*Story containes MATURE & EXPLICIT CONTENT*
THIS IS A SEQUEL / PART 2.
Read "Stall" before this book, unless you just like spoiling things for yourself. If that's the case, you do you boo.
"Something can be both delicate and violent"
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Harry lowe...
A/N: Ohaaai. As usual this turned out longer far than expected. I've missed you. But I'm here now.
Warning for this chapter: Blood.
(also if things happen in this chapter that aren't your cup of tea, please do not sip the tea - just skip it.)
*****
"You owe me a dance."
I stare at Harry soaked in red lights, with his temple perched against his fist while his elbow rests on the back of the couch.
"You wanna dance with me?"
I think I'm still a bit hazy in the head from earlier and haven't heard him correctly.
Harry has never danced with me. Ever.
I've never tried pushing it with him, but I hope one day he wants to — at least after tonight I know he's capable of it.
His chin is tilted up, looking down his nose at me.
"No, I said you owe me a dance. I said nothing about me."
Oh. So he didn't mean he wanted to dance.
The hot air in the club is making both of our skin shine with a thin layer of sweat, and the music shaking the walls with each thump of the bass vibrates the floor under the couch.
The alcohol we've both had tonight is only heightening our body temperature and I'm starting to understand why most people started taking off their clothes, and Harry has left his shirt off.
"I owe you?"
Harry kicks his chin up, gesturing towards the stage behind us and I look over my shoulder before looking back to him.
"After watching what you did up there wearing this," he drags his fingers down the front of my corset, "I think it's only fair you do that on me."
I tilt my head, squinting, "You want me to give a lap dance? In front of everyone?"
To be honest if I did this, it'd be one of the most uneventful things that happens in this club; compared to what I normally see.
Tonight really is one for the history books in hallmark moments of me wanting to do things I thought were impossible for me, first pole dancing on a stage, threatening someone with a knife and now this.
Why is the idea of it exciting?
I can't tell if it's just been a long night, or my inhibitions are lowered by liquid courage or holding a knife to someone's junk gave me a boost of confidence — but the idea of that doesn't make me anxious or self conscious like I thought it would.
His messy lips stained with my lipstick tug up at the corner, and while his anger is still keeping his muscles tense his voice is playful.
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