Page 9 of After Midnight

When I dance, I feel powerful. Confident. But it doesn’t make me horny—at least, not very often. It’s a job, and I’m an actress. A fantasy. A mirage in the middle of this endless fucking desert.

But my body is betraying me right now. And I don’t understand it.

“What’s your name?” he asks me.

I move one of his hands to my waist—slightly lower than I usually would. “Mirage.” My eyes meet his, and I blink slowly. “What’s yours?”

In the past, when I’ve asked celebrities who they are, they’ve gotten offended, like I should know who they are. But this guy doesn’t miss a beat, like he doesn’t expect me to recognize him.

“Sebastian.”

“Sebastian,” I repeat. My lips pull up on one side. Riley’s going to lose it when I tell her I danced for someone in LGC. “And who are you, Sebastian?”

His brown eyes flick down as I run my fingertips across my nipple piercings, then quickly meet mine. “I . . .” He blinks. Then those dimples appear in his cheeks again. “I don’t have a fucking clue.” He laughs that boyish laugh, jostling me in his lap, making my tits bounce.

And it makes me laugh.

And worse, it makes me want to kiss him.

I’ve been writhing in his lap, slow and sensual, but I lose my focus, my gaze going to his mouth. He’s got a dark shadow of a beard, and I reach out to trail my hand across it, feeling his stubble against my palm. His eyes flutter closed, just for a second. Time slows down around me.

And I almost do it. I almost lean forward and press my mouth to his.

I want to. Just one kiss.

But that would be breaking all my rules, stepping over the boundaries I’ve etched in stone.

I don’t kiss, and I don’t fuck—not even for rock stars.

I just dance.

If this were anywhere else, anywhere but the club, I would. I’d wrap my fingers around his neck and crush my lips to his. I’d drag my teeth along his throat and pull him down on top of me, just to feel his weight between my thighs.

But this isn’t anywhere else. And right now, I’m not even Remi. I’m Mirage.

And in many ways, I’m not even real.

Which means this can’t be either. It never is.

So I push those desires down, and Sebastian’s eyes open again. The dim red light in the private room glows over me, my body casting a shadow across his face. I resume my dance, trying to regain my focus. It’s not often that cracks appear in my armor, and I quickly patch them up, ensuring none of my real skin shows through. I don’t do vulnerability here.

As the song ends, leaving us in momentary quiet, Sebastian looks up at me through dark lashes and says, “Why Mirage?”

I settle my weight onto his lap. He’s still hard, but not in a demanding, uncontrolled kind of way—more like his cock is nicely asking for permission to fuck me. But still, I resist.

I turn his question over in my mind. Most men never ask questions like that; they’re here for the fantasy, not the real woman who exists underneath it. It’s the curtain we all agree should stay firmly closed, lest the illusion fall apart. But Sebastian is already grasping at it, trying to pull it aside.

“Because a mirage isn’t real,” I say. “It shows you what you want to see.” I shift in his lap, just a bit, making him draw breath. “But it stays just out of reach.”

Very slowly, his other hand finds my waist, exactly where I told him he could touch me. His thumbs press into my hip bones, and he says, “You don’t feel like a mirage to me.”

When his dark gaze flicks to mine, my heart hits hard, one erratic beat in my chest.

Something in his gaze feels . . . searching. Like maybe he’s not really here for the fantasy. Maybe he’s not looking for a mirage.

And if that’s true, this is dangerous.

Because I can only ever be a shimmer in the desert. Something you chase but never catch.