Page 69 of I'm sorry, Princess
Sienna didn’t hesitate. She marched straight over to him, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him into a kiss, a deep, unapologetic kiss that made my jaw drop. His surprise melted away almost instantly as he slid a hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.
Oh Gosh. I asked her to kiss him, not to devour his soul.
It felt like it lasted forever, at least five minutes of hands, lips, and a tension that had half the room staring. When she finally pulled back, she gave him a playful wink, leaving him dazed and breathless in his seat. Then she turned on her heel and strutted back to us, her face flushed, a smug grin tugging at her lips.
“How’d I do?” she asked, panting slightly but still brimming with confidence. “He was kinda hot, not gonna lie.” We all burst out laughing, the energy infectious and wild. Sienna turned to Clara next, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Your turn. Go kiss the barman so we get free drinks for the rest of the night.”
Clara didn’t need to be told twice. She threw her hair over her shoulder, smirked at us, and sauntered off toward the bar. Sure enough, minutes later, the barman was grinning like a fool, sliding drinks our way without asking for a dime.
It’s 1 AM, and we’re playing a reckless, booze-fueled game of dares in the middle of the club, like there are no consequences, no morning after.
Clara, now feeling bold, turned to Kylie and pointed at her with a wicked grin. “Okay, your turn. Take off your top.”
Kylie hesitated for half a second before shrugging, clearly too drunk to care. With one smooth motion, she pulled off her top and tossed it at Clara, leaving herself innothing but a black lace bra and a dangerously short skirt. The crowd around us whooped and cheered, and Kylie just laughed, spinning onto the dance floor like she was born to be seen.
Serena’s turn!” Clara calls out, her grin devilish and triumphant, like she’s been waiting for this moment all night. “I have the best dare for you. Go upstairs and give a lap dance to one of the three men up there!” She’s watching me closely, expecting me to stammer, blush, maybe even refuse. But no, not tonight.
I’m not as confident as they are, not even close, but after who knows how many shots I’ve downed, I can feel the alcohol pushing me, coaxing me forward. I square my shoulders, my voice steadier than I expect when I reply. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
A chorus of cheers and drunken giggles erupts around me as we make our way to the staircase. The bass-heavy music grows louder as we ascend, thumping through the walls and vibrating under my heels.
Upstairs is different. The lighting is lower, sultry shadows pooling around the edges of the space, and the air feels heavier, charged with something I can’t quite place. The layout is just as decadent, five separate suites, each with ornate doors and an undeniable air of exclusivity. This isn’t just a VIP section; it’s something else entirely. A space for business, pleasure, or maybe both. Deals made, egos stroked, people getting laid to celebrate their victories.
As we step into the hallway, a group of girls rushes past us, almost running. Their laughter echoes like bells, high-pitched and full of mischief.
“Wait!” I call out after them, my curiosity cutting through the haze of alcohol. “Which suite is the birthday party in?” One of the girls glances back, her lip glosscatching the dim light as she grins. “Suite five. We’re heading there now. But no men are allowed, only girls.”
Only girls.
Her words hang in the air, twisting into something both intriguing and unsettling. Clara and the others are giggling beside me, nudging me playfully, their excitement contagious. “This is going to be epic,” one of them whispers. But my heart is hammering as we approach the suites, every step bringing me closer to something I can’t quite name. A dare is a dare, and I’ll do it, I’ll push through my nerves and the pounding in my chest. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself.
We finally arrived. This is huge and are also lots of girls inside. The suit has three sofas, everything is just black. The furniture, the walls, is a huge chandelier at the middle of the celling. They don’t have staff members; they have women only in bikini.
The only thing they’re wearing is bikinis, tiny, barely-there scraps of fabric. The birthday boy is right there, though it’s hard to see him. He’s buried under a tangle of limbs and curves, ten boobs, to be precise. Five girls are draped all over him like he’s the centrepiece of some sinful masterpiece. I can’t even make out his face beneath the chaos of bodies and movement.
