Authors: J. K. Gray
Content copyright © 2012 J.K. Gray
All Rights Reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is, thankfully, purely coincidental.
To everyone who had faith.
You know who you are.
Table of contents
00:00 am ...
A bead of perspiration runs down the side of her face. Her pulse is pounding. Her mouth, dry.
She has energy to burn, and this is the place to start a fire
All around her, bodies move to the swell of the music. The pace is frantic; the atmosphere, electric. Her thighs sway within the confines of a low cut, figure-hugging black dress. Her every movement is sensually smooth, yet simultaneously unyielding and untamed.
The lights fade and the music stops. A murmur ripples throughout the room
Her nostrils flare. The odor of sour perspiration and curdled copulation is strong in the air. The anticipation in the room is palpable. She can hear it play breathlessly upon the lips of those surrounding her.
Moments pass, and, just as the darkness seems to take on a life of its own - to become an actual entity in itself - the room explodes once more to a pulsating, hypnotic rhythm.
She throws back her head. A dark mane of lustrous hair whips across her face. Her eyes dazzle like sapphires. She is in perfect synchronicity with the pulse of the music.
No one notices just how different she is.
He negotiates with ease through the crowd. Not once does his gaze stray from the sight of her undulating figure.
Seconds pass ... and then he is before her, invading her space.
Her eyes blaze with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. She can feel his piercing gaze probe her mind. She tries to look away, but it's no use. There's no escaping his intrusion.
Light flashes across his face. His features are strong – extra defined by a stubble that is several hours old - and his hair is dark – not too short and a little wild. His emerald eyes are like whirlpools.
She finds them mesmerizing
He encircles her waist with a strong forearm and pulls her close. She gasps and resists, but he pays her objection no attention and slides his other hand across her rump, then travels lower still.
She struggles to escape; manages to break free of his gaze and verbally objects - “
” - but her resistance is feeble at best, and all but lost to the din of the music.
He moves his mouth close to her ear and speaks: “You like to live dangerously ...
I can tell
She shakes her head in protest and unwittingly -
or perhaps wittingly
- becomes prisoner to his gaze once more.
He slides his hand around the front of her leg and ventures under of her dress.
She reaches down and stops him from probing further.
He maintains his position, but doesn't push.
The music is at fever pitch, pulse-pounding at a 160 beats per minute. The atmosphere is euphoric; orgasmic. Bodies twist, arms flail. The crowd is surfing on the crest of an adrenalin tsunami
Hesitantly, she relaxes her grip on his hand. He takes this as an invitation to proceed, and finds the warmth between her thighs. She gasps and opens her mouth to protest, but before she can utter a word, he flicks the tip of his tongue across the surface of her glossy red lips.
And now she knows for certain
Overcome by an insatiable desire, she slides her arms around his waist and grinds her crotch against him to the throb of the music. Suddenly, she wants all of him, and nothing less will do. She pushes her tongue eagerly into his mouth and kisses him hard. He finds her taste intoxicating; can feel the fervent pounding of her heart against the wall of her chest. He could take her on this very spot and no one would even notice.
And she would let him.
They make love on the roof of the club.
He is on top of her, unleashing everything he has to offer. Sweat clings to his lean torso like a second skin.
She grabs hold of his hair. Her knuckles turn white with the intensity of her grip.
He moves in rhythm with her, gradually increasing his pace.
With her other hand, she reaches down and sinks her fingers into his buttocks, encouraging him deeper.
He responds to her eagerness, and drives harder still.
She gasps and arches her back. Perspiration drips from the curve of her spine.
He lifts her and maneuvers onto his knees.
Now she's straddling him, her arms around his neck. She moves gracefully, up and down, riding him to the fullest extent.
He cups her breasts and squeezes them hard.
She cries softly with a mixture of pleasure and pain, then sinks her teeth into his neck. Her eyes flicker then turn red. They burn with intention and desire.
The skin on his neck breaks and a moan escapes his lips. He closes his eyes. When he re-opens them, they, too, are blazing with arousal.
Her mouth is smeared with his blood. She flicks her tongue across her full lips and begins to move faster ... then faster still, and, as a result, the crisp night air becomes awash with the sound of their moaning - louder and louder, until ... she brings them both to the point of climax.
