Page 76 of Forged

When the dancer presses upward, her body molds against Neomi’s in a sinful glide until she’s straddling her. The rest of the club fades. The music, the crowd, the lights, it’s all background to the sight of skin and mischievous smiles.

The dancer teases Neomi’s breasts through her dress, and I watch her nipples harden under the fabric in response. A squeeze,a drag of nails, a flicker of contact that makes Neomi’s head tip back. When the dancer’s mouth lowers, brushing the neckline like she might bite through the fabric, Neomi exhales sharp enough to hit me square in the chest.

The heat that rolls through me is violent. I adjust in my seat, trying for a sense of composure that isn’t coming easily.

The dancer’s eyes lift. First to Lars, then to me. The look she gives is pure invitation, and she knows it. She’s pulling us in, winding the current tighter around all of us.

Songs blur together. The rhythm lost. Neomi melts beneath her, thighs open, body surrendering to every touch. At one point, the two of them exchange a few words I can’t catch, and whatever passes between them makes the dancer grin like she’s been given permission to go further.

She straddles Neomi again, grinding slowly, hair cascading forward in a red curtain. Then, without breaking rhythm, she reaches across the table—hand sliding through Lars’ hair, a soft tug that brings him closer.

Lars’ breath slips out in a low groan, the sound rough enough to make my dick twitch. His pupils are blown wide, jaw slack, and when my gaze drops lower, the evidence is right there, straining against his pants.

Fuck.

I lean back, letting it all burn into my memory. Neomi’s smooth skin, the redhead’s pale against hers, Lars’ eyes dark and desperate as he tries to hold himself together.

There’s nothing more exquisite than watching two people lose themselves in front of you.

Lars’ grip on her hand is white-knuckled, like he’s holding on for both of them. His chest rises faster now, every breath a battle. The dancer looks between them, mouth curved in wicked satisfaction, and then her gaze lands on me. One heartbeat, then two—and I know exactly what she’s about to do.

Then she reaches, sliding her hand to the back of Lars’ neckagain. He goes rigid for a second before she pulls him over until his mouth finds Neomi’s.

Their lips crash together, desperate and rough, and goddamn it, it’s perfect.

Neomi arches up between them, trapped between the dancer’s rolling hips and Lars’ kiss. The sound he makes against her mouth lands deep in my spine.

The dancer glances over her shoulder and catches my eye. Then she winks.

That single flick of her gaze is gasoline on an open flame. My cock throbs so hard I nearly lose it right there, the rush of arousal overwhelming. I grip my thigh under the table, nails biting through the fabric as my pulse roars in my ears.

Watching a beautiful woman push Neomi to the edge while dragging Lars into the fall is perfection. I’m witnessing his control fracture in real time. Watching them both come apart while I sit here—aching, my breath shallow, every muscle wound tight—like I could come without a single touch.

And the worst part is, I don’t want it to stop.

Her body is everywhere at once.Her soft skin, warm curves, and the trace of her perfume clings to me as she moves against my dress. Every sway, every grind, every brush of her breasts through the fabric sends sparks rushing through me.

My instinct is to slide my hands up her thighs, grip her waist, or to fist a handful of that red hair and drag her closer. But I remain respectful, I’m in Lars’ place of business. My palms stay pressed to the arms of the chair, grip tight, pretending at politeness while my body begs me to forget manners altogether.

She’s daring, bolder with me than she would be with any of the men here. Kneeling low, her mouth is a breath from the hem of my dress, her hands sliding higher than they should. Then she’s rising again, straddling me, grinding down with a pressure that steals the breath straight from my chest.

It’s intoxicating—being her focus, being seen like this. But that isn’t the only thing driving me wild.

It’s also the fact that the two men beside me are watching that makes my head spin. I can feel both of their eyes on me. The heatof it skates over my skin as surely as her hands do. Neither one of them is hiding it.

Lars surely knows the game of it all. Still, he takes me in like this moment is his to savor, like I’m something put here for him to enjoy. And fuck me, I love it. I love when his mouth is on mine, I love that this dancer is wringing me out with every shift of her hips, and I love that Gabriel is sitting across from us, unashamed, drinking me in like I’m the fucking main event.

The song blends into another, the bass heavy, the stage lights flashing somewhere far away. My head feels hazy with it all, overwhelming in the most delicious way. The hands on me, the champagne in my veins, the kisses that steals my breath, and the weight of Gabriel’s gaze pressing against my skin until I’m nearly undone.

And then Lars’ voice cuts through the haze. Calm and edged with promise.

“Do you want to move to VIP?”

My chest tightens, my thighs clench, my pulse trips over itself. The air at the table changes, becoming charged and electric.

I don’t answer. My tongue is heavy in my mouth; my body is too consumed to form a word.

Then it’s Gabriel who answers. His voice is low, threaded with heat, steady enough to make my stomach flip.