Watching Her in the Dar

The bass hit like a fist against my ribs, a physical presence even out here on the edge of the sprawling patio. Another work party for Rachel's firm. Usually, it was chill -- beers in the park, a BBQ, maybe trivia night at some shitty bar. Easy. Comfortable. Tonight felt... staged. Her boss, Richard, some finance slick with new money and a fresh divorce, had just blown a fortune polishing his McMansion and clearly needed an audience to stroke his ego. Acres of manicured lawn swallowed the house, isolating it. Impressive, if you liked sterile monuments to capital gains.

Normally, because of our work schedules, Rachel and I would meet at these things. Tonight, we were both off, so we drove together, the air already thick with unspoken energy simmering between us in the car. She'd poured herself into this black dress, a scrap of fabric that barely covered the essentials, ending way above her knees. Her thighs, thick and strong like an athlete's, strained against the material. She looked incredible and it took all my strength to keep my hands off her. She looked... Dangerous. Like she knew exactly the weapon she was wielding tonight and planned to use it.

Fuck, she looks good. Too good for this crowd. The thought was a low growl in my gut, possessive and already wishing I could get her home and ravage her sexy body.

Richard's house was an entertainer's wet dream, designed for showing off. A den with a bar that looked ripped from a five-star hotel, stocked with bottles I couldn't afford to smell. An outdoor dance floor, slick wood that felt sturdy underfoot, with its own bar. A game room bigger than my apartment -- pool, ping pong, foosball, vintage arcade games blinking and chirping insanely. And then the lounge, another bar tucked away, dim, smelling of expensive leather and spilled, sticky cocktails.

We drank. We danced. Correction: she danced, and I tried to keep up, a slow burn igniting deep in my belly. She loved to tease, loved knowing my eyes were glued to her. The way she moved those hips, the deliberate slide of her ass against my groin as she spun around, the wicked little glance back over her shoulder that promised things she'd deliver later. She had me wound tight, aching, the pressure building behind my zipper. The music pulsed, a relentless beat driving bodies together in the dark. I grabbed her hips, maybe a little too rough, yanking her back against me, letting her feel the thick ridge straining against my jeans.

"Yeah, feel that? That's what you do to me," I breathed into her ear, my voice rough over the thumping bass.

She laughed, a throaty sound that vibrated against my chest, and ground back deliberately, punishingly. Her eyes, dark pools in the flashing lights, held that familiar, dangerous glint. Then the music shifted, slowing down, some breathy R&B track oozing from the speakers like cheap syrup.

"Break time?" she murmured, leaning her sweaty forehead against my shoulder. Her skin felt hot.

"Definitely need another drink." My voice was gravel.

We pushed through the sweaty throng towards the lounge. Inside, the darkness was heavy, broken only by the under-bar lights and a few uplights hitting potted ferns like sad stage props. It took a second for my eyes to adjust. Knots of people huddled on low sofas, voices murmuring. Rachel's coworkers. We grabbed drinks -- whiskey, neat, for me, something pink and bubbly for her -- and found two empty stools near a group she knew.

The conversation flowed easily. Work gossip, bitching about Richard, speculating about the stupidly expensive remodel. Rachel was animated, laughing, touching arms. Normal party stuff. But I felt... off. Twisted. The whiskey wasn't hitting right, or maybe it was the way Mark from accounting kept letting his eyes slide down Rachel's legs. The air felt thick, charged with something ugly.

Then a few of the women decided they needed to dance again, shrieking about some song.

Rachel looked at me, eyes bright, maybe too bright. "Come on?"

My head swam. The room felt tilted. "Nah, you go. Think I need another minute. Feeling a bit... Dizzy"

"Okay." She leaned in, and kissed me, her lips warm, tasting faintly of sugar and cheap fizz. "Don't be too long."

She slid off the stool, her dress riding up even higher, showing more smooth thigh. She staggered a bit from the alcohol as she disappeared with her friends back towards the pulsing noise outside. I nursed my whiskey, trying to shake the weird, heavy feeling. Made small talk with Mark, who at that point thankfully seemed more interested in whining about his bonus than leering at my girlfriend. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. My head felt marginally clearer. Time to find her.

Outside, the energy had cranked up. Some aggressive hip-hop track blared, bass rattling my teeth. The dance floor was packed, a writhing mass of bodies under the string lights, grinding against each other. I scanned the crowd, eyes jumping over unfamiliar faces slick with sweat. No Rachel. I moved along the edge, peering into the shifting gaps between bodies. Still nothing. Inside? Bathroom line?

