Page 30 of Unmasking Mayhem
“Yeah, I actually am,” I assure her, a bright smile unfurling beneath my mask.
“Good! I’m wicked happy to hear that. I was really worried about you,” she whispers, our fingers entwining as she seamlessly incorporates me into her dance.
As our bodies sway in harmony, we lock eyes, the heat of our skin electrifying as her barely concealed tits graze mine. I instinctively grip her hip, pulling her closer while my other hand cups one of her breasts, putting on a provocative show for the crowd that gathers, mesmerized by our rhythm—I convince myself that's the reason I can't keep my hands to myself. But that’s not the whole truth. Maybe it’s the charged atmosphere, the effects of the drugs I took earlier, or a magnetic pull I can’t quite define, but tonight I’m feeling things for her I never anticipated—until now.
Thank god for the mask; otherwise, she’d see the longing on my face and the breathless anticipation I can’t quite contain. The more she touches me, the more I respond, our eyes locked in a silent conversation of desperation. A shiver runs through me, my heart drumming wildly against my chest. Just as she begins to dance around me, holding my hand while moving with sultry grace, I reach for the pole behind me, sliding teasingly, spreading my legs each time I drop to the floor. Bills start to rain down, a flurry of twenties and fifties swirling around us.
Out of the corner of my eye, four familiar figures appear—their colors striking an instant chill in my veins. Raze, Hawk, Red, and 13 stand by the door of Masked Mayhem, arms crossed, radiating an intimidating energy. Their presence disrupts the magic of the moment with Boston, even as we continue dancing until the song fades.
An involuntary urge compels my hand to roam over my body as I meet each of their masked gazes, although the show I create is for the crowd. I rub myself against the fabric of my purple thong, my gaze locking with Raze’s. With a quick spin around the pole, my leg wraps around it, and I bend backward, treating the audience to a display of my tits as I rub and squeeze them. I can sense Raze knows what I'm doing—a mutual understanding that I’m performing just for him.
Rising back up, I rotate my hips and slide down into a split, my ass playfully bouncing against the cash-drenched stage. I slowly lick my lips, dragging my tongue along my bottom one, my mouth slightly parted. Raze’s expression suggests he wants to pounce on me, and a glance at the others confirm the same hungry gazes. When the song ends and the next set of girls prepares to take the stage, I dart off in the opposite direction, the money boy collecting the bills scattered across the stage.
As soon as I burst through the dressing room door, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and rush to my vanity, collapsing into my chair. My underwear is soaked, and my mind races with thoughts of the guys. I pop a Xanax and light a blunt, craving the calm before I face the audience again.
My heart is still pounding, but when I glance into the mirror and see Red standing there silently, it nearly bursts. He steps closer, his gaze fixed on me in the mirror as my mask comes off. I feel the heat radiating from him as he wraps an arm around my throat, his mouth hovering near my ear. Without warning, his hand slides down my body, slipping into my underwear ashis fingers find their way inside me. As he pumps in and out, sending waves of pleasure crashing over me, I lean back against him and take a hit from the blunt, my eyes growing heavy with sensation.
“Open your fucking eyes, Whitney,” Red commands, just as I feel myself wanting to close them.
"Yes, Red." I comply instantly, my gaze meeting his in the mirror, sending another thrill of need through me.
“Good girl, now don’t look away until I fucking say so,” he instructs, his voice sending shivers down my spine. “Keep your eyes on me, baby, and watch what I’m about to do to you.”
His fingers push deeper, causing me to arch my back, lifting my hips to give him the perfect angle for his relentless thrusts. I take a deep hit, holding the smoke, biting my lip as pleasure tightens in my core.
“Ride my fucking fingers, Whitney, unless you want to ride my fist,” he groans, making my mouth dry.
He removes his mask, bringing his lips to my neck, trailing soft kisses that light my skin on fire.
As our eyes lock again, I find myself moving rhythmically, riding his three fingers as he thrusts deeper into me, his thumb finding my clit and teasing the piercing that makes me spasm uncontrollably.
“Red,” I whisper, but my mind goes blank, the thought evaporating in the haze of desire.
“Mhm, fuck,” he murmurs against my throat, swirling his tongue. “I’ve missed hearing my name come from those pouty lips.”
He reaches for my face and gently grips my mouth, teasingly gliding his thumb over my bottom lip. I shiver, continuing to bounce on his fingers as he adds a fourth, pulling a moan from my lips.
“And I’ve missed this pussy so fucking much; tonight, she's going to see just how much.”
A rush of adrenaline courses through me, mixing with the cocktail of sensations that Red elicits with every thrust of his fingers. I can’t get enough of him—of our forbidden connection fueled by lust and the pulsating thrill of the club's ambiance. The soft glow from the dressing room lights casts a soft shadow across my skin. It's as if we're in our own world, apart from the madness outside. The door creaks slightly, and my heart skips a beat, anticipating whether anyone else might intrude.
"Just us," Red breathes, his voice low and gravelly, assuring me of our privacy. He captures my gaze again, and it feels like a dare, a promise that everything we’re doing is safe, even intoxicatingly wrong.
"Good," I moan, still riding his fingers.
“Now, Whitney,” he commands softly, guiding my movements with firm but gentle coaxing. “Dance for me—right here.”
Something wild ignites within me as I respond eagerly. With his fingers pumping in sync with my movements, I arch and sway, allowing the pleasure from him to radiate through my body. I want nothing more than to surrender completely, to indulge the desires that have been bottled up during my absence from the stage. I press my ass against his hips, engaging in a twisted yet intoxicating form of dance, each movement induced by the rhythm of my instincts. He chuckles under his breath as he channels my fevered anticipation. The sound is almost possessive, making it clear that I’m under his spell and that I belong to him, even if just for this moment.
“Good, just like that.” His eyes glimmer with approval, the corners of his mouth curving into a satisfied smile as he relishes my response.
I lean back further against his strong physique, losing myself in the delicious friction between my body and his. But a partof me reminds me that we won’t be alone forever. The thought sends a shiver down my spine—a potent mixture of thrill and fear. The chaotic dance hall beyond our sanctuary awaits, filled with eyes that will scrutinize every detail of my life. Yet here, in this moment, I refuse to be constrained by anxiety. Suddenly, Red yanks his fingers out to a whimpering protest from my lips.
“Not yet,” he warns, and I can feel a new intensity in his gaze. In one fluid movement, he turns me around and pushes me gently onto the vanity, his hands gripping my hips, positioning me how he wants. “Now, look at yourself,” he commands, a hint of menace in his tone.
I could just as easily meet his gaze, but I obey, instead gazing into the mirror. The image reflected back is one of conflicting desires—my breath coming in rapid gasps, my cheeks flushed, my pupils dilated with lust. There’s no denying the power of our dynamic—the lust, the hunger, even with him being the dirtiest undercover cop I've ever met. Red shifts closer, and I can feel the heat of his body as he presses against me from behind.
“Do you see how beautiful you are, Whitney?” His voice is a low growl, tinged with awe and possession. “See how much I fucking want you?”
