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Was it wrong to feel like a thief in her own home? Slipping down the stairs, lips slathered with strawberry-lime lip-gloss pressed into a line to muffle the sound of her breath. Her little boy had been put to bed, stomach-pats and bedtime stories to soothe childhood fears of the dark. Her husband—she tried not to think about him at all, but he’d come home after another late night at the firm and passed out in their bed with only an absentminded brush of his lips across her temple.
And Aurora was left to smudge purple glitter under her eyes and tease her hair, plump her lushes with so much mascara they felt like they weighed an extra five pounds. Her husband wouldn’t recognized her, not in the leather miniskirt and skin-tight tube top and sky-high heels. Phillip had married his high school sweetheart who’d warn a promise ring until the night of their wedding, sliding under the covers while he turned out the lights.
Maybe that was half the problem.
She had to hike almost two miles to the convenient store to call a cab, shivering in the slight chill of the crisp autumn air. Sweat gathered at the base of her neck that had nothing to do with heat.
Neverland was already in full swing by the time she arrived. The burly bouncer at the door let Aurora in, lifting an arm for her to duck under. There was no judgment in his eyes, but heat bloomed like a midnight orchid in her cheeks anyway.
She took a moment to admire the dancers up in their cages, bodies glistening under the fluorescent lights in hues of pinks and purples and blues and greens. She didn’t know any of them by name, but had never really wanted to—it defeated the purpose, didn’t it? Below them men had their eyes on their athletic legs, others were grinding on their partners, the bass pumping so low that floor reverberated beneath her feet.
A hand tugged on one tawny curl hanging from her back. Aurora didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. She knew.
“C’mon,” he rumbled, bent close to her ear so she could hear.
Aurora shuddered, but laced her fingers with his, closing her eyes as he hustled her along, a tall, lean man in a three-piece suit—sans jacket, sleeves hiked up to reveal an interwoven sleeve tattoo, and in shades of black. He pushed through the crowd, the bodies parting for him like the red sea. Aurora rolled her smooth palm against his callouses, enjoying the contrasts. His other hand was encased in a black lycra glove, and remembering how it had coasted over her flesh made her shiver.
Another bouncer intercepted them, this one Aurora recognized a personal secretary of sorts—if a secretary had a tear-dropped tattooed under their eye and a skull and cross on their collarbone.
“Pan on the line for you, sir.”
Aurora had listened to the news earlier that night, while Nick had played in his pen and she cooked dinner—it was a quirk Phillip found amusing; they’d both grown up with cooks and maids but when they had moved into their own home Aurora had insisted on her privacy—and remembered the grim-faced news reporter, wrinkled hands steepled, mouth set in a dour.
“There was another nasty shoot out last night in the downtown metropolitan area, with at least five members of the Gold-Blood gang dead in the aftermath. Commissioner Swan is attributing the violence to the unknown cartel known to be operated by ‘the Pan’. Mayor Mills is calling for a city-wide effort to bring the culprit to justice and to halt the illegal trafficking of drugs running rampant through the city. According to experts, it’s unlikely the Pan is working alone, and may not be the head of the drug operations. More on this at eleven.”
“After that clusterfuck he left on my door, Pan can fucking wait.”
That was that, and he pulled on Aurora’s wrist again. The thoughts tumbled away.
The backroom was cast in dull red shadows from the intricate chandelier above their heads. Aurora recognized Swarovski crystal from endless etiquette lessons on her mother’s knee. He’d told her once, despite unspoken their agreement not to talk about anything close to personal, that it had been the first thing he’d bought when he’d finally had the money he thought he deserved.
There was a private elevated dance stage, and a pole. She tried not to think about who he entertained on the nights other than Friday.
It wasn’t any of her business, but Aurora’s hands curled into a fist in his palm.
He turned, cocking a dark brow. The thin, bone-scar at the corner of his eye winked at her as she shook her hand free.
“You’re wearing stockings,” he observed, crossing to lower himself into the couch across from the dance floor. A perfect view for a private show. She tried not to think about that, either.
“It’s cold out,” she pointed out.
He allowed that with a nod.
Aurora’s fingers curled over her upper arms, feeling more exposed in this empty room than she would have been up in one of those cages of his dance floor. His low laugh caused her to pitch forward on one foot, whipping her head around to glare at him. Her carefully curled hair slapped her face like a whip.
“What,” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Nothing. Except that no matter how many times you come up here, you still manage to look so shy. I would think I’d properly divested you of it by now. I’m glad I haven’t.” He popped off his hand with a fluid tug, dropping the prosthetic onto the dark mahogany beside his couch.
The first time, he’d done it like a challenge, to see if she would bolt. When she hadn’t, he urged her onto the couch and done things that Aurora had known could be done—not to good girls like her, anyway. Things that she knew would have never even crossed Phillip’s mind to do.
