Dani By the time I come out of the restroom, having checked that I don’t look as flushed as I feel and my breasts are still contained in this wardrobe-malfunction-inducing dress, I feel almost relaxed. Who cares who these rich, attractive men are? Who cares what they say to me? I’m never going to see any of these people again. It’s my birthday, and I might as well enjoy myself. As I walk back out onto the main floor, I spy a table to my left, laden with food that no one is even remotely touching. Waiters, when they’re done circling the room, drop off the extras at this table and a few others I see across the vast space. None of the guests move toward the table, as if there’s some conspiracy in the room where everyone makes a point to ignore all the food. I wonder if that’s a rich-person thing—they refuse to eat any of this food as if they’re too good to even acknowledge its existence. Or maybe the women are too worried about putting on an ounce of fat that would set the gossip mill churning. Not me, though. This is my one night in this place, and I can do whatever I want. After four years of looking over my shoulder, being here makes me... giddy. I can do anything, and none of it matters. I’m not Danika Jenckell. I’m some other Danika tonight. I’m free. Most guests are on the far side of the rectangular table, chatting and laughing about whatever it is billionaires laugh about. Coming to a stop on the side of the table nearest me, I let out a soft sigh. I’ve been denying myself nice things for so long. Running away from my ex- boyfriend, from my job, my life—it made me feel like I had to be on edge all the time. Any hint of pleasure would immediately make me feel like I was letting my guard down. As a result, my defenses would rear up, causing me to retreat back into myself. Food is a big one. Sex. Clothing. Anything that might make me feel good has been shoved down somewhere de ep and inaccessible. I tell myself it’s because I don’t have much money, but it’s de eper than that. Enjoying things makes me relax, and relaxing makes me vulnerable. But I’m at the most exclusive event in New York City tonight, locked in a room with people who have no idea who I am. This food is delicious, I feel beautiful, and... maybe I’m just at a breaking point. Four years of denying myself any kind of enjoyment has worn me down. Tomorrow, I’ll build my walls back up. I’ll be on guard. I’ll continue looking over my shoulder in case my ex has decided to make good on his threats to ruin my life. He can’t, I remind myself. I hold the key to tearing down his business. If he comes anywhere near me, I’ll leak the information I stole, even if it ruins my own career in the process. I left that career behind, anyway. I’m safe. Reaching for one of the cheesy quiches, I pluck it from a silver platter and pop it in my mouth. A moan slips through my lips as I swallow. So good. All thoughts of my past melt away as I swallow the bite and reach for a cracker stacked with a delicate tower of smoked salmon. Closing my eyes, I let the flavors meld on my tongue, shaking my head. I’ve definitely denied myself too many good things.
A waiter in a crisp white shirt comes up beside me, lowering a platter full of little tartlets. “Goat cheese and cranberry, miss,” he says, winking. “No one else seems interested.” “Don’t mind if I do.” I laugh, acc epting one of the perfectly formed pastries. Biting into the flaky dough, I close my eyes for a moment and let the flavors explode on my tongue. I can’t believe I used to hate goat cheese when I was younger. I let the tartlet dance on my tongue, all creamy cheese, sweet, tart cranberry, flaky pastry—then feel a warm glob of something dribble down my front, right in the valley between my breasts. Looking down, I see cranberry reduction smeared all over my chest in a long line of red. Typical. Just typical. I can’t even pretend to be classy for ten minutes. I should laugh, really. It’s a good thing this dress is cut so low—otherwise I’d have to walk around with a pink stain down my front for the whole night. Viviane would probably murder me. At least now I can just wipe it off my skin. Trying to save at least a scrap of dignity, I turn my back to the room and swipe my finger over the cranberry on my boob before bringing it to my mouth. But as soon as my lips wrap around my finger, I lift my eyes to see my date leaning against the wall not ten feet away. His eyes blaze, following the movement of my finger. I freeze. The room falls away, and I forget about the food, about the champagne flute I left... somewhere... about the hundreds of people who could be watching me right now. With my finger clasped between lips, holding his gaze, I finish what I started. As I slide my finger from my mouth, Van der Berg’s eyes darken, danger written all over his features. He shifts his stance, head tilting—the movement of a predator. This time, when he drops his gaze to my chest, he stares at the smear of pink still left there, and I feel more than exposed. I’m bare before him, waiting for him to act. Wanting him to act. It’s only for one night. I’ll never see him again. In three st eps, he crosses the distance between us. His hand wraps around my elbow and his throat bobs. “Follow me.” The command is gruff, and it sends a line of searing heat straight through my middle. I stumble after him, heart thumping, wondering if maybe, maybe... maybe I could truly be someone different tonight. Someone who’s reckless. Someone who doesn’t have a dark past, who has no secrets. In this dress, with the hair and makeup, at this venue, with my mystery man pulling me away as my heart thunders, I think I might be able to be that woman. I can be free—if only for tonight. Down a hallway and around a corner, we duck into a dark room. As soon as we enter, a screen lights up with colors, patterns, flowers blooming that bleed onto all four walls. Low music starts pulsing, thrumming along to the beat of my blood. My date tugs me to the wall and leans his arms on either side of my head, caging me in. His steely blue eyes search mine. “Who are you?” Shadows and light dance over his face, as if we’ve become part of whatever exhibit was triggered by our entry. My heart leaps. “Does it matter?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because...” He drifts off, his eyes hungry as they roam over my face. “Because it does.”
