I got sucked into all this, but I can’t afford to let it happen again. He doesn’t know me, nor I him. We’re not friends. We’re not lovers. He kissed me, but that means nothing. To a man like Dawson, a kiss is no more than a handshake. He’s used to a night of sex and then a quick goodbye. It’s an exchange of pleasure for him. Nothing more.
For me, sex is a mystery. A fantasy. A dream. The future. It’s always been the future. Someday I’ll meet the right guy; that was my teenage philosophy. Now, I just want to graduate and get a job and be able to stop working at Exotic Nights. I want to stop stripping. I don’t think of the future, except for a vague idea of hope that it’ll get better. Dawson isn’t the future. He’s my present, and he’s nothing to me. Nor I to him. I’m not an object of desire, except in that he’s seen me naked and wants me for that one night of pleasure.
And I want more. I want a future.
I shake myself then breathe deeply. When I’ve established a sense of equilibrium, I stand up, and now Dawson lets me. I feel his eyes on me as I straighten my skirt and tighten my ponytail. “Thank you.”
He stands up, and his hands go to my waist. I don’t even think about it for several seconds, because it just feels so…right. But then I remember and step away.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His eyes are back to muted hazel, but his expression shows his concern.
I nod. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a woman. ‘Fine’ has a lot of meanings.”
A clock tolls somewhere, marking the half-hour.
“I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m sorry I lost it like that,” I say with forced professionalism. “Your meeting is in half an hour. You should change.”
“Grey…” He reaches for me.
I tug at the hem of my shirt. “Where’s your bathroom? I should clean up if we’re going to Spago.”
“I don’t care about the meeting. Have a drink with me. Talk to me.”
“Talk about what?” I meet his eyes briefly. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“But I am worrying about it,” he says and I can tell he’s being sincere.
“Well…don’t. It doesn’t matter.” I turn and move deeper into the house, figuring I’ll find a bathroom on my own. I have to get away from him. It’s too easy to believe he actually cares.
“Damn it, Grey. Just stop. I’m not stupid; it’s obvious you’re not okay.” He’s still standing in the foyer near the suit of armor.
I find a half-bathroom and stop in the doorway, look at him, and smile. It’s fake, though, and he knows it. “Maybe not, but it’s not your problem. I’m just the intern. My private life isn’t part of the assignment.”
“You’re not just an assignment. I didn’t meet you as Grey the intern. I met you as Gracie, the stripper. But that’s not you, and you don’t belong there.” He moves toward me, bulky and intimidating, his eyes freezing me in place. “I knew it then, and I know it now. I can’t…I can’t even picture you there. You’re so much more than that shitty club.”
“But that’s my reality. It’s all there is. You…we barely know each other. Just—stop confusing me, okay? Please?” I’m shrinking away from him, backing into the bathroom. Whenever he’s this near, just inches away with his eyes on me, dark and inscrutable, I can’t think and can’t remember why I’m supposed to stay away from him.
“Confusing you? How am I confusing you?”
“You just do. Everything about you. You talk to me and act like you know me. Like…we’re something.” My backside hits the sink, and he’s right there and I have nowhere to go.
“Why does that confuse you?”
“Because it’s not true?” I hate that it comes out as a question, like there’s doubt.
“But what if it is? What if I do know you? What if we are something…or could be?” His hands rise to rest on my hips, and I feel myself being drawn back to him, closer and closer.
His mouth draws nearer, his eyes inches from mine. No, this can’t happen again. I lose more of myself every time he kisses me. But that’s not true. It’s what I feel should be true. The reality is that I gain more of myself when he kisses me. As if layers of lies and confusion and shame fall away, and everything is just him and me and our mouths and the sensation of his kiss.
It happens.
His lips touch mine, and everything else falls away. I’m possessed by him. He kisses me with the same effortless mastery that he drives his car. He pulls a moan from me, draws my body against his and molds me to him and guides me into a place of acquiescence, with just his mouth and hands.
I’m not just letting him kiss me; I’m kissing him back. My mouth moves, my lips taste his, my hands settle on his chest between us and curl into his shirt, and I’m pressing in against him, crushing my curves against his angles. I’m taking part, I’m encouraging.
His hand slips from the upper bell of my hip down and around to cup my backside, and a spark is lit inside me. It’s a forbidden touch, a familiar, possessive, erotic, provocative gesture. It’s a step toward more.
A kiss is just a kiss, but his hand on my bottom, holding me and owning me like that…it’s more.
I like it. Heat builds in my belly at his grip on my bottom. One hand, and then, when I don’t stop him…two. Both hands on my backside. Just holding at first. Then exploring and caressing in slow, expanding circles. His fingers claw in, dig into the muscle, grip tightly, release, and grip again. Caress gently, circle and hold. He lifts me closer. I feel his desire.
I moan into his kiss. He lifts farther and I’m sitting on the edge of the sink. Of their own volition, my traitor legs curl around his waist. His hands hold me aloft, and his mouth is devouring mine. I’m losing myself. He sets me back on the counter and the sink’s lip hits my tailbone, wakes me from my trance.
I break the kiss, push weakly at him. “No, stop. Stop. I can’t…we can’t.”
He doesn’t let go, and neither do I.
“Why?” he asks, his voice a harsh, ragged whisper.
“I can’t. We can’t.” I don’t know how to formulate a reason because I can’t remember the reason.
I don’t know what lies beyond the kissing. Intellectually, I know what lies beyond is sex. But that’s a foreign land. A myth. An unreal idea. A scary notion of naked bodies and intrusion, vulnerability and pregnancy. Sin.