Chapter 25
When Clarke sat down next to Harper at the bar, her friend didn't notice her at first. Probably texting Monty or something. But when she finally looked up and saw her, she put her phone away and said, "Oh, hey, I think you've got your days wrong. Tomorrow night's the night you're gonna blow the roof off this club."
Clarke smiled sheepishly. "No, I just came to watch Vivian dance. She said she's doing something with a flaming baton."
"Oh, that sounds . . . ill-advised," Harper said, cringing, "but more power to her if it works."
Actually, Clarke hadn't known Harper would be there, either. She'd figured Niylah would be working, and Niylah was always down to talk about . . . the stuff Clarke wanted to talk about. But Harper was one of her closest friends these days, so this worked out even better. "I'm glad you're here, actually," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Harper spun her stool to face Clarke directly. "About what?"
"Well . . . sex."
"Oh, I love talking about sex." Harper's eyes lit up with excitement. "We should do it more often."
"It's . . . underwhelming sex, actually," she admitted. "With my boyfriend."
"Oh. That sucks."
"Yeah. I mean . . ." She sighed heavily, feeling frustrated by the whole situation. "It's not like he's bad in bed; he's just not super attentive."
"That's bad then." Harper took a drink and asked, "Is it just, wam-bam-thank you ma'am?"
"A lot of the time," she admitted. "It's just not . . . satisfying."
"Does he ever get you off?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Like how often?"
She wasn't really used to having such an open, frank conversation about her sex life. Her mom knew she'd been sexually active with Finn, so she'd had 'the talk,' with her, of course, on numerous occasions. But since her mom was a doctor, that was all very clinical, focused on the biology of it. And she and Maya had swapped stories sometimes, but that had always been minimal, mostly because Clarke hadn't wanted to picture Jasper in bed any more than Maya had wanted to picture Finn.
"Clarke?" Harper prompted.
Well, there was no backtracking now. This conversation was happening. "I'd say about . . . twenty percent of the time?" she estimated.
"Twenty-twenty percent?" Harper shrieked in disbelief. "Clarke! That's, like, one in five times. That's not fair to you."
"I fake it a lot," she confessed. So in Finn's mind, it was probably way higher than twenty.
"No, you shouldn't do that," Harper argued vehemently. "He needs to learn a thing or two."
"Well, actually, he has more experience than I do." Finn was the one and only partner she'd ever had, but he'd slept with a couple girls prior to her. She'd always just assumed he would know what he was doing more than he actually did.
"So? That doesn't mean he's above learning," Harper said. "Look, you should be honest with him. When it works, let him know. When it doesn't . . . let him know, Clarke."
She squirmed uncomfortably, not sure how to go about that. "It's hard, though." She didn't want to be too blunt and hurt his feelings. She just wanted to drop some subtle hints, see if he might pick up on them.
"Well, what about the foreplay? When it happens," Harper went on. "Is that part at least good?
She tried to remember the last time Finn had devoted much time or effort to working her up and getting her in the mood, and . . . sadly, she couldn't. "It hardly ever happens."
"Oral?" Harper asked.
"Rarely. He doesn't like it. Well, he doesn't like doing it; he likes having it done to him."
"Ugh, this is ridiculous. Let's get a guy's opinion," Harper decided. "Bellamy." She waved him over.
Bellamy? Clarke thought, her stomach clenching. They were going to talk to Bellamy about sex?
"You've slept with a lot of girls," Harper started in. "Would you say they're . . . satisfied with your performance?"
He shrugged as he dried off a glass. "Most of the time, yeah."
"And how do you go about that? Satisfying them, I mean."
He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "Why do you wanna know?"
"We're just curious."
Clarke felt the need to interject with a more tangible explanation, so she fibbed, "One of our friends has a boyfriend, and she wants to give him some pointers."
"Why doesn't she come ask me herself?" was his response.
"Well, she's embarrassed," Clarke mumbled, hoping he didn't at all catch onto the fact that she was the one feeling that way.