“That’s not an answer.” He answers with a growl. It rumbles through me, settling de ep in my gut. Heat blooms in my stomach, dipping lower to the emptiness between my legs. My breath catches, and Van der Berg’s eyes flare. He misses nothing, devours every reaction of mine as if it’s his sustenance. My date’s head dips toward my neck, his nose grazing my throat. I tremble, whimpering. I haven’t been this close to a man in a long time. I’ve tried—oh, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to get over the gut-wrenching panic that grips me whenever I get too close to someone. It always ends with me running away. Always running. But now... This could be different. I’m not me. I’m another Dani. Another woman. Someone who belongs in a place like this. Someone who wears glittery dresses and drinks champagne. Someone who isn’t always looking over her shoulder. His lips brush the skin below my ear as I lean back against the wall, hands curling into the lapels of his jacket. Tonight, I can be someone else. Even if this is all one big misunderstanding, I can still see where it takes me. I can wear this dress and wrap my arms around this gorgeous man, and I can let my demons haunt another poor woman for a few hours. It’ll be over as soon as I leave this place. I’ll be back to normal by the morning. Back to being nobody. Van der Berg’s hand slides over my thigh, his fingers gripping me tight. He pulls me close, pinning me between the wall and the broad expanse of his body. He kisses the fluttering pulse at my throat and I gasp, tilting my head to give him better access. My body is pliant, needy. Nothing like it usually is so close to a powerful man. He nips my earlobe, growling softly as his lips graze my neck. His tongue slides out to flick my skin, another groan slipping through his lips. I inhale it all—the noise, his scent, the lights and pulsing music in this room. His left hand is braced near my right ear. His other hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against his body. But it’s his lips that tease and tear me apart. They slide over my throat, down to my shoulder, grazing the strap of my dress. He kisses across my collarbone and brings his lips lower still, right over that smear of cranberry sauce that will be my undoing. “We shouldn’t—” I gasp when his tongue slides out over my breast, his hand on my hip ke eping me from bucking. Heat licks my stomach as his tongue—that tongue—slides over my breast, swe eping closer to the edge of my dress, to my pebbled nipple. The hand that was on the wall slides down to hook over the strap on my shoulder. “You’ve driven me half wild in that dress,” Van der Berg growls, his breath skating across my skin. “I should fire Viviane for bringing the wrong woman here, but I might just give her a raise instead.” He kisses my breast again, his lips pressing against the neckline as his hand grips my strap. I want him so much it aches. My body is taut enough to snap at the slightest touch, but I manage to put a hand to his chest and push him ever so gently.