Just as I was about to turn back, I saw her. Near the center. Dancing with him. Tall fucker, maybe six-two, lean, wearing a shirt that probably cost more than my rent. Vaguely familiar... Paul? Marketing douchebag. Met him once or twice. Definitely taller than me, and probably in better shape. Wait. Wasn't he the marketing guy she'd mentioned? The one who was always hitting on her, wouldn't take no for an answer? Yeah, Paul. That was him.

She was facing him, dancing close. Too fucking close. They looked comfortable together, familiar. Like this wasn't the first time. His hand... was it on her ass? From here, through the strobe lights and moving bodies, it was hard to tell for sure. But the way her body moved against his... the easy intimacy of it...

Okay. Deep breath. She's just dancing. Having fun. The thought felt hollow, a lie I was trying to sell myself, especially knowing who he was, and what she'd said about him before.

I drifted over to the outdoor bar and ordered another whiskey, neat. Leaned against the cool wood, watching. She was having fun. Laughing, throwing her head back. I didn't want to be that guy, the jealous prick dragging her away, especially in front of all her coworkers. But something clenched tight in my stomach, a hard knot of unease turning sour.

The crowd shifted, swallowing them for a second, then spitting them back out into a clearer space. The music changed again. A fast, driving reggaeton track. Rachel turned, presenting her back to him, and started shaking her ass, her hips moving with that fluid, practiced rhythm that always drove me insane. He moved in behind her, his hands landing firmly on her hips. He pulled her back against him, pelvis flush with her backside. Just like I'd done earlier. The mimicry was a slap in the face.

I saw her body jolt, a flicker of surprise. Then she looked back over her shoulder at him, that same goddamn wicked smile spreading across her face. The one she'd given me. He grinned back, a predatory flash of white teeth, and she went right back to grinding against him, her movements becoming more deliberate, more intense. More for him.

What the actual fuck?

The song crashed to an end. A few couples peeled off as a slow, syrupy R&B song started. My cue. Time to reclaim my territory. Stake my fucking claim. I pushed off the bar, weaving through the thinning crowd. As I got closer, I saw they'd changed position. She was facing him now, arms looped loosely around his neck. His hands were still on her hips, thumbs hooked low around her waist, pulling her tight against him. They swayed slowly, barely moving their feet. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. Whispering.

I couldn't hear the words over the music, but I saw her shake her head slightly. A small, almost imperceptible movement. A refusal? She pulled back, just a fraction, but his grip tightened, anchoring her against his body. She didn't resist. Didn't pull away again. They kept swaying, locked together. He was still whispering, his lips brushing her earlobe now. And her hips... they weren't just swaying side-to-side anymore. There was a slow, deliberate forward and backward roll. A subtle humping motion, perfectly in time with the music. Grinding against his thigh.

Her actions.

Jesus Christ, Rachel.

I was close enough now. Close enough to see the flush on her cheeks, the slightly dazed, unfocused look in her eyes. I reached out, tapped her shoulder. I forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. Tried to sound casual, even though my voice was tight, strangled.

"Mind if I cut in?"

She jumped, startled, eyes flying wide as she pushed away from Paul like he was suddenly radioactive. He looked momentarily annoyed, a flicker of possessiveness, then smoothed his expression into polite neutrality.

"Hey," she breathed, her voice a little shaky. "Uh, yeah. Sure." She turned fully towards me, putting a hand on my chest as if to steady herself. Too brightly, too falsely, "Babe, you remember Paul? Paul, this is my boyfriend."

Paul offered a curt nod, a dismissal. "Good to meet you again." He disentangled himself smoothly. "Excuse me."

He headed straight for the bar. I watched him go, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. He ordered a drink, then turned, leaning back against the counter, his eyes scanning the dance floor. Our gazes met across the space. He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and a slight nod before turning his attention elsewhere.

An acknowledgment... Maybe a challenge...

Fucker.

Rachel slid into my arms, pressing herself against me.

"Dance with me," she murmured, her breath hot and smelling sickly sweet against my neck.

We moved together through a few more songs. Her body felt pliant, too relaxed against mine. The earlier teasing energy was gone, replaced by something else. Something heavy, unreadable. Then she pulled back slightly.

"I need to use the bathroom," she slurred, her eyes not quite focusing. "Like, really need it."