He’s lounging on the plush sofa, legs spread wide, exuding an unshakable confidence. His legs are long, almost unnaturally so, and every inch of his skin is a canvas of ink. His shirt is gone, exposing a carved, muscular torso that looks like it was made to be touched, and that’s exactly what’s happening. The girls are relentless, hands roaming, lips tasting.
One girl stands behind him, her mouth pressed to the curve of his neck, planting soft, heated kisses. Another girl beside him has her hand nestled between his thighs, palminghis growing erection while swapping deep, lingering kisses with the girl next to her. It’s obscene, almost theatrical, the way they’re tangled together, moving as if choreographed.
A third girl kneels in front of him, her face level with his abdomen. Her lips trace the lines of his muscles, kissing and licking the hard ridges while her hands splay across his thighs. Behind her, another girl kneads his shoulders, her delicate hands working his muscles like he’s a man worth worshiping. The last girl sits at his side, sucking gently on his finger, her eyes dark and teasing. Her free hand cups her own breast, guiding his large palm over it as if inviting him to take control.
The air is thick, humid with heat and tension, and the music throbs like a pulse in the background. It doesn’t feel like a club anymore. Somewhere between the bodies and the haze, it’s turned into an orgy. Freaking hell. When did this place become this?
There’s no room for anyone else to give him a lap dance, he’s already drowning in attention. I glance around the room, my gaze catching on another man, dancing to “Fuck U All the Time” by Jeremih. He’s not alone, two women are draped around him like shadows, and oh my Gosh one of them is Sienna. I knew she’d be getting laid tonight, but I didn’t expect to see it playing out in real time.
The man looks familiar, though I can’t quite place him. His face stirs something, a distant recognition dulled by the wall of shots I’ve had tonight. I wouldn’t remember even if I tried. He’s dressed in a black suit, sharp and immaculate, but his white shirt hangs open, undone just enough to reveal a muscular abdomen. A thick scar cuts across his skin just under his ribs, visible in the low lights. There’s a girl behind him, pressed so closely that her chest molds to his back. Her hands roam lazily, caressing his abdomen as she sways to the slow, sensual beat. Her eyes are closed, lost in therhythm as her hips roll in time with the music, a slow grind that matches his stillness.
And then there’s Sienna. She’s in front of him, wearing that black mini dress that clings to every curve like it was painted on, her long stiletto boots clicking faintly with every subtle move. Her body is a slow, deliberate tease. She leans back into him, her ass perfectly aligned with his erection pressing against her. Every sway of her hips is slow and deliberate, designed to drive him insane.
He’s holding her ponytail, wrapping it around his fist like a lifeline, while his other hand rests dangerously low on her abdomen, just skimming the boundary of propriety. His fingers tighten ever so slightly with each shift of her body, as though holding on is the only thing keeping him from losing control.
I hear it then, low and muffled, slipping out through gritted teeth: “Merda.” It’s quiet, almost a groan, but the frustration and desire in that single word are unmistakable. I watch them for a moment longer. Yeah, I think to myself, he’s definitely taken too.
Okay, I’ve made up my mind, man number three. He’s loud, cocky, and doesn’t care who knows it. He’s leaning back, taking a line of what I assume is coke, unapologetically inhaling like he owns the room. The second he notices me, his gaze sharpens, locking onto me like I’m a challenge.
I stride toward him, pretending my heels don’t wobble, channelling confidence I’m not sure I actually have. He doesn’t look away, his eyes drag slowly up my body, starting from the point of my stilettos, lingering on the length of my legs, and finally stopping at my face. The corner of his mouth quirks, and I see the tip of his tongue swipe across his lips. Am I his next meal?
He’s seated on a black Victorian chair, an absurdly elegant throne that somehow matches his decadence. Hislegs are spread wide, and it’s obvious what he wants. He tilts his head back, smirking, waiting for me to step into the space he’s claimed.
