Chapter 2

~MARLOWE~

My fingers didn’t rush. I told myself it was because I wanted to enjoy it. Truth? I was stalling.

If I moved too fast, it would look like I needed this. Like I’d been waiting for him to come back. Like I hadn’t spent the last three nights thinking about whether he was breathing somewhere out on the road.

So I set my hand on his chest like it was routine. Like I did this for any man with enough cash and an ego. His chest was warm, solid. Beneath my touch, he didn’t move. Didn’t say my name. Didn’t even shift.

The thought, maybe he didn’t recognize me, shimmied through my mind.

The lighting was low. My makeup was heavy. Mystique didn’t smile the way Marlowe did. Mystique didn’t care.

Determination strengthening, I moved around him slowly, let my fingers wander: over muscle, over heat. Across his back.

God. He felt good. Too good.

I shouldn’t have wanted to touch him like this. But I’d wanted it anyway. For years. Since before I understood that wanting someone in this world meant they could use it against you.

My nails traced up his spine and into his hair, where I pressed my thumb under the edge of it. He inhaled. Sharp.

That wasn’t recognition. That was reaction.

A small, stupid thrill moved through me. Okay. You feel me.

I stepped in front of him again. Close enough my thighs brushed his knees. Still nothing. No flicker of surprise. No “Marlowe.”

I felt disappointment wash through me. He looked at me the way men look at women they pay to perform: detached. Hungry. Evaluating. That hit harder than I expected.

Fine. If that’s all I am in this room, then I’ll give you something worth your money.

The thought stalling in my mind, my hands slid down his chest, then slowly over his stomach.

My pulse felt strange. Loud in my ears. My skin prickly like I’d had too much caffeine, I mused.

I gave myself an inward shake, ignoring the sensation, and sinking between his knees, I moved my hips once. Not dramatic. Just enough.

His jaw tightened, but he still didn’t touch me.

Why wouldn’t he touch me? Because he didn’t know? Or because he did?

I stood again, brushing against him on the way up, letting my chest hover near his face.

If he knew it was me, he’d stop this. Wouldn’t he?

“Still see me as Stye’s little girl?” I murmured before I could stop myself.

Idiot.

His throat worked.

There. Acknowledgment. Subtle. But there.

My stomach flipped, but I covered it by hooking my leg over his thigh and lowering myself into his lap.

The contact made heat shoot straight through me. He was hard: for the dancer. For Mystique. Not for me.

A strange, bitter laugh almost came out of my mouth.

Fine.

I rolled my hips once. Slow, careful, at the same time I slid my arms around his neck.

If he was going to pretend I was just another body in a room, then I was going to make him feel it.

I leaned in and brushed the corner of his mouth with mine.

He didn’t stop me. He didn’t pull me closer either. But his hands gripped the chair.

Still holding back. Still choosing distance.

That hurt more than if he’d pushed me away.

I slid off him and bent between his knees, running my tongue across his lower lip.

His lips parted and his hands twitched at the action.

“Touch me,” I whispered. It sounded wrong. Not playful. Not teasing. Needy. I hated that.

His fists clenched and something shifted in his eyes: hunger.

I climbed back into his lap fully this time, straddling him, then leaning back, I ground against him.

“I’m not a kid,” I breathed.

That did it. His hands came up fast, gripping my ribs and pulling me into him. His mouth crashed into mine. Not careful. Not cautious. Rough. Like he’d been holding it back.

His hand fisted in my hair and he moved against me hard enough to make me gasp.

“Fuck, I want you, Marl,” he rasped.

Those words cracked something open in me. I’d wanted to hear that since I was fifteen, following him around like a shadow.

My body reacted before my brain caught up.

Suddenly, he stopped. Not completely. Just enough.

His grip changed, and his mouth left mine.

His eyes sharpened and he growled, “What did she give you?”

The words didn’t fit. “What?” I asked, my mind trying to catch up.

His thumb pressed under my chin. “What did she give you, Marl?”

The room felt slightly off center, and I shook my head, denying the suspicion. “I didn’t take anything,” I lied, but even I heard the delay in my answer.

My tongue felt thick. My balance unsteady as I tried to slide off his lap.

His expression hardened. Not aimed at me, but toward something else.

“Fucking, son of a bitch,” he growled. Afterward, he didn’t ease to his feet, he exploded up, the chair scraping violently across the floor.

I swayed when his hands left me. Just a little, just enough it was visible.

“Torin—” I began.

He grabbed my arm, steadying me when my heel caught the rug. That’s when I realized I wasn’t steady. Not drunk. Not exactly. Just…off.

Peering at me, his jaw locked.

The music still pounded through the speakers, and reaching past me, he killed it with one hard hit.

Silence dropped heavy and abrupt. “What are you doing?” I mumbled, confused and trying to pull free.

He didn’t answer, instead moved for the door, pulling me with him. Urgent.

The handle twisted, the door flew open and the hallway light stabbed at my eyes.

Darius nearly ran into us.

“What the hell—” he started.

Torin interrupted him as he snarled, “Move.”

“Tor, Stye’s not gonna be happy—” Darius tried again.

“Fuck Stye,” Torin hissed. Not loud. Deadly calm.

Darius looked at me then. Really looked and I felt exposed under the hallway lights. Too warm. Too aware of how my body felt slightly delayed.

Torin saw it, and his arm wrapped around my waist. Before I could argue, I was lifted.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, grabbing onto him because I felt off balance.

“You’re done,” he bit out.

“With what?” I managed to get out.

“With this,” he answered.

Darius reached for him. “You can’t just—”

Torin turned his head slowly. “Try me.”

That was enough. Darius stepped back, and Torin carried me down the hallway without another word.

His hold tightened every time I shifted, and somewhere between the room and the end of the hall, something settled heavy in my chest. This wasn’t him losing control. This wasn’t him wanting me. This was something else. And whatever had just happened? It wasn’t about the dance. It was about my father.