home,” I mumble up at him, pressing a clammy hand to my forehead. “It was my number three. You’re supposed to by my number three.”

Not exactly the most brilliant response, I guess, but I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that. As the world began to spin, I let myself close my eyes and then everything around me—the steep staircase, the blue light, and Smith’s concerned expression—disappear into blackness.