"So how long do you spend on foreplay, on average?" Harper questioned, sounding like an investigative journalist.
"However long it takes to turn her on," he replied.
"And do you like it?"
He grinned. "Yeah, it's awesome."
That was what Clarke thought, too—the appetizer was good as the main dish and all that—but Finn had never seemed to feel the same.
"And is oral sex part of that foreplay?" Harper continued on.
Bellamy bent down to set the glass underneath the counter and continued his nonchalant answers. "Sometimes, yeah."
"Blowjobs, eating out, sixty-nine? What're we talking about here?"
"All of the above. I like pretty much everything."
Clarke moved around on her seat a bit. Now all of a sudden she was picturing Bellamy doing all of those things, and . . . well, it really just looked like porn in her mind.
"But which do you like better," Harper inquired, "getting pleasure or giving it?"
"Oh, I like giving it," he answered without hesitation.
"Really?" Harper gasped, giving Clarke an astounded look. "Interesting."
"Why's that?" Clarke asked quietly. She'd always assumed blowjobs were, like, the holy grail of sexual encounters for most men.
"Because, seeing a girl fall apart all because of what you're doin' to her?" Bellamy's eyes took on a glazed over look as he talked about it. "It's amazing. I love knowing I can make someone feel that way."
Just hearing him talk about it made Clarke's thighs quiver. "But what if a guy doesn't like eating girls out?" she asked.
Bellamy snorted. "Then he's either completely stupid or just an ass. It's the best thing in the world. That girl's literally gonna let you put your dick in her body. You owe her something in return."
He sounded so . . . grateful for it. Like it wasn't a chore at all; it was a privilege.
"So is that the primary method you use to get girls off?" Harper asked.
"Well, it works more often than it doesn't," he said. "But I get 'em off with sex, too. Actually, I usually try to get 'em off both ways."
Both ways? Clarke could barely even comprehend the prospect of multiple orgasms since she so infrequently even had one. "And do you think it works?" she asked.
"Usually."
"You don't think they're faking it?"
"No."
Oh, that'd be so nice, she thought longingly. She would have loved to experience something like that with Finn, and she felt like she could if he just . . . put a little more effort into the whole thing.
"So do you like to go fast or take your time?" Harper asked him.
"Hmm." He thought about it for a moment, then replied, "Depends on what kind of mood she's in."
"She?" Clarke echoed. It wasn't dependent on his mood.
"Yeah. I try to figure out what the girl's in the mood for. I can do whatever she wants."
She smiled dazedly, impressed that he was so dedicated to giving the girls he slept with so much pleasure. It wasn't like he was dating them or even serious at all. Most of them were one-night stands, but it sounded like he made it one night to remember.
"So all in all, it sounds like you're really focused on whoever you're with," Harper summarized. "Like she's the center of attention. You get off on getting her off."
"Yeah, pretty much," he agreed.
"Well." Harper nodded. "This has been very insightful, don't you think?"
"Yeah, we'll . . . we'll pass it along. To our friend." Clarke almost rolled her eyes at herself, because . . . honestly, what a lame excuse to ask him all this stuff.
"You do that," he said, clearly not believing her flimsy lie for a second. He ventured down to the other end of the bar, where a customer was waving him over.
"Harper!" Clarke shrieked, whacking her friend's shoulder.
"What?" Harper said innocently. "Now you know: It can be so much better."
It really could be, couldn't it? Sure, Bellamy had more experience than Finn—hell, he probably had more experience than half the planet—but Finn could get better. And she was willing to take some pointers from him, too. Maybe she could do something that he would like. It didn't have to just be him making more of an effort. It could be a mutual thing.
"So go home tonight, Clarke," Harper urged, "and get some of the action you deserve."
I'll try, she thought, hoping a few small requests and minor pointers wouldn't hurt Finn's ego.
...
