Page 3 of Depraved Temptation
They dance close, their bodies nearly touching. In my imagination, it's me beside her, swept up in the tension, a palpable sense of connection hanging in the air.
Then she does something bold. She sheds the final piece of her clothing, standing unguarded but strong. My heart speeds up. In my imagined role as her partner, I'm sharing this audacious, intimate moment with her.
That's when a flicker of jealousy cuts through me. My attention snaps back to the actual man on stage. It's him who's really there, feeling her warmth, sharing this potent moment of vulnerability. My imagined place beside her shatters, replaced by a stark reality: I'm on the sidelines, merely watching, while he's up there experiencing it all with her.
My gaze sharpens, locking onto each pair of eyes that linger on her too long, each mouth that leans into an ear to murmur. Each stolen glance, each whispered syllable, grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Heat surges through me, a seething, visceral anger I've never felt before.
In a room buzzing with power—filled with people who snap their fingers and watch the world bend to accommodate them—they now fixate on her, the dancer. She pirouettes and sways, but it's as if she's dancing only for me. Or so I wish. I imagine pulling their attention away, breaking their sightlines, claiming her as mine.
A hot and corrosive warmth spreads from my chest, eating through the walls I've built around my emotions. Strange, how raw I feel in this gilded space where I've always pulled the strings. My fingers twitch by my sides, aching to act, to stake my claim.
My face may be a well-practiced mask of composure, but my jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. My eyes narrow just a fraction, the pupils constricting. Few would catch these tiny betrayals, but those who really know me, who can read the unspoken language of my body, would see a storm gathering behind the still waters of my expression.
The performance reaches its crescendo, and as it does, the rollercoaster of emotions I've experienced reaches a zenith. Infatuation, intrigue, and a heady sense of possession blend into a potent mix. It's intoxicating, disorienting. The last notes play out, and the room erupts in applause, but all I can hear is the echoing beat of a newfound obsession.
With a deep breath, I push back from the table, signaling the end of our discussions for the evening. "We'll reconvene tomorrow," I announce, my voice more terse than usual.
The attendees exchange puzzled glances but say nothing, gathering their papers and leaving in a mix of curiosity and deference.
As the last of them departs, I find myself alone, my gaze inexorably drawn to the now empty stage, where just moments before she had danced. An unfamiliar determination takes root, fueling an ambition I've not felt in a long time.
Chapter 3
Lila
My dressing room door clicks shut behind me, muffling the distant hum of Risqué's post-performance energy. The room's cool air greets my naked skin, drawing a shiver from me. I stand there for a moment, letting the lingering high from the stage gradually wash away, allowing reality to seep back in.
Slowly, I move to the dress draped elegantly over the back of the chair—a sensual piece in deep crimson that promises to accentuate my every curve. Picking it up, I revel for a moment in its cool, silken touch, imagining it against my bare form.
As I slide into the dress, the fabric glides over me, embracing the dips and rises of my body. I’m not the textbook definition of a ballet dancer, with my fuller hips and rounded edges, but every inch of me is sculpted by years of discipline and artistry. My curves are my badge of honor, a testament to my refusal to fit into society’s confining mold.
Approaching the mirror, I meet my own gaze head-on. My reflection stares back, the hazel eyes almost seeming to challenge me. The dress hugs me just right, amplifying the very curves I've grown to cherish. And from the stolen glances and lingering stares I've caught from men, they seem to cherish them, too.
"The world's got plenty of straight lines," I murmur, smirking at my reflection. "It needs some curves."
A soft laugh bubbles up from my throat. I quickly twirl, watching as the dress flares briefly before settling back against me. It's not just about the aesthetics; it's about the power it bestows, the confidence it injects.
I swipe a strand of hair behind my ear and grab my purse. "Alright, Devereaux," I say with newfound determination, "showtime isn't quite over yet." Time to face whatever, or whoever, awaits me outside.
The soft click of the door behind me marks my departure, but before I can move any further, my attention is magnetically drawn to a man standing just a few feet away. It's him—the stranger who held me in his gaze during my performance. Up close, he's even more compelling, an undeniable presence that dominates the room.
He has an aura that pulls everything toward him, a gravitational force made flesh. He's tall, his stature alone making him a focal point. His salt-and-pepper hair is styled with a calculated casualness that probably takes more effort to achieve than it appears. His jaw is sharply defined, a hint of stubble lending a rugged contrast to what are clearly expensive, tailored clothes that cling to his muscular frame in all the right places.
But it's his eyes that nail me to the spot—piercing, unyielding eyes that lock onto me with the intensity of a predator zeroing in on its prey. The kind of eyes that make it clear he's used to setting his sights on something, or someone, and getting exactly what he wants. Time seems to stretch, each second lingering as if reluctant to move on, while I'm caught in his arresting gaze.
He takes a measured step forward, effectively dissolving any semblance of distance between us. "You were mesmerizing tonight," he says, his voice a smooth baritone that resonates in the air. "Alexander," he introduces with a faint nod.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I manage a response, "Lila. Lila Devereaux."
"Ah, Lila," he tests the name on his tongue as if savoring a fine wine. "Would you care to join me for a drink?"
I blink, trying to process his invitation. Risqué's unwritten rules are clear: performers do not mix with patrons. The line between us is both protection and allure, maintaining the mystery that keeps the clientele coming back for more.
"I... Performers aren't supposed to... you know, mingle with the clientele," I murmur, hating the uncertainty in my voice.
His response is a soft, knowing chuckle. "I'm no ordinary client," he asserts with a confidence bordering on arrogance. Those piercing eyes lock onto mine again. "And you, Lila, are no ordinary performer."
A shiver runs down my spine. Logic dictates caution, to decline and retreat. But there's an undercurrent, a pull toward him I can't ignore. That faint, niggling sense of familiarity, combined with raw curiosity, has me anchored in place.