“It’s not shyness,” she muttered.
“What is it?”
Her chin rose in challenge. “Perhaps it’s shame.” Her voice never lost its cultured accent, its history of boarding schools in Switzerland and country clubs in the summer.
He stood, unfolding himself from the couch and stalking her like a panther, slowly circling. Aurora didn’t know his real name, and never would if she played this game right. She had caught a few whispers on other nights while she had waited for him. She knew everyone called him Captain Hook because of how he’d made his first great sum of money. Back then, on the hard streets of New York, he hadn’t worn a fake hand. He had worn a hook. He’d shown it to her, tucked into a desk drawer at the very back of the room.
When he had pushed her up onto the desk he had breathed into her neck that sometimes he’d put it on when he needed to make a point.
He made a point often, Aurora knew.
“I’m not the reason for your proclivities, Briar.” He curled his good hand around her neck, mouth sneering. She blinked at him for a few moments, forgetting the misnomer she’d given him that first night. Did that say something about her? That she could fold herself easily into this role she’d crafted for herself? That she couldn’t leave the country clubs and the boarding schools and Phillip’s sweet face and her son’s chubby hands in the compartments they belonged? That they followed her into this room, tangling in her hair and at the corner of her eyes.
Did it say something about her—that it made this that much more thrilling.
The first time, this hadn’t been her intention. She could at least give herself that. She hadn’t even owned a miniskirt yet, had felt silly in her tea-length skirt with floral patterns, had only thought to give dancing a try. She’d never done anything but the waltz in carefully monitored classes. Phillip had never put his hand anywhere but on her waist.
He’d found her, plucked her like a pomegranate from its branch, and brought her into the back. Her heart had pounded in her ears, and she’d rubbed her legs together to ease the pressure that built up between them, sickened by how easy it was for her to want him. Passion had never been this easy before, but it had been poured into her, like he was some dark holy grail she had spent her entire life searching for. When he’d opened the door to the backroom that first time, she had been more than willing. She had been so ready.
Now here she was, back every Friday night like clockwork, waiting for him to come down and find her.
She pressed her lips together. “I’m not here to talk.”
His fingers pushed at hers, taking their place on her arm. “You’re here for a fuck.”
The crude words made her shudder. He was the only one who ever spoke to her like that. The only one who dared. “Yes.”
He slammed his mouth down on hers, hard and mean, and her arms lifted and locked around his neck, leg lifting to encircle his narrow hip. He lifted her, half-carted her, until she was pressed against the stage, flattening his stump on it to balance them. Aurora might have worried that it would hurt him, but she’d learned a long time ago very few things hurt this man.
His good hand crawled up her leg, pulling at the tiny holes of her fishnet stockings. She looked like a tramp, she knew, but Hook only growled his approval. Aurora titled her chin back to allow him to nibble and lick at the ridges of her throat, nails pulling at his vest. A button popped, pinging her on her cheek, her own wanton violence almost surprising her. But Hook surged against her, rocking the hard length of his leg between hers, as he helped her yank off his shirt.
Those clever fingers pushed up her skirt enough to slip under them, an appreciative mumble escaping him as he discovered the hooks of her garters. He released them with a pinch, the elastic slapping against her flesh, and made Aurora yelp. Hook soothed her injury with a lick to her lips.
“You’re going to tell me the truth, Briar,” he mumbled into her mouth.
Her legs tightened around his hand, half in panic.
“Are you half a siren?” he wondered, as if he didn’t notice how tense the lines of her body had grown. “Because it’s like I can’t fucking breathe from one Friday to the next.”
Inch by inch, she relaxed. If he asked her things—personal things—she was worried she might not be able to lie to him. “No one’s ever called me that,” she murmured, oddly moved. She had always been sugary-sweet, vanilla-bland. Feeling peculiarly tender about it, her caressed the side of his face.
He caught her palm and pressed a hungry kiss to its middle. “You’re not hanging out with the right people. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” His smile was wicked, flashing bone-wide beneath the red lights.
Even if she had been planning to rail him for his words, they were lost under her cry as shoved his hand back under her skirt, fingers pressing into the strip of silk that constituted for her panties for the evening.
The dance floor cut into her back, no doubt leaving a bruise for the morning, but she was heedless to the pain. She hooked both legs around his waist, anchoring her heels into the small of her back, and panted into his neck.
She could feel the insistent rub of his cock against the back of her thigh every time he shifted, and it only seemed fair that Aurora return the favor. He groaned wetly as she closed a hand around his turgid length, stroking him through the fabric that separated them.
“Fuck. Sorry. I can’t—I can’t wait. Not tonight.”
