Emma: Prologue

The city’s a beast, its neon heart throbbing with secrets that claw at my edges. I’m Claire, forty-five, a textile empire’s polished queen, but tonight I’m a runaway, heels clicking on rain-slick streets, chasing a spark to burn my sterile life to ash. A crimson sign—The Velvet Siren—winks through the haze, jazz seeping from its door like a lover’s breath. I hesitate at the threshold, the humid night air clinging to my skin like sweat, raindrops pattering soft on my coat, but the pull is stronger than my doubts. I step inside, the air thick with promise, my pulse a traitor already racing, the door's creak echoing behind me.

The club’s a pulse of its own—smoke curling like whispers, burlesque dancers slithering under blood-red lights, their sequins flashing like bared teeth. One performer arches her back, feathers trailing down her spine in a rustle, her hips grinding in slow circles that draw murmurs from the crowd, the scent of perfume—floral and musky—mingling sharp with cigarillo haze in my nostrils, stinging my eyes slightly. The saxophone wails low, wrapping me in its ache, the air heavy with whiskey vapors and unspoken wants, vibrations from the bass humming through the floor into my soles, making my legs tingle. Bodies press close in the dim, laughter spiking over the bass line like shattered glass, and I weave through, shoulders brushing strangers whose cologne lingers sticky on my blouse, a mix of sandalwood and sweat. I slide onto a barstool, leather cool and slightly tacky against my thighs beneath my skirt, the material creaking under my weight, and order a martini, the glass a sharp chill in my hand, condensation beading cold and dripping onto my fingers.

The bartender, all ink and apathy, mixes it with a flourish, olives speared like trophies, the clink of ice sharp, and slides it over, the liquid sloshing gently. I sip, gin biting my tongue with a juniper sting, the olive’s brine a salty tang that grounds me, its pit smooth and hard under my teeth as I bite down. My eyes sweep the room, heart hammering against my ribs, taking in the velvet booths where couples lean close, fingers tracing patterns on skin under low lamps that cast golden pools, the stage where another dancer sheds a glove, slow and teasing, her silk stocking whispering as it slides down her leg, the fabric hissing. Shadows play across faces, masking intentions, and I exhale, the gin warming my chest like a slow fire spreading to my limbs.

I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t my world, with its raw edges and hungry stares, the faint metallic tang of sweat in the air, the floor sticky under my heels. Then I see her. She’s a storm in motion—leather jacket hugging curves that shift with every step, eyeliner smudged like a dare, maybe twenty-two, moving through the crowd with a swagger that owns every shadow. Her presence cuts through the haze, drawing eyes like magnets, her laugh ringing out as she chats with a suit at a table, her voice carrying over the music like smoke, throaty and warm. Her locket—silver, tarnished—catches the light with each turn, a gleam that sparkles briefly.

My fingers tighten on the martini, liquid sloshing over the rim, dripping cold on my hand, sticky on my skin. She might see me, pin me with those eyes that sparkle under the lights, strip me bare in a glance. I’m a stranger in her orbit, but the pull is a live wire, searing, my skin prickling under my blouse, nipples tightening against lace. I shift to leave, legs unsteady, setting the glass down with a clink that rings in my ears, but she’s already closing in, weaving through suits and smoke with purpose, her gaze locking mine like a vice, holding me in place without a word.

“You look like you’re hiding,” she says, leaning against the bar, voice smooth as bourbon, her arm brushing mine just enough to send a shiver racing up my spine, her warmth seeping through fabric, skin on skin where sleeves ride up.

“Claire,” I reply, voice thin, nerves betraying me as I force a smile, my fingers tracing the stem of my glass, slick with condensation, cheeks heating under her stare. “Maybe I am.” My eyes flick to the stage—a dancer spins, hips rolling like a tide, her garter snapping against her thigh with a sharp crack that echoes—but hers don’t waver, studying me with an intensity that heats my cheeks further, her scent—jasmine tangled with leather and a hint of vanilla—wafting close, making my head swim.