"Okay, let's go."

She staggered as we walked, and I steered her off the dance floor, and back into the house. She was drunker than I thought. The hallway near the lounge was jammed. A long line snaked out from the downstairs guest bathroom.

Rachel groaned, shifting her weight, practically bouncing.

"Oh god, I can't wait that long. Seriously." She grabbed my arm, fingers digging in. "Help me find Richard. He'll know if there's another one."

We found him holding court by the main bar. Rachel explained her predicament, voice high-pitched with urgency.

"Sure, sure," Richard boomed, resting his hand on her lower back, his hand lingering a little too long. "Upstairs, second door on the left down the main hall. Past the bedrooms. Go right ahead."

"Thanks, Richard! You're a lifesaver!" she squeaked.

We started towards the main staircase, but Richard snagged my arm.

"Hey, man, quick question about that merger rumor..."

"Go ahead," I told Rachel, nodding towards the stairs. "I'll catch up."

She gave me a grateful look and hurried off, weaving unsteadily. Richard launched into some tedious bullshit about market fluctuations. I tried to keep my responses short, nodding like a fucking bobblehead, my eyes constantly flicking towards the staircase. Five minutes dragged into ten. He was oblivious, drunk on the sound of his own voice. Finally, I mumbled some excuse about needing another drink and escaped.

I took the stairs two at a time. The upstairs hallway was quieter, the carpet muffling the party noise from below. Second door on the left. Bathroom. Empty.

Where the fuck did she go?

Panic started to claw at my throat. I was about to head back down when I heard it. Voices. Low, urgent whispers coming from further down the hall. From behind a closed bedroom door. I recognized Rachel's voice instantly, even hushed and strained.

"...have to go... he'll be looking for me..."

Urgent. Pleading?

Then her voice cut off abruptly. Replaced by a different sound. Unmistakable. Wet, smacking kisses. A soft, breathy moan. Her moan.

My blood went cold, then boiled. Adrenaline surged, hot and metallic in my mouth. I crept closer, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. The door was slightly ajar. Enough to peek through the crack. My hand trembled as I leaned in, compelled by a sickening dread.

She was with Paul. He had her pinned against the wall just inside the room, his mouth fused to hers, kissing her hard, possessively. Like he owned her. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were squeezed shut, tears maybe leaking from the corners. Her black dress was hiked up around her hips, one of Paul's hands buried deep between her legs, inside the flimsy lace of her panties, fingers working furiously, a frantic blur against the dark fabric. I could hear the wet, slick sounds his fingers made, and could see the muscles in his forearm tense and release. Fingering her. Fast. Hard.

She moaned again, louder this time, a choked sound escaping past her lips before he kissed her again, his own low grunt vibrating through the thin wall. Her hands weren't idle. He'd captured her right wrist, pressing her palm flat against the thick, straining bulge in the front of his expensive pants. Her shoulder and arm moved in a steady, rhythmic motion, rubbing him through the material.

Jesus, is she jerking him off?

I couldn't see clearly from this angle if he was hard through the fabric or if he'd actually pulled his cock out. But her hand was working him. Pumping. Her own whimpers were muffled against his palm, little animal sounds of pleasure.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough for her to gasp for air, her chest heaving, ragged breaths tearing from her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with pleasure, unfocused. Utterly lost in it. A low grunt escaped him as he watched her, a sound of pure male satisfaction.

Rage choked me. White-hot, blinding rage. I took a step forward, ready to rip the door open, to tear him off her, to beat his fucking face into the expensive carpet until he stopped moving. Then she spoke, her voice surprisingly clear, though still breathless, shaky.

"No. Paul, stop. We can't. I have a boyfriend." She pushed weakly against his chest, her hand falling away from his crotch. "I have to go. He's probably looking for me."

Paul dropped his hands, stepping back slightly, looking frustrated but nodding, his breathing harsh. "Shit. Yeah. Sorry, Rachel. Got carried away."

Relief washed over me, so potent it left me weak-kneed, nauseous. She'd stopped him. Thank God. But then, right on the heels of the relief, that confusing, unwelcome flicker ignited again. Heat pooling low in my gut. A tightness in my own pants, a shameful throb.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Instead of confronting them, instead of letting her see me standing there, witnessing her near-betrayal and my own disgusting reaction, I ducked sideways into the dark opening of the upstairs bathroom as the bedroom door opened wider. Hid. Like a fucking coward.