Finding the courage to talk to her boyfriend wasn't the easiest thing for Clarke to do. He got home early enough that night that she had ample time, but every time she thought she was going to do it, she chickened out. At first, she thought she might mention it to him before they ate dinner. But that didn't happen. And then she decided she'd bring it up while they ate dinner. But that didn't happen, either. So as she stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes, she planned out what she was going to say, how she was going to say it, even the subtle mannerisms she was going to use. Her plan was to make it seem more like a suggestion rather than a demand. Hopefully he'd be receptive.
Plopping down on the couch next to him, she began with, "Hey, so, I was thinking . . . we should do something different tonight."
He put his arm around her, eyes still focused on the TV screen. "What do you mean?"
"Well . . . I'd really like it if you . . ." Turn off this stupid game show, she thought. She knew he'd worked all day and was tired, but there were better things they could do with their time. "I'd really like it if you go down on me," she finally just blurted.
He made a face. He actually made a face.
God, is it that bad? she wondered self-consciously. She had good hygiene and everything, but if it made him feel better, she was willing to hop in the shower beforehand. "And then afterward I could do the same to you," she offered quickly, threading her fingers lovingly through his hair. "Or we could sixty-nine. That's always an option." The last time they'd tried that, over the summer, they'd been pretty clumsy at it. But practice made perfect. Right?
"I don't really like doing that," he said dismissively.
"What, sixty-nine?"
"Or . . . the other thing."
The other thing? He didn't even want to say it? "But don't you wanna watch me fall apart, all because of what you're doing to me?" she asked, quoting Bellamy. "I'd love to do that with you."
"Or we could just cut straight to the chase," he suggested, reaching down to fiddle with her jeans.
"No, that's what I'm saying." She gently took his hand and moved it away. "I don't wanna—I don't wanna cut. I just wanna . . ." She gazed at him pleadingly, wishing that look on his face would change. But it didn't. He wasn't even contemplating doing something different with her tonight. He was . . . he was satisfied. "Never mind, it's okay," she said, mentally kicking herself for being so complacent about it. She just didn't know how to push it any further without upsetting him.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm actually kinda tired anyway," she lied, standing up. "I'm gonna go get ready for bed." She started down the hallway, trying not to look as disappointed as she actually felt.
"I'll be in soon," he called after her.
She ended up veering off into the bathroom instead and soaked in the tub for a while that night. She made up a bubble bath for herself, despite not feeling very bubbly, and lay neck-deep in the warm water with her head resting on the edge. Trying not to dwell on tonight's failed attempt at a greater intimacy, she shut her eyes, hoping to relax. But it didn't seem possible. Inside her, it seemed like there was this swirling agitation, an overwhelming itch that needed to be scratched. And Finn didn't want to be the one to scratch it for her.
Her hands were already beneath the water, so she didn't even have to move them that much to slide in between her legs. She began to touch herself, feeling sort of guilty even though she knew there was nothing wrong with this. Masturbation was both normal and healthy, and it wasn't like she'd never done it before. Like many girls, she had herself a vibrator, and she used it from time to time. But this just felt . . . different somehow. More desperate.
She worked her fingers in and out of her tight passage and rubbed her clit furiously, not just wanting but needing to get off. She found herself thinking about that look in Bellamy's eyes when he'd said those things today: "It's amazing. It's the best thing in the world."
Why didn't Finn understand how amazing it was?
She whimpered a bit when she thought of Bellamy saying, "I can do whatever she wants," and she knew it was only a matter of time until she got herself there. Only a matter of time.
...
"Bellamy!" Shumway bellowed. "Where the hell are you?" He marched up onto the stage, shaking his head in contempt. "Usually I feel like I'm trying to get more out of Gina, but it's like you're not even here tonight."
"No, I'm here," Bellamy insisted. "I just . . ." He glanced up at the clock, watching the minute hand approach the nine, almost directly on top of the hour hand now. "I can't stay much longer."
"And why is that?" Shumway challenged.
Because Clarke's gonna dance, he thought. And I have to be there. "Well, I have plans," he replied vaguely, figuring it was best if his director didn't know what those plans were. It wasn't like he wanted to be there for the same reason all those other men did. He'd promised the girl he was going to look after her, and that was exactly what he was going to do, no matter what.