“First time here?” she asks, tilting her head, hair spilling over one shoulder in dark waves, a lock grazing her locket, her posture shifting to claim the space, elbow on the bar like it’s hers. Her fingers tap the wood, close enough to feel their heat, nails painted a deep crimson that matches the lights, tapping a rhythm that syncs with the jazz, drawing my eyes.

I nod, clutching the glass tighter, the cold seeping into my palm, beads of water trickling down my wrist. “It’s… intense.” My words stumble, shy flutter in my chest, but she’s unfazed, her smile a blade that cuts clean, easing into the stool beside me without asking, her knee brushing mine under the bar, a casual press that stays, warm through stockings.

“Intense is fun,” she says, voice dropping low, eyes glinting like she’s tasting my unease and savoring it, her hand signaling the bartender with a flick, ordering a whiskey neat that arrives steaming amber, the peat smoke curling up to mix with the club's haze. “Keeps things alive.” Her hand grazes my wrist, a spark that jolts through me, lingering just a second too long before pulling back to her glass, leaving my skin tingling, her sip slow, lips parting around the rim, a drop clinging to her lower lip.

“You work here a lot?” I ask, grasping for ground, my pulse loud in my ears, the jazz swelling around us like a heartbeat, the club's heat pressing in, making my blouse cling to my back. Her laugh is soft, sharp, like she knows I’m flailing, and she sets her glass down with a thud, turning fully toward me, her leg hooking the barstool rung, pulling it closer, her presence enveloping.

“Most nights,” she says, gesturing to the crowd with a sweep of her hand, rings catching the light, her posture open, commanding without effort. “Sell a little fantasy—girlfriend vibe, you know. Pays for the paint.” She pauses, smirking, taking another sip that leaves her lips glistening, the whiskey's peat smoke curling in the air between us, bitter on my inhale. “Art student. Brushes aren’t cheap, and neither are canvases.”

“Art, huh?” I say, leaning in despite myself, the martini loosening my tongue, my body angling toward hers as the bar’s warmth presses in, her knee now firm against mine, the contact steadying my shy tremble. “What do you paint?” The question hangs, my voice steadier now, drawn by the way her eyes light up, her hand resting on the bar near mine, fingers drumming lightly.

“Whatever’s in my head,” she replies, eyes locked on mine, her fingers brushing my sleeve now, lingering on the fabric, tracing a seam with a nail that sends shivers up my arm, the touch light but sure. “Messy stuff. Feelings, chaos, the kind of things that spill out when you’re alone with a blank space.” Her tone dips, intimate, like she’s sharing a secret, her knee pressing firmer against mine, a nudge that shifts me toward her, making the shy knot in my stomach unwind a bit. “You ever get messy, Claire? Let things spill?”

My breath catches, heat coiling low in my belly, a flush creeping up my neck, the gin buzzing warm in my veins, but her easy confidence soothes, makes it feel okay. “Not lately,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper, my hand inching closer to hers on the bar, the wood sticky under my palm from spilled drinks. “But I’m… open to it.” Her smile widens, and I’m sinking, the bar’s hum fading to a distant pulse, the dancer on stage forgotten as her touch sends sparks dancing across my skin, her gaze holding mine, guiding the conversation with ease, the shy hesitation melting into a comfortable pull.

We talk longer, her words weaving a net—stories of late nights with canvas under dim lamps, smudged hands creating worlds from nothing, a life scraped together from gigs and grit, her voice a low drawl that pulls me in, the words vibrating in the air. I counter with scraps of my own—boardrooms where deals seal like traps, a husband who’s a ghost in our glass home, a life too clean, too controlled—my words tumbling out under her steady gaze, the shy flutters easing with each laugh we share. Each sentence pulls us closer, her knee brushing mine under the bar with intent now, her fingers occasionally grazing my arm, my thigh, testing boundaries, the touches warm and reassuring. The jazz shifts, slower, deeper, the horns moaning like lovers, and her gaze is a challenge, daring me to leap, her locket rising and falling with her breath, the metal clinking softly against her glass when she sips.