He freezes, chest heaving, and straightens. His eyes search mine. “What? Don’t tell me to stop.” A ragged breath slips through his lips. “Please don’t tell me to stop.” “I’m not... I don’t know what kind of date the other Danika is, but I’m not...” A cruel smile tugs at his lips. “That kind of girl?” I nod, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth. “I know, Dani.” I shiver at the sound of my name. “You’re nothing like any of the other women at this party.” His eyes swe ep over my face, my body, as if he can’t ke ep himself from staring. From wanting. “Tell me to stop and I will, but I can see it in your eyes that you want me,” he says, lips dipping to my jaw. He lays a soft kiss on my skin. Another. Another. I tremble, grateful for the wall’s support and his hand on my hip, because I’m not sure I’d be able to hold myself up. “I haven’t done this before,” I whisper. “Not like this.” Not when I don’t even know your first name. His torturous kisses drop to my neck. “Do you want me to stop?” His voice rumbles over my skin, goosebumps erupting wherever his breath lands. No. Yes. No. The last time I was this close to a powerful man, I fell victim to his charm within minutes, and it started a long chain of events that led to leaving my life and career behind. I lost myself in him. I gave up my principles and agreed to commit fraud for him. Lie for him. Cheat for him. The thought of losing myself like that again terrifies me. It’s why I’ve run away from any man who gets too close. This feels different, though. I could stop... but I realize I don’t want to. He kisses my shoulder again, his teeth grazing my sensitive skin. I gasp, arching toward him. His fingers, still wrapped around the strap of my dress, start moving. In a second, he’ll have this dress pooling around my hips. I should stop him, shouldn’t I? I should leave. I should run. But as my breath heaves and my body tenses under his lips, his touch, I can’t quite bring myself to push him away. I want to feel a man’s touch. I want to be devoured, worshipped. And it’s only for tonight, isn’t it? Tomorrow, I’ll be invisible again. Tomorrow, I’ll have a job. A future. I’ll give this dress back, the makeup will be washed off, and I’ll be my old self. The one who doesn’t trust, who isn’t impulsive, who doesn’t give in to her body’s urges. My strap slides off my shoulder, baring me to him. He sucks in a breath, lifting his fingers to the underside of my breast. I shiver at the gentleness of his touch, at the way his fingers circle my breast, teasing closer and closer to my peaked nipple. “Beautiful,” he breathes, eyes hooded and dark. His fingers move closer until they brush my areola, and I let out a shallow breath. He tweaks my tightly furled flesh between his thumb and forefinger, smiling when I buck against him. “Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking of him. He pinches my nipple again, harder, exhaling when I arch my back. Then his lips are on my breast, his tongue soothing the hurt his fingers just caused. I squeeze my thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to ease the ache inside me.
Lights and color dance over us in the darkened room, music thumping low in my gut. And oh, his mouth. His tongue. I lean my head against the wall and arch into him, leaving the last of my inhibitions behind. My fingers slide into the silky mass of his hair, gripping him tight to my breast as he groans against me. His teeth nip at me, then his tongue soothes. Again and again in a torturous dance. Then, without warning, he moves to the other breast and gives it the same treatment while he palms the breast he just left behind, still slick from his mouth. The sensation is almost too much, but I don’t want him to stop. Never want him to stop. When his hand slides through the slit in my dress to rest on my thigh, I grind my hips against him. He’s hard, his thick length pressing against the fabric of his tuxedo pants. And I need it. Him. Everything. I gasp, tightening my hold on his hair. His chest rumbles in response, in agreement, maybe in urging. But it’s his hand that makes my breath shorten. It slides up my thigh to my hip, gripping my ass as he hauls me closer to his body, grinding me against his leg. I’m straddling his thigh, bucking against him like a feral thing. I should be ashamed of the way I’m riding his leg, the loss of control. My thigh brushes his cock, pressing against it, rubbing as he rubs me. I cling onto him, trembling, the friction, the friction... Sliding his hand farther back, Van der Berg tugs my underwear aside and feels me from behind. His lips leave my breast with a gasp when he feels my wetness, probing into me as if he can’t believe what he’s feeling. He bites my shoulder, holding me close as his arm wraps farther around me, his other hand dropping to my front, not hesitating for a second as he tears my panties down to my thighs and slicks his fingers through my wetness. “Dani,” he pleads, his head still buried in my neck. The sound of my name might be my undoing. I’m unraveling bit by bit, watching myself tumble into oblivion. I’ve held myself in check for too long. I’ve gripped onto control with an iron hand, and I’m falling apart. But I cling to the idea that this is only for tonight. I’m not me. I have no past, no future. I’m here with this nameless, beautiful man. I’m acc epting the pleasure that might wreck me completely. Giving myself over to it. Swallowing every drop of this moment so I can hold it close when it ends. I’m not me. I’m someone else. Someone who doesn’t run. Someone impulsive and sensual and deserving of this kind of worship. My date brushes his lips over the pulse thundering in my throat, his tongue darting out to lick the sweat-slicked skin. His long fingers torture me, sliding from back to front until they hit that bundle of nerves. I can only moan in response. The noise urges him on, and he slides a finger into me. It’s slow, as if he wants to feel every inch of it entering me. As if he needs to leash himself just to hold onto some semblance of control. “Are you always this wet?” He slides his finger in again. “Or is it just for me?” The arrogance in his voice turns me on, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of saying it. I won’t show him just how much his touch tears me apart. His cock throbs against my thigh, hard and insistent and promising everything I need.
