Page 7 of Exrated
“Fuck yeah, man,” Jake says, pointing at the large flat screen mounted on the wall. “Porn in HD.”
“Don’t be beating your shit off in here,” I say before glancing up at the screen. “I swear to God…” I trail off and my jaw fucking drops. “What. The. Fuck?”
“What?” Jake says.
“Where did you find that?”
“This?” he asks, pointing back at the plasma screen.
“Yeah.”
“Pornhub.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
I stare at the screen. Big round eyes. Full suck me lips. High cheekbones. And I can see just a hint of her dark roots in that platinum blonde hair. “That’s—” I have to laugh for a second, “my ex.”
“What!”
I step closer to the TV. “And…Stone Steele from Pandemic Sorrow! Jesus-fucking-Christ.” I shake my head.
“Dude…” he glances back at me. “You dated Elsa?”
I stand, watching her get pounded and the thought that she’s all wholesome just went out the damn window.
The club lights flicker. The deep bass of the music pounds through my body and sweat trickles between my breasts as I sway my hips in rhythm with the beats. I feel hands grab onto my waist. When I look up at Heather, she shakes her head to tell me no. I spin around and come face to face with a guy sporting spikey brown hair, a spray tan, and a sideways visor, attempting to ram his crotch against my ass. Scooting away from him, I grab onto Heather and dance with her. Her hands go to my ass, and she squeezes it so hard I’m certain I’ll have a bruise.
“My girlfriend,” she yells over the music. “Leave her alone or I’ll cut your dick off, and no—we don’t share, so fuck off.”
The guy swats his hand through the air before stumbling over to another random girl and grinding on her. Dance clubs—a phenomenon all in their own. A place where you come to get shitfaced and basically dry hump strangers. Every one-night stand I’ve had was the direct result of a dance club, and most of them—terrible decisions.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“It’s what I’m here for. We are not going to have a repeat of the Ronald incident.”
“Oh, hell no.”
Ronald was the last one-night stand I had. I woke up the morning after to him, his retainer, and about fifteen cats laid on his bed. Oh, and let’s not forget the Iron Man posters on his bedroom wall. From what I can recall, I actually passed out while we were having sex, but evidently gave him my number because he kept calling me over and over. It makes me shudder just thinking about it.
A cute blond guy comes up behind Heather as the song ends. His hands go to her waist. She glances over her shoulder, takes a quick look, then turns back to me and smiles.
The song “My Pony” comes on and Heather squeals and claps her hands. The next thing I know, fingers are digging into my hips, and some guy is grinding against me like he’s Channing Tatum inMagic Mike. His hands slide up my waist, then down the front of my thighs, pulling my skirt up.
Heather has literally stopped moving and is staring at him. “Oh, my fucking God. He’s hot,” she mouths as she nods. “Fuck him. FUCK him.”
There’s a hard thrust against my ass, and I can seriously feel an erection pressing into my crack. His pecs press against my exposed back, his hot breath fans over my neck, and he smells like expensive cologne. He moves my hips in rhythm with his and fuck—he can dance.
The longer we dance, the more heated it becomes. His hands are roaming all over my body, pulling the hem of my shirt up as they move over to palm my breasts. The way this guy is touching me is ungodly, and although I should probably at least turn around and see what he looks like, I kind of like the fact that I can’t see him. Taking one hand away from my hips, he sweeps my hair to the side as his other hand glides over my thigh. A low groan rumbles from his throat as his warm thumb skims the lace of my thong, sending a jolt of arousal throughout my body. In one fluid movement, he spins me around to face him. And I almost stop breathing.
Honey-brown eyes. Distinct jawline covered in a slight five o’clock shadow. My gaze drops to those full,fulllips. And I think for a second I may have a fucking heart attack. I have literally been dry humping my ex for the past five minutes. Like a fucking slut.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Tyler says, backing away from me.
My pulse kicks up. Adrenaline floods my system. And I do the only thing one can do in a situation such as this: I spin around so fast I nearly get whiplash and bail, shouldering my way through the crowded dance floor and straight to the bar because I need a shot, or two, or ten. I make a beeline to an open spot and lean over the counter, my elbows slipping in spilled beer when I go to grab my head. “This is not happening,” I say under my breath.
The guy next to me takes his drink and moves on, then, I feel a shoulder bump against mine. “Jemma…” Tyler’s voice is deeper than I remember, but then again, I haven’t talked to him since he was nineteen.