“What brings you here, then?” she asks, voice husky, leaning in so her breath fans my ear, the scent of her wrapping around me like a vise, her hand sliding under the bar to my knee, a light squeeze that sends heat racing up, her palm warm through nylon. “Chasing a little mess?”

My heart stutters, the gin buzzing in my veins, my thigh warm under her palm, the touch convincing, making the shy pull feel natural, comfortable. “Something like that,” I murmur, my hand finally covering hers on the bar, the contact electric, her skin warm and soft under mine, the shy knot fully unwound now. She doesn’t pull away, instead turning her palm up, fingers intertwining with mine, a bold claim that sends my pulse soaring, her thumb stroking the back of my hand in slow circles, soothing.

The conversation flows, laced with laughs and loaded glances—her describing a painting of swirling reds and blacks, emotions raw on canvas, her free hand gesturing, nails glinting in the light; me admitting to nights staring at city lights, craving more, my voice softening under her touch, the club's smoke stinging my eyes slightly, the taste of gin lingering on my tongue, bitter and sharp. Her touch grows bolder, a finger tracing circles on my palm, her eyes darkening with promise, the club's pulse throbbing in my temples, the air thick with our shared breath.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says finally, standing smooth, her hand sliding from mine to my lower back, guiding me off the stool with a firm press, her fingers warm through my blouse, the touch steady, making it feel right to follow. My skin burns under her touch, and I rise without a beat, the world tilting as she settles the tab with a nod to the bartender, her arm linking mine as we head for the door, the cool night air hitting like a slap when we step out, rain misting my face.

The city swallows us in its cool embrace, her pace steady, leading us to the hotel a short block away, her hand never leaving my back, fingers tracing light patterns that send tingles up my spine. In the lobby, marble floors echo our heels with sharp clicks, the desk clerk's voice a distant hum as I book the suite, her fingers tracing patterns on my hip through fabric, discreet but insistent. The elevator doors slide shut with a soft whoosh, sealing us in mirrored walls, the hum of ascent vibrating under our feet, the air confined and charged.

She turns, backing me against the cool metal that chills my back, her body pressing close, lips finding my neck in a slow kiss that sends shivers down my spine, her tongue tracing a line to my ear, hot and wet. I gasp, the mirror fogging slightly from our breath, her hands sliding under my blouse, fingers cold on my bare skin, tracing ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. Her knee slips between my thighs, pressing up, the friction through skirt and panties making me arch, wetness seeping, her lips capturing mine in a deep kiss, tongue plunging, tasting gin on me.

My hands find her hair, pulling her closer, her scent overwhelming in the confined space, jasmine and whiskey mingling with the elevator's faint metallic tang and my own arousal. She kisses me deeper, hands roaming to cup my ass, squeezing through fabric, a finger tracing the seam down the center, pressing in, teasing through layers. The ding of the floor snaps us apart, breath ragged, lips swollen, her smile wicked as she leads me out, door clicking open to the suite with a beep.

The suite’s a cathedral of light, city glow spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting her in sharp relief against the skyline, shadows playing on her skin, the hum of traffic far below a distant rumble. She sheds her jacket with a shrug, leather hitting the floor with a thud, revealing a body that begs to be unraveled—curves taut under a thin top, skin flushed with the night’s heat, nipples visible through fabric, hard points.

I’m trembling, but she’s a flame, stepping close, fingers unbuttoning my blouse with slow, brazen ease, each button popping free like a confession, the cool air hitting my exposed skin, raising goosebumps, my bra's lace scratching slightly. “Breathe,” she whispers, lips grazing my jaw, her breath hot and whiskey-laced, and I’m gone, my hands finding her waist, pulling her against me, feeling her heat through clothes, her heart thudding against mine.