“More,” I rasp, not recognizing my own voice. A gasping chuckle is the only response I get, then a second finger joins the first. Moan tearing through my throat, I grind into his hand, my body reduced to aching desire at his touch. He understands what I need and angles his palm against that bundle of nerves, driving his fingers into me in a punishing rhythm, his palm giving me that friction I so desperately crave— I ride his hand to oblivion, crying out as my orgasm unleashes itself upon me. Stars explode behind my eyes as heat and pleasure lash against me. I tremble, clenching against his fingers as he moans my name, his lips dancing over my neck, my shoulder. Reaching between his legs, I can’t stop myself from touching him. My body is still taut. Still stretched to its limit, and I need to feel it—how hard I make him. He exhales against my skin, his fingers still buried inside me as I grip him through his pants. I stroke him once, relishing the shudder that rips through his body. “If you ke ep doing that, I’ll...” He groans as I stroke him again. “You’ll what?” I whisper, closing my eyes as I grip him harder. A feral moan falls from his lips and before I know what he’s doing, he spins me around and presses me against the wall. My bare breasts crush against the smooth surface, his arms wrapped around my waist as his cock presses into my ass. His hand is pressed against my stomach, my dress hiked up over my hips. The feel of that huge hand against my skin drives me insane. When Van der Berg’s hand dips lower, finding my bud with his still-slick fingers, I can’t help grinding back into him. He grunts, one hand holding me tight to him while the other twirls around my bud with merciless intensity. “Come again,” he grunts in my ear, his arm like a steel band around me. “I want you to come for me while you feel how hard you’ve made me. I want you dripping for the rest of the night, so you remember what I did for you in here.” Ohmygod. What. Is. Happening? This isn’t why I came here; this isn’t what I do. This isn’t me. But the pleasure turns my blood to honey, melts my brain, turns me into a creature of need. I moan, arching my back against his hardness, trembling at the movement of his fingers over my bud. He grinds against me, every inch of his hardness pressing into my ass. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want his length inside me, but I can’t move. He’s got me pinned against the wall; his arm wrapped around my body as he sends pleasure rioting through me. “Come on my fingers, beautiful,” he whispers, and I don’t know if it’s the movement of his hand or the feel of his body, but I do as he says. I fly apart, my scream swallowed up by the music and darkness in the room. My body bucks against him, arching back, wanting him— He grunts, a low, guttural sound. Then I feel it. Just as my release reaches its peak, his cock throbs against me and wetness soaks through his pants. The thought of him doing that—of finding release with his clothes still on— I close my eyes and ride the last wave of pleasure that crashes into me, my thighs drenched, just like he wanted them to be. De ep, gasping breaths rake through me as his hand retreats, resting on my thigh. His hold on my body loosens, and I feel his forehead against the back of my neck.
We stay like that for an eternity, until the chill in the air makes me shiver. Then slowly, almost reverently, Van der Berg slides my underwear back up my thighs, his hands smoothing over my hips in a move that’s both possessive and tender. He lets the bottom of my dress fall back to cover me and hooks the straps of my dress over my shoulders. Spinning around, I let him arrange the front of my dress over my breasts, his fingers sending a thrill skipping across my skin with every touch. As if he’s unable to resist, he pushes the fabric aside in a rough motion, then dips his head down and grazes his teeth over my nipple. I whimper, jolting when his tongue flicks over the same spot. Tender hands smooth the fabric back into place while his gaze climbs up to meet mine, still hazy with lust and post- orgasmic bliss. “You made me come in my pants,” he chides. “Did I?” I ask innocently, my pulse still thumping through every inch of my body. A smokey laugh rumbles through his chest. He adjusts himself, straightening his jacket and shirt as I watch him, the sure, masculine movements making it hard for me to think straight. He holds out his elbow toward me, the perfect gentleman. I slip my hand in the crook, face still flushed, a smile curling on my lips. And then we walk back out to the party together.