Page 5 of Unmasking Mayhem
I want to believe her, I really fucking do, but the uncertainty looms like a fucking stalker. My mind races as I think about thestruggle that awaits us—Whitney’s internal battles, Raze’s ever-present vigilance, D and King’s ruthless leadership, and my own demons clawing hungrily at the fucking edges of my sanity.
“Just keep fucking dancing,” I say, needing her to embody that fierce spirit that makes her who she is. “Just keep being you.”
With a playful grin, she stands from my lap and spins, her movements fluid and alluring, drawing the entire room’s gaze. Her confidence is intoxicating, a sharp contrast to my unease, but I can’t help but feel passionate pride swell within me. This is where she belongs, vibrant and unstoppable, a bright light against the darkness of our lives.
I cheer her on and praise her as much as possible as she dances, letting the rhythm wash over me and allowing the music to pulse through my body as she grinds seductively on my lap. It's a cleansing fire, though the echoes of my thoughts threaten to invade. I close my eyes momentarily, grounding myself in the sound of her moans mingling with the beats and her teasing touches.
When I open them again, Raze is back, scanning the crowd before locking eyes with me. He nods once—an assurance that my secret is still safe. But my sense of dread doesn’t dissipate; if anything, it amplifies as I’m reminded of the precarious dance we play in a world where our fate hangs by a fucking thread.
“Stay close to her,” Raze mouths over to me, his voice drowned out by the noise but his intent crystal clear.
I can see it in his eyes—racing heartbeats, the underlying tension rippling beneath the surface. I nod, composing myself. I watch on, heartened but restless, as Whitney dances. She has a natural magnetism, the kind that draws people's gazes and stops time. In my eyes, there's nothing more beautiful than when she lets the world fade away and loses herself completely.
Yet as her movements become more fervent, my worries creep back in like blood in the water. The hazy figures outside myperiphery flare up—shadows twisting in the corner of the room, outlining threats that don't exist. I shake my head, trying to clear the fog, reminding myself to focus on Whitney, to ground myself in her reality, not my chaos.
Her hands hold onto my shoulders as she winds her body against mine, every pop, grind, and shake turning my fucking insides to mush. She sits down on my lap, bending backward until her hair sweeps across the floor, her hips perfectly in sync with the music. I reach down and graze my fingertips across her stomach, toying with the dangling diamond piercing in her navel. As she continues rocking her hips and making my cock hard, I slide my fingers down slowly, dipping beneath the thin strap of her bottoms, feeling her shaved pussy and how fucking wet she is for me already.
Using my other hand, I grab her by the throat and pull her back into a sitting position, easing my fingers inside of her. She leans in, her chest against mine, lifting her hips slightly and allowing me to go even deeper. As she rides my fingers, still lost in her dance, she brings her hands to my throat and squeezes as her pussy clenches around me.
"Fuck, good girl," I grunt, eagerly slipping a third finger inside her and curling it against her favorite spot.
She trembles, her pussy drenching my fingers as she bounces, matching my thrusts perfectly. Releasing my grip on her throat, I reach behind her and fist her hair, tugging slightly until her head tilts back and her neck is exposed. And if it weren't for the fucking mask covering my face, I'd have my lips on her skin and my teeth imprinted into her silky flesh.
Once I can tell she's about to come, I pull my dripping fingers out of her, smearing her wetness across the top of her tits that are popping out of her top, mesmerized at how beautifully they shine when they're wet.
"No," she whimpers, her body going limp on top of mine, but she still moves slowly to the beat. "Why'd you stop?"
"I stopped because when I make you come, I want it to either be on my dick or on my tongue, not my fucking hand," I grunt, squeezing her hips roughly and forcing her back into the smooth, seductive dance she was just giving me.
As she twirls once more, catching the light, something changes in her demeanor—her eyes travel past me, a flicker of something that makes my stomach turn. I follow her gaze and see the silhouettes in the darkened corners, men in red and black, creeping like spiders, entrenched in their own agenda. I look back at Whitney, the happiness in her eyes fractionally faltering as she senses the shift in the atmosphere.
“What is it, Crow?” She whispers, leaning closer, her breath warm on my skin.
“Nothing, just focus on dancing,” I urge, attempting to keep the panic out of my voice, though the fucking anxiety tightens my chest.
I can’t let her be a target; not tonight, not ever. But as I scan around the club, I realize that something is about to go down, and my instincts scream at me to act fast. I suddenly stand up, holding onto her so she doesn't fall off my lap. Intertwining my hand with hers, I squeeze tightly, a silent gesture to remain calm and not ask questions. I gently push her closer to the door that leads to the back, my heart pounding in tandem with the heavy beat of the music.
“We need to get out of here,” I say quietly, watching for Raze, for signs of what might be coming.
“Why?” she asks, searching my face, trusting and yet sensing the urgency as the noise of the crowd fades.
“Trust me,” I insist, my voice low and deliberate. “Now.”
Suddenly, the tension in the air tightens like a drawn bowstring, and just as the first flickers of confrontation pulsethrough the club, the shadows spring to life, revealing the threat that lurked just beyond our vision. We have to move, and fast, before the night consumes us whole.
With Whitney firmly in my grasp, I shove through the throngs of bodies, trying to navigate a path toward the exit. The rhythm of the music reverberates against my chest, but it feels like an impending avalanche gathering speed. I lock eyes with Raze, his eyes filled with unease, signaling me to get Whitney out. My heart races as I lead her through the thick crowd, each step hardening the knot of fear deep within me.
“Where are we going?” Whitney asks, her voice barely audible over the bass as she glances back, uncertainty flickering across her face.
“Just stay close to me,” I urge, but I can feel the weight of the moment closing in around us. "And keep your fucking mask on."
The night’s vibe shifts from lively pleasure to chaotic dread, the air electric with the thrill of impending chaos. We burst through the last barrier of people and reach the dimly lit hallway leading to the back exit. The faint flickering of neon lights bathes us in bright hues, but they feel less like a celebration and more like a warning sign—danger is closing in, and it’s coming fast.
Suddenly, an array of gunfire echoes from the main room, glass shattering and chaos erupting as the men in red and black—their faces twisted into fierce glares—spill into the corridor. Instinct kicks in, and I throw an arm around Whitney, pulling her close as we duck behind a stack of crates lining the wall.
I can hear muffled shouting and the escalating noise of people reacting to whatever has just gone down. My pulse beats a frantic rhythm in my ears as I peek around our makeshift cover, gauging the threat level. They’re hunting, and it feels like we’re prey standing right in their fucking sight.
“They’re looking for something—someone,” I murmur to Whitney, who is pressed against me, her eyes wide and filledwith trepidation. “We need to wait it out until we know what's happening.”
