Isabella
There are empty cocktail glasses and plates with crumbles of velvet cake and some other chocolaty dessert when we return to the table. It seems the rest have taken themselves to the chaotic center of the haul where people sway around each other, reveling and dancing under the booms of music shooting from speakers set high on the walls.
In my seat, I realise that I and Andreas don't give a fuck that the initial reason I'm even here, at this animated hall, with my friends, is because of a stupid exchange we'd made weeks ago―that I aid him in incensing his crazy ex for temporary residence.
But a few foreign factors have barged into this somewhat reasonable trade, most of which revolve around horny bodies and what lustful outcomes are becoming of them. And neither of us are too keen to mention it. We're just letting ourselves banter and cuddle and play and fuck and spit in the face of the expectation to interact like that only with Dalia.
"I presumed that having you tattooed and the two of us dressing up as strawberries would keep these pests from looking at you." Andreas has to yell to get his words through. His wide hands splay over my shoulders, squeezing and rolling as I let him massage me.
"You have your shirt split open; people are looking at you. Gorgeous women, particularly." I shut my eyes, relaxing as my joints are soothed. "And stop referring to me as a strawberry."
His gentle kneads transition into rough shakes.
"Stop!" I jerk my shoulders back, and he withdraws.
He takes the seat beside mine, crossing his arms and frowning at me. "Hone that attitude of yours into something more polite. I'd like to hear your manners."
"Eat shit."
He taps at my face.
Sighing angrily, I swat him off. "What are you doing?!"
"Civility, baby." His finger nudges my noise to finish up probing my face. It lands on my knee, making idle circles that tickle my skin. I manage to take a sip of my drink and ignore the light movements until he moves towards me and bites my ear lobe.
"This is what you call being civil?" I put a scant effort into shoving him away―which ends up in him returning to making those circles on my knee. This is the peak of aftercare. Having my not-so-real-boyfriend amuse himself with my skin as I scowl and do my best to ignore him. My point is proven; he pinches my knee.
"You know what," I rise from my seat, "I'm going to go find the rest. Stay here."
"No way." He follows my fast tread towards the accumulating cluster of people. The glossy timber of the center floor is dappled with lights of blue, purple, and green roving in random directions across and between spinning bodies, the pace of them altering in time with beats of the music which have settled down into something we can finally talk over. I manage to reach the fringes of the dancing crowd before my wrist is taken and I'm spun to Andreas.
Despite his tempting beauty―the illuminated red blouse baring his chest, the bearded face coloured with light―I construct the base of an idea to rid of him, and it starts with the beer in his hand.
I bat my eyelashes slowly, his gaze stuck on mine. "Can I...get another treat?"
Behind me, my hands are folded together, and I'm lifting my chest and swaying it towards him. A mask of purity exists over my face, and just to reinforce the innocent appearance, I tilt my head and move closer. His eyes go right to where I want them to be, and satisfyingly, they take their time in travelling back up to meet my own. The glass tightens around his hold, attention firm on me.
He considers with narrowed eyes and still lips, until, "Enlighten me on what you would like to taste."
He sips his drink slowly, eye-contact remaining in place. I break it by looking between his hips. Then hooking my finger over the waistband of his pants. I hear a low grunt, and I follow by pressing my other hand to his groin. Already hard after having given it to me with all he had. Horny man.
"I didn't get to taste your cock. I want it now."
He chuckles and takes another sip, then says over the rim of his glass, "Indulging on me right here"—a glance at the partying around us—"would be a little immoral. You don't suppose?"
"No." I press harder and gain another grunt, this one louder.
"Baby, I―"
Even with uproarious activity surrounding us, skimpily dressed individuals dining at tables, and others sloppily moving to the singing of the speakers, I take back my fingers and guide them to his silver buckle. His eyes widen as I try to undo his belt.
But his empty hand comes over my own before I can finish. "You dirty, dirty girl. Later."
Finally. I didn't want to face what would've happened if I weren't stopped. So I pull my hands back and move away. Right into the arm that's holding his beer.
The glass is knocked and liquid splashes onto the floor. A man walking by scowls at us.
"Shit," I say. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I shield my mouth with my hands and turn to his puzzled expression. "I'll go get something to clean it up."
Before I walk off, he feeds into the success of my little machination and grabs my arm to stop me. "You'll do no such thing. Wait here."
He walks back to the tables, in search of napkins. Now, in having a few well-earned seconds of freedom, I skitter towards the horde of swirling, sweating bodies and let myself dive into it.