Clothes fall like confessions scattered on the marble floor—my skirt pooling at my feet with a whisper of silk, her top tugged over her head, revealing full breasts, nipples hardening in the cool air, dark and peaked, the scent of her skin rising, musky and warm. We’re on the bed, a tangle of limbs on silk sheets that slide cool and smooth under my back, her mouth on my neck, teeth scraping skin, drawing a gasp I can’t hold back, the sting blooming into heat that pulses low.

I kiss her, ravenous, tongue clashing with hers, exploring the wet heat of her mouth, tasting whiskey and salt, hands roaming her back, nails digging in as she moans low and guttural, arching into me, her breasts pressing against mine, nipples rubbing lace. Her hands are greedy, peeling away my bra with a snap that echoes, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling peaks until they ache and throb, her lips following, sucking one into her mouth, tongue flicking hard, teeth grazing, sending jolts straight to my core, wetness pooling between my legs, dripping down my thighs.

I push her back, taking a breath of control, my lips trailing down her body, over the soft curve of her stomach, teeth nipping at her hip bone, the skin salty under my tongue, sweat beading there. The crescent birthmark on her thigh gleams under the light, a dark patch I trace with my finger, then my mouth, sucking gently, the skin warm and smooth. She’s slick, ready, legs parting wide as I settle between them, the scent of her arousal musky and heady, filling my lungs, making my mouth water.

I part her folds with my fingers, exposing her pink and glistening, swollen clit peeking, and dive in, tongue flat against her pussy, lapping slow from entrance to clit, savoring her wetness that coats my lips and chin, tangy and sweet, thick on my tongue. She’s dripping, her arousal slick on my face, soaking my cheeks, and her gasp is a knife, sharp and perfect, hips lifting to meet me, the bed creaking under us, sheets bunching.

My lips close around her clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking in tight circles, building rhythm, the wet smacking sounds filling the room, her juices dribbling down my neck. Her fingers knot in my hair, pulling hard, guiding me deeper, her moans echoing off the glass windows, breathy and ragged. I slide a finger inside her pussy, curling, stroking that spot deep within, her walls clenching hot and tight around me, velvet and pulsing, sucking me in. She’s tight, hot, and I add another, thrusting slow, then faster, my mouth never stopping, the taste of her flooding my senses, her hips grinding.

Her body tenses, breaths ragged, and I feel it building, her thighs quivering against my cheeks, muscles trembling, sweat slick between us. I pull back briefly, lips trailing lower, tongue circling her asshole, teasing the puckered ring with flat laps, the taste earthier, salty from sweat. She bucks, a surprised groan escaping, her hands tightening in the sheets, knuckles white, fabric tearing slightly.

I push my tongue in, shallow at first, then deeper, thrusting in rhythm, the tight muscle yielding, clenching around my tongue, while my fingers plunge back into her pussy, thumb rubbing her clit in slick circles, the dual holes filled making her writhe. The assault has her body arching off the bed like a bow, a string of curses spilling from her lips, her skin slick with sweat that trickles down her sides, pooling on the sheets.

“Fuck, Claire,” she groans, voice breaking, hips grinding against my face, the bed headboard thumping against the wall with each thrust, wood creaking. I’m relentless, tongue fucking her asshole deep, the ring spasming, fingers curling harder in her pussy, hitting that bundle of nerves until she shatters.

Her climax crashes like a tidal wave, body convulsing wildly, pussy walls spasming around my fingers in violent pulses, asshole clenching my tongue, her legs shaking uncontrollably, thighs clamping my head as she screams, back bowing high, every muscle taut then releasing in endless waves that ripple through her, toes curling. Wetness floods my hand and mouth, her cum gushing in hot spurts, dripping down my wrist and chin, soaking the sheets in a wet spot that spreads...