Aurora shook her head, more than willing for fast and rough, but he was already turning her, urging her to steady herself on the dance floor with her palms. She watched him over her shoulder as he reached into his back pocket and yanked out a condom. He shucked his slacks and rolled it on with practiced ease. Normally Aurora would do it, and once she had been brave enough to do roll it on his cock with her mouth, but tonight they were both in a hurry. He spat onto his palm and then pressed her forehead onto the floor as he rubbed her aching folds. Wetness rolled down her thighs, tangling in her sagging fishnets, as she pushed up into his hand.
“Hook,” she grunted, voice muffled against the floor. “Hook.”
“Tell me what you want,” he said, hunching over her. “Say it.”
Aurora swallowed and lifted her face from the floor so he could hear her. So there would be no doubt. “Fuck me.”
His good hand curled around her neck, yanking her backward until her spine twinged in protest. Again, his mouth closed over hers, tongue pushing passed her parted lips. Aurora dared to reached back and curl her arm around the back of his neck. His abbreviated hand brushed against her hip and then slid home, his moan thick and heady in her mouth.
She broke away with a cry, abandoning her hold to steady herself again he began thrusting inside her. How could it be that she didn’t feel this way with Phillip—stretched and full and complete? Phillip only ever treated her with respect, tender in his treatment, loving in his touches. Hook had no such inclinations, hissing about how good she felt and oh fuck your cunt is so tight, Briar, curling an arm around her thigh and lifting her leg. The penetration was deeper, more intense, and she clawed at the floor as if she wanted to escape her own skin.
His hips snapped into hers, making her bottom bounce, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh. She felt him lower his forehead between her shoulder blades, pressing wet, smacking kissing to her sweaty flesh. It was only a lewd addition to the messy sounds of their sex.
“You’re going to have to help yourself along, love,” he panted against skin. “I’m a hand short, or I’d do it myself.”
Aurora reached down, pressing her fingers to her clit. Hook had learned how to play her as if he had born to do it, and now that she knew what it felt like having him pinch and pluck at her, her own fingers felt lacking. But she was already so close to the edge she almost couldn’t tell. She rubbed her fingers harshly against her clit, grinding and circling, as Hook watched from above, still plowing into her.
Knowing that he was watching, that his breathing was growing harsh at the sight of her pleasuring herself, was enough for Aurora to tip over the edge. She cried out at she climaxed, clenching down on him so tightly hissed. He dropped her leg and she laid flat out on the dance floor like an offering. He grasped her hip with his good and began to thrust in earnest, enough to make even her overwhelmed nerve-endings jump in sluggish pleasure.
His nails bit so deeply into her flesh he left little crescent indentations as he came, bending over her again, hissing out his pleasure into hair.
Aurora wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, before eventually he released his white-knuckled grip on her hip to twine their fingers together. For a moment, she allowed the intimate connection, even more intimate than having him inside her.
It was like a splash of cold water, and she tensed beneath him. Hook said nothing as he pushed himself up, moving to dispose of his condom. Aurora worked her skirt back down over her hips, reattaching her stockings, careful to look anywhere but at him.
“I—I have to go.” Back to Phillip. Acid churned in her gut, guilt and shame and sadness.
“It’s not safe on the streets tonight,” he said, back to her. He retrieved his prosthetic from the table, attaching it with a click. “I’ll call you a cab.”
“No. I don’t think that’s—”
“I’m not going to fucking beat down the cabbie for your address, okay?” He spun on her, lips twisting into a sneer. “That applies an interest in you greater than Friday nights in this room, doesn’t it?”
Her stomach rolled, and she pressed a hand weakly to it. She should take comfort in that, no matter how cruel he meant his words to be. After all, she wasn’t interested in anything more than Friday nights in this room either.
“Fine.” The words felt fuzzy on her tongue. She’d have the cab drop her off two blocks from her house, anyway. Aurora swallowed down cotton. “I don’t—I don’t think I should come back, any more.” She should have never come in the first place. She should have never allowed that sensation of emptiness gnaw at her, should have forced herself to be connection with Phillip and their son. She’d been happy, hadn’t she?
He cut a hand through the air as if her words mattered little to him. “Do whatever the hell you want. It’s not as if there isn’t other girls I can pull off the dance floor when you’re not around.”
His barb found its mark. Aurora felt her face grow pale and clammy, and knew he could see how well-aimed his words had been. It was the truth, wasn’t it? She was that interchangeable. He could have picked any girl that first night.
In silence, she pushed herself from the dance floor. “Tell the cab I’ll be waiting out front.” She used every ounce of blue-blood in her veins to sound indifferent, to sound like she was standing in her country club decked out in her pearls and her pastel slacks talking about a world he would never understand. Aurora found strength in that.
“Briar—” Hook began when she started to the door.
“That’s not my name,” she threw at him over her shoulder. “Is it, Hook?”
It was silly. Feeling wounded, and angry, was silly when she knew exactly what this was about. When she knew she was going to be back next Friday night, addicted to him in ways she couldn’t escape.
Aurora slammed the door anyway.