"Change them," Shumway barked. "We'll be here another hour, at least."
Another hour? No, that didn't work for him. That didn't work at all.
"Come on, we got this," Gina tried to pump him up as Shumway trampled back down the steps. "Let's just focus."
That was the problem, though. He couldn't focus right now.
"From the top of the scene," Shumway directed as he again took his seat.
Bellamy's mind was so elsewhere, he didn't even remember what scene they were rehearsing.
"It's your line," Gina prompted him.
"Oh, right." He remembered now. A big dramatic argument scene, sort of a pivotal one. "Alyssa, I really need to . . ." He trailed off, even though he knew the line, even though he'd said it dozens of times before. He didn't need to do anything for Alyssa. No, Alyssa was a fictional character. Clarke was a real girl, and right now, the only thing he needed to do was to be there for her. "No, you know what? I need to go," he decided. "I'm sorry."
Shumway glared at him. "We're not done."
Struggling to keep his cool, Bellamy reminded him, "You told me we'd be done at 8:30. It's 8:45. I already stayed late."
The director crossed his arms over his chest disapprovingly. "What do you have going on that could possibly be more important than this?"
You wouldn't understand, Bellamy thought. So he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell him.
"We perform in three weeks!" Shumway yelled dramatically, waving his arms about in the air. "We're not ready!"
"I know. And I can stay late tomorrow," he offered, "but not tonight." He looked up at the clock again, worrying now. He only had fourteen minutes to get to the club. It wasn't that far away, but if as many people turned out as he suspected, parking would be a pain in the ass. He might have to walk a couple blocks.
"Bellamy, what . . ." Gina looked at him confusedly, but when it seemed to dawn on her why he was in such a hurry to get out of there, she hung her head, shaking it dejectedly. "You might as well let him go, sir," she said. "He's not gonna change his mind."
No. He really wasn't. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, trundling down the steps. He grabbed his jacket as he hustled out of the theater.
"You disappoint me, Bellamy," Shumway hollered after him.
Yeah, whatever, he thought, willing to let that parting shot roll right off his shoulders. He'd disappointed plenty of people before. Nothing new.
He ended up getting to Grounders right at 9:00, whipping his car into a parking space that wasn't technically a space. Let them give him a ticket. He didn't fucking care. There was a line hanging out the door, but he was able to cut and get right in.
Holy shit, he thought, looking around. He hadn't seen it that packed in there since Ontari had been in her prime. He knew Anya had been promoting the hell out of this, but . . . damn. Clarke sure did attract a crowd.
He wandered over to the bar, taking a seat on one of the vacated stools. Mostly everyone was crowding around the stage now, as if sensing that the big show was about to begin.
"Hey, I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it," Murphy said.
"Director kept me late," he explained.
"Well, consider yourself lucky you're not working tonight. It's nuts."
"I see that." He looked out on that crowd, wondering if Clarke was nervous at all or if she was just used to it at this point. He never wanted her to just be used to it. Ever. "Give me a beer, man," he told his friend. "I'm gonna need one."
"I can do you one better than that." Murphy reached around and grabbed a vodka bottle and poured Bellamy a shot.
"Thanks." He downed it eagerly, feeling like he might need another one before the performance was over. "Is Harper here?" he asked, surprised he didn't see her anywhere out there. Clarke was sort of her protégée, after all.
"Yeah, she's backstage with her, I think," Murphy replied.
He hesitated to ask about the next person, but . . . he had to. "And Roan?"
"Yep." Murphy subtly pointed him out, and Bellamy knew exactly where to look. When the crowd parted a bit, he saw that Roan was seated on his usual couch with Echo, and even though he had his arm around her, he had his eyes on Bellamy. He smirked, raised his own glass as if to toast, and took a drink.
"Here we go," Murphy mumbled as the lights started to dim.
Fuck, Bellamy thought, exhaling worriedly. Even if Clarke was ready for this, he wasn't.