He watches her pull on her dress. She's doing it from quite some distance; just grabbed her stuff and made some space. As yet, he hasn't bothered to clothe; reckons his arousal is still way too boisterous to cram into his pants.
She pulls on her shoes, fastens the straps, then rummages through her cream colored leather purse for something.
"Anything I can help you with?"
He touches the fast healing wound on his neck. "I think we got a little carried away back there at the club."
Still no response
She finds what she's looking for: some cleansing pads and a small mirror. After she's finished wiping her face and fluffing up her hair, she re-applies her lipstick - plum red - then packs everything away.
He wonders what's next.
She slips on a fitted black leather jacket then strolls casually towards him. Her long heels make a distinct clacking sound against the concrete. He finds himself hypnotized by the sway of her hips. When she stops, she says nothing; merely looks him over.
"I'm Amber," she finally says.
"Michael," he replies.
Amber casts her gaze across the lower Manhattan skyline. Despite the pretty lights, she doesn't find built-up tenements and sky-scraping tower blocks a particularly endearing sight. She shifts her attention to the clear night sky, allowing her senses to drift into the expanse. The Moon is whole and the stars gleam like small diamonds set against a black velvet canvas. When she speaks again, she says: "You hungry?"
"Famished," he replies.
Amber slides her purse over her shoulder. "Okay then, get dressed and we'll go find something to eat."
The man in the inexpensive gray suit crumples to the cold parking garage floor.
“Fuckin' trash,” the individual standing over the body mutters. His right eyelid starts to twitch. He reaches up and touches it.
Someone wearing a Yosemite Sam baseball cap and a #44 Yankees jersey steps forward. “You got him real good, Wiley.”
Wiley turns. Light from the florescent falls across one side of his face. “Don't I always?” He closes his cheap Italian style switchblade and tucks it into his back pocket.
Two more figures step into the light. One of them is African American, the other is an overweight American.
“Len,” Wiley says to the overweight American, “check this dead fuck, see if he has anything of value on him.” He turns to the other individual. “Kobie, make sure the coast is still clear.”
Kobie looks like he can't be bothered, but stuffs his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his white hooded sweatshirt and goes about it anyway. Len, on the other hand, is only too happy to do as he's told - especially as he's been addressed by his proper name, and not 'fatso' or 'bitch tits' or whatever other derogatory title Wiley can dream up.
Wiley watches Len get down on his knees and go through the dead man's pockets. “Make it snappy. We don't have all night.”
Len removes something from the rear pocket of the dead man's pants. “He's got a phone.”
“Everyone has a phone,” Wiley says. “Question is ... is it a phone worth having?”
Len fumbles around with the cellphone. “Um ... it's like...” He flips it open.
Wiley knocks it from his hand. “It's a piece of shit history, is what it is.”
They watch the phone go clattering under one of those fancy 4x4 trucks. Except Wiley. He's staring at the back of Len's thick head. “So keep searching him, you rotund fuck!”
cowers, believing Wiley is going to strike him (and Wiley will, if he doesn’t raise his level of functionality). He opens his mouth to ask what 'rotund' means, then thinks better of it.
“I ain't got no phone,” the
person in the Yankees jersey says.
Wiley looks at him. “Why don't that surprise me, Stan. Your idea of cutti
ng edge tech is two paper cups at each end of a length of string.”
when Wiley calls him by his proper name. When Wiley does that, it usually means he's pissed at him, or being sarcastic.
Stanley Eugene Jacobs
... What kind of fucking name is that? What the hell had his parents been thinking, to pin that shit on him? Infinitely better is the name Wiley dreamed up:
(sometimes Screwy, for short). Most would find it insulting, to be called something like that, but not Stan. He's the first to admit he's a batshit crazy moon-howler.
“I hate when you call me Stan.”
“Relax, Screwy,” Wiley says, “I'm just messin' with you.”
“Yeah ... I knew that,” Screwball replies. “So, we gonna score some pussy tonight?”
“It's Friday night,” Wiley replies, “and what else are Friday nights for, if not for pussy?”
Screwball flips his Yosemite Sam cap back to front and begins to dance around like someone who belongs in a straightjacket rather than a Yankees jersey. “I just got sex shocks down my prick. You ever had sex shocks down your prick?” He starts to rub his crotch. “Man, I love them sex shocks!”