I heard their footsteps recede down the hallway, Paul murmuring more apologies, Rachel's responses too low to make out. Silence returned. I leaned against the cool tile wall, breathing hard, trying to get my pulse under control. Pissed at Paul, the predatory asshole. Relieved, fiercely relieved, that Rachel had shut him down. But underneath it all... that sick, confusing heat lingered. The image of his hand between her legs, her moan... burned into my brain.

Once I felt calmer and less likely to punch a wall or throw up, I went back downstairs. Found Rachel talking animatedly with Richard again, looking flushed but otherwise infuriatingly normal. I walked over, and slid an arm around her waist, staking a claim I wasn't sure I still had. She leaned into me, smiling up as if nothing had happened. We ended up back at the bar, sucked into Richard's orbit with a few other lingering guests. More drinks. More bullshit talk.

Eventually, the party thinned. People drifted towards the door, calling out slurred goodbyes. We were among them when Richard intercepted us, swaying slightly.

"Whoa there, folks," he slurred, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. "You two have definitely had a few too many to be driving. Roadblocks probably out tonight too." He gestured expansively, king of his castle. "Plenty of room. Stay the night. Seriously."

I started to decline, insisting I was fine, but Rachel stopped me, squeezing my arm.

"Maybe he's right, babe," she said, her voice firm despite the slur.

Richard was insistent, playing the gracious host. Not wanting to seem ungrateful or make a scene, I reluctantly agreed. A few others were staying too. Richard led us upstairs again, down a different hallway this time, to a plush guest room that smelled faintly of potpourri and emptiness.

"Make yourselves comfortable," he said, backing out. "Plenty of towels in the en suite. Holler if you need anything."

The moment the door clicked shut, Rachel turned and practically launched herself at me. Her mouth was hungry, desperate, almost frantic. All the tension of the night -- the dancing, the near miss upstairs, the alcohol -- seemed to ignite at once. We stumbled towards the bed, tearing at each other's clothes like animals. I'd stripped down to just my boxers and things got hot, fast. My hands were on her breasts, her dress bunched around her waist again, when she suddenly broke the kiss, panting.

"Gotta pee," she announced giggling drunkenly, scrambling off the bed like a startled crab. "Like, right now."

She stumbled into the en suite bathroom. I collapsed back onto the ridiculously soft bed, head spinning. The adrenaline, the booze, the sheer fucking exhaustion hit me like a truck. I must have passed out.

I woke sometime later. Disoriented. The room was dark, quiet except for her soft breathing. Rachel was asleep beside me, curled on her side, facing away. I rolled over, draped an arm over her waist, pulled her closer. Her breathing was deep, even. I closed my eyes, drifting back towards oblivion.

The next time I woke, the space beside me was empty. Cold. I blinked, trying to focus in the pitch-black.

Bathroom again?

Then I realized I needed to go too. I swung my legs out of bed, the floorboards cool under my bare feet. As I padded towards the en suite, I heard it. Faintly at first, drifting up from downstairs. Voices. Low murmurs. And something else. A rhythmic sound. A soft, choked moaning.

No.

I froze, hand hovering over the doorknob. The door was slightly ajar, I hadn't pulled it fully closed. I listened, straining my ears, dread coiling in my stomach. The moaning grew slightly louder, punctuated by a deeper grunt. It was coming from the main living room area downstairs.

My heart started pounding again, a sick, heavy rhythm. I crept back from the bathroom door, moving silently across the carpeted floor and out into the hallway. The house was dark, but moonlight streamed through the huge downstairs windows, casting long, eerie shadows. I moved towards the main staircase, each step agonizingly slow, careful not to make a sound, a voyeur again, drawn by a horror I couldn't resist.

The moans were clearer now. Unmistakably female. Rachel's moans. Low, guttural, trying to be quiet but failing. Mixed with the rhythmic creak of sofa springs and the wet, slapping sound of... skin on skin.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, peering around the corner into the living room. The large sectional sofa dominated the space. And there they were.

Paul had Rachel pressed back against the sofa cushions. Her black dress was yanked down, exposing her breasts completely, pale globes gleaming like marble in the moonlight. Her legs were spread wide, skirt bunched up around her waist. His hand was between her thighs, fingers working furiously, hidden by the angle but the results were obvious from the choked, gasping sounds tearing from her throat. Little whimpers escaped her lips between gasps.