Vic Vaughn is Vicious

“Him?” He smiles coyly. Then he nods his chin at the magazine covers. “I’m him. Wanna run away now?”

I shake my head, then whisper, “Not a chance.”

He closes the short distance between us, slipping behind me. And when his lips lower down to the exposed skin on the back of my neck, I have to suck in a breath and try my best not to shiver. His fingertips slide up my arms and then he slips them back down, taking my coat along for the ride. I turn to face him just as he slips his jacket off too. Then he walks over to a large, open closet and hangs them both on wooden hangers.

I don’t know why this simple act makes me tingle all over, but it does.

And he knows it does. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Way too old for you. What about you? Wanna admit to it?”

Not sure if I do. But I say it anyway. “Nineteen. Do you want me to leave now?”

“I think I want you to stay forever.” He smiles at me and we just stand there for a moment, staring at each other.

Then, suddenly, the music outside stops and a new song starts. The Offspring turns into something else. Something slow and vintage, just like this room.

“You like the Eagles, Peep?” He asks this with his eyes locked on mine as he walks towards me. The room is dark. Aside from the string of skulls, there is only one light on in the corner, a very industrial-looking light made of vintage iron pipes and fastenings and with a single Edison bulb inside a metal cage. It doesn’t light up the room so much as throw off an atmosphere. So I can’t really see his eyes too well until he’s right up in front of me. Until his hand goes around my back and pulls me close with a jerk.

“Well?”

“Eagles?” I ask. “That’s what this song is?”

“Hotel California. Ever heard of it?”

“Sure. Everyone’s heard this, right?”

He pulls me even closer, tighter, taking my hand in his. And I realize that we are now dancing. Slowly. Very slowly. Our feet barely moving, our bodies pressed together, our hips slightly grinding. His mouth dips down to my neck and he whisper-sings the song in my ear as we sway in the middle of his room.

I have to take a deep breath and close my eyes to steady myself. Because my legs are quivering and I’m suddenly afraid I might pass out.

He begins by kissing my neck. That’s where his seduction starts. And all I want to do is lean in to him. To let him possess me. Not like a thing, but like a woman.

Our dancing is intimate. Like we’ve been dating for years instead of being able to count our time together in minutes.

His heart beats against my breast, a slow, steady rhythm. Like this is no big deal. Just slow-dancing with a random stranger in my cool, industrial biker bedroom.

When the song ends, he backs me up towards his bed and I do not offer up one ounce of resistance. When the back of my shoes hit the pallets, he steadies me, but it is clear he wants me to sit.

So I sit.

His fingers mess with his belt, making it clink and clang as it comes undone. He pops the button on his jeans, drags the zipper down and pulls his t-shirt up just enough to give me a glimpse of the fuzzy trail of hair that disappears into his jeans. He stops there, allowing me to get a good look. Allowing me a moment of fantasy.

Then he bends down in front of me and a flutter comes to life inside my belly. I’m so out of my league, but I do not care.

His hands rest on my knees as his eyes track up my body to meet mine. “Do you need another beer?”

“No,” I say. And it comes out earnest. Or sexy, maybe. Because it’s a throaty no. One filled with permission.

I bite my lip, a little bit nervous.

His hands slide down my calves and I almost moan, it feels so good. Then he takes my foot in his hand and begins unbuckling the straps of my strappy shoe. Never taking his eyes off me.

I don’t look away either. Not when he slips the shoe off my foot, not even when he places it gently down on the pallet and picks up the other one.

Then he smiles at me, his hands running back up my legs, over my knees, under my petticoat dress, until they come to a rest on the top of my thighs.

“The stockings are a hard one,” he says.

“What?”

“If they have garters, they stay on. But if they are elastic”—he pauses to swipe his tongue across his lower lip—“I like to slide them down.” And just as these words leave his mouth, his fingertips have gripped the elastic of my cheap stockings and he drags them down my legs. Not all the way down, though. He stops just below my knees, letting them hang there, like something discarded.