Anya, quite dressed up herself, took the stage as the music died down to nothing, and a spotlight shone down on her. "How's everybody doing tonight? Are we having a good time?" she began.
Lots of whoops. Lots of hollers. Lots of semi-drunken cheers.
"Who's excited for our next performer?"
Louder cheers now, some vulgar ones.
"She's excited, too," Anya said. "In the short time that she's been here, she's become one of your absolute favorites. Now please, welcome to the stage, in her first headline performance ever, the Girl Next Door!"
They welcomed her. Oh, they definitely welcomed her, in their own grotesque way. Between the "Shake that ass!" one guy on the fringe of the crowd shouted and the "Don't let us down, baby!" from some guy towards the center . . . what a welcome.
He tried to look away—he really did—when she took the stage. But she'd never been anything other than utterly captivating up there, and it was a losing battle to pretend otherwise.
He'd heard this song repeatedly the past week, whether it was here or back at home, because she'd been practicing a lot. Some breathy Britney Spears thing he never would have listened to on his own, but damn, he knew it said something about making her move, and . . . he wanted to make her move. Not like this, though. Not in front of all these people. Just him.
She commanded the stage right from the start as she confidently strutted around the pole in nothing but panties and a pink t-shirt. The shirt had a Playboy bunny logo on it, so apparently the whole Girl Next Door thing was pretty literal tonight.
Bellamy was no pole-dancing expert by any means, but he'd worked there long enough and seen enough girls perform to know that the spins weren't as easy as they looked. And Clarke had gotten really good at them. Sometimes she spun slowly, sometimes quicker, but always in time with the beat. She hooked her legs, her arms, wrapped her whole body around that damn pole, moving like liquid. So fluid, so effortless. So sexy. So damn sexy.
After the first round of the chorus, she smiled sweetly and seductively at the crowd and reached down to grab the bottom of her shirt in both hands. Torso squirming and circling, she pulled it over her head and threw it out into the crowd, where one guy nearly fainted when he caught it. Clad in solely a bra and panties now, she continued her routine, one full of wriggling, rolling hips, and flaring, fanning legs. When she flipped herself upside down and kicked both legs out to the sides, everyone hollered. But Bellamy was even more turned on when she squeezed her thighs around that pole and leaned backward, all the way, letting go of the pole, letting her arms dangle next to her head. She looked completely relaxed, but he knew something like that had to be hard as hell. And seeing her with her legs clamped around that pole made him imagine what it would feel like if they were clamped around him.
Of course she took her bra off. That was par for the course at his point; everybody expected it, and everybody loved it, because clearly Clarke's rack was incredible. But Bellamy was really hoping she wouldn't go any farther than that. Harper had plenty of fans and made plenty of money without taking everything off. Clarke could do the same. She didn't have to get completely naked up there. She didn't have . . .
But she was going to. He could tell from the moment she turned around and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties. She peeked over her shoulder, smirking, and the thunders of shouts and applause she got as she slid her panties down past her ass almost blew the roof off that place.
No, no, no, he thought, still unable to tear his eyes away. Please don't do it.
She did. Pushed that last garment of clothing all the way down to the floor, bending over exaggeratedly as she did so, giving everyone quite the view. She stepped out of them with one heel-clad foot and used the other foot to kick them aside. No one in the crowd got a hold of it, but a few of them clamored towards the stage like they wanted to. Luckily, there were two bouncers there to hold them back.
So there she was, nineteen year old Clarke Griffin, twirling around up on that stage without a stitch of clothing on. He saw . . . everything. They all did. Especially when she dropped down to a squat and spread her legs. She managed to make the move look more sensual than it did vulgar, but still . . .
God. The worst part was, watching her was totally making him hard.
The thing about headlining was that it was a longer performance than someone who was just opening or closing. She had a medley of songs to dance to, some of it choreographed, some of it clearly freestyled. Between every song, she'd slip back behind the curtain for a costume change and come out in some new sexy get-up: a white corset, a leather jacket with nothing underneath, and even a top made completely out of beads at one point. Bellamy sat there and watched the whole thing, just like everybody else. Just like Roan.
When she got done, her chest was heaving, and her skin was shining with sweat. She got a standing ovation from the crowd, and she waved at them sweetly as they rained money on the stage. When she disappeared behind the curtain that time, it was over. First headline performance in the books. And Bellamy finally took his eyes off the stage.
Behind him, Murphy sounded similarly dumbfounded when he said, "Damn." He poured another drink, either for himself or Bellamy, and said, "I mean, I love my girlfriend, but . . . damn."
Bellamy took the shot glass and downed it, not sure how many more of these shows from Clarke Griffin he could take before he just . . . went crazy. He felt like she was doing things to him that no girl had ever done before, and that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
...
"Great job tonight, Clarke," Harper complimented back in the dressing room. "I don't know how any of us are supposed to compete with that."
"Oh, stop." Clarke knew she'd put on a good show tonight, but Harper was still way more advanced when it came to all the spins and tricks she could do.
"No, seriously." Smiling, Harper waved and left the room. "Later."
"Bye." Clarke took a look at her reflection in the vanity mirror, wondering how she'd gotten here. Back in high school, she and the cheerleaders had been lucky to get anyone to come to their performance at the fall kickoff pep rally. Not because they'd been bad or anything, because they hadn't been. But if it didn't involve people throwing or dribbling a ball, people in Arkadia didn't care. Now here she was in a strip club in New York City, packing the whole room.
"I think they'd rather see you again than me," Roma mumbled as she headed out onto the stage.
They probably would, Clarke thought, smiling a bit sadly. Poor Roma. It was no secret to anyone who worked there that she and her family were barely making ends meet. She was working more than any of the rest of them, mostly because she had to. She wasn't pulling in the money she used to, and Clarke was really starting to worry that Anya might end up firing her.
Time to go, she decided, gathering up all of her things. She put on her coat and her winter boots, because it was pretty damn cold and slick out there. When she left the dressing room and had only taken a few steps through the studio, a raspy, "Hello, Clarke," stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Roan," she squeaked out, startled. God, how creepy was this? He was just standing back there, hands in his pockets, apparently waiting for her. "What're you doing back here?"
Slowly shuffling forward, he said, "I just wanted to congratulate you on a great performance."
She wasn't about to thank him for that. It meant something coming from Harper and Roma, and it would mean something coming from Bellamy or even Murphy or Niylah. But from Roan . . . it just made her skin crawl. "You're not supposed to be back here," she informed him.
He shrugged flippantly.
"And you don't care," she registered. Great. So she was in a back room with a guy she definitely didn't trust. "Well, there's another girl dancing now," she said, taking a few steps backward. "You should go watch her."
Closing the space between them, he murmured, "I'd rather stay back here with you."
A fearful shiver raced up her spine. "Well, I'm leaving," she told him, trying to walk right past him.
"Stick around for a minute," he implored, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Please."
But I don't want to, she thought, wishing she'd left with Harper. Safety in numbers and all that.
"So how much money did you make tonight?" he asked her, not letting go of her wrist.
She hadn't bothered to stop and count yet, but her wallet was bursting. "A lot." Whatever it was was probably pocket change to him.
Cocking his head to the side, he grinned. "It's fun being Number One, isn't it?"
Number One? She shuddered inwardly, wary to take on that title considering what had happened to the last girl who'd had it. "Look, I really need to go," she said, jerking her wrist from his grasp. She hurriedly made her way across the room.
"Looks like Bellamy's black eye's a lot better," he said suddenly.
She froze, tensing up. Bellamy . . .
"I think it'll take a little longer to fully heal, though."
For some reason, even though he hadn't uttered a threat, there was just something about the way he said that that left Clarke feeling unsettled. Just as unsettled as his presence in this back room did. Slowly turning around, she asked, "You're still gonna leave him alone, right?"
Roan thought about it for a moment, then walked forward. "Well, that's the thing. I want to. But I think I'm gonna need a little more in return."
She rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "What do you mean?"
"From you, Clarke." He stopped right in front