The density of the crowd consumes me as soon as I step in. One look back and my vision is a pack of shaking heads and raised arms glowing with purple-blue light. I move in deeper, searching for any sign of my friends through the scent of sweat and alcohol mingling together and casting an appalling reek over the growing madness. I bump into hectic bodies, squeezing through until I hear a familiar name call me and pause in my dash.
My arm is gripped, and I'm yanked out of the chaos and to its edges. I stumble into Francis, breathing through open air, and let him help me to my feet. His rich chuckle reminds me of our initial meeting at the club, when Andreas had dragged me away from him, and all the times we gathered after that with the rest to party for two undying weeks at the club.
Finally steadied, I can look at him―at the button-down that's been completely undone, at an abdomen that's a violet-obsidian under the purple lights flashing over it, at the rounded shape of his lips that I probably would've enjoyed kissing a few weeks ago. I smile at the joy in his eyes.
Eyes that drop down to my shoulders. Then hands.
"Bella," he greets. "You suddenly stop coming to the club then take yourself to a tattoo salon?" Another glimpse at my hands. "They look great on you."
"Thank you." I hook my arm through his and move us away from the dance floor. "Please don't ask questions."
"I wasn't going to."
I squint at him, bands of colour streaking across his face. "Don't lie."
"Fine," he laughs, looking ahead. "Where'd you get the inspiration?"
I almost halt. If he hadn't noticed Andreas has the same ones, then...
"Gardens. I just...love gardens." I earn a suspicious look.
"Hypocrite."
"Oh, come on. How am I meant to admit my boss is the reason I've got fucking plants crawling around my hands?" We pause at an empty table. "He's driving me insane."
Another chuckle and then we're sitting face-to-face with each other, catching up on small talk we hadn't been able to make after I abandoned my ventures to the club following Andreas'...tit-sucking and little declaration that it's too unsafe to keep getting myself wasted. I describe a rough encounter I had with a customer the other day until an elaborately dressed man takes himself to the end of our table, rubs Francis' shoulder, then turns what Andreas would describe as "observant male eyes" to me.
Of all guests I've run into so far, he seems most well off. He wears a suit with a tawny blazer and pants, his ivory skin is coloured under blazes of violet and indigo, and his pointed nose is directed at me. Finely waved blond hair is brushed in several directions, smooth and illuminated. Even though I scoot forward on my chair, I can't make out the colour of his eyes. Something pastel and light.
"Who's the fine lady?" He gives Francis a questioning glance before turning back to me. He inspects the formation of my attire, everything translucent and not.
I drawl, interrupting whatever Francis is going to say, "The fine lady, thank you, is Isabella. And she's asking for your name in return."
He looks at me amusingly, holding a wineglass. "William." He offers his free hand. "You won't mind if I steal you from my fellow companion for a little while?" His hand comes closer, so I act on what choice of mine Andreas would loathe.
He lifts me out of my chair and gives Francis a small grin in thanks.
"Host always gets what he wants," Francis' voice shouts from behind us.
I turn to William's bright smile and tilt my head. He catches the question in my eyes, and answers in an eloquently accented voice, "I'm pleased you're enjoying the revelry. It wasn't a simple one to assemble."
So the host of the party is taking me to an obscure hallway behind the DJ's dais. Perfect.
We cross an arch taking us into a sitting room smaller than the ones we stroll by. Two leather chesterfields bracket a floral scarlet rug embroidered with gold, the couches reflective and polished. William gestures I take a seat and collects two bottles of beer from a small table, passing one over to me as I slowly lower myself and stare at portraits on the walls. He sits on my opposite end.
"How do you know Francis?" I ask, popping off the lid of my bottle. He does the same, though gazing at me with his first sip. And second.
"A childhood friend. Is the guy you've come with your partner?"
Curious. No wonder why he's put distance between us.
I consume a long stream of liquid. I sigh, "No. We just like to play dress up on certain occasions."
He quirks a brow. "Oh? This game of dress up must be quite valuable if you'd go to the extent of having twin tattoos." I frown at him. "I keep my eyes on a gorgeous lady—and any of her possible lovers. He seems very attached to you."
The bottle tightens around my fingers. "He is not my lover."
A delighted laugh. "Whatever you say. Can I make up for the accusation with a little bit of alcohol and a little bit of chatter?" He glances at a gilded mini fridge sitting in the corner of the room, atop a narrow table. "I've got quite the variety."
I tap into that mischievous part of me and think of Andreas. Then return a mischievous smirk.
"Yes." I set down my beer. "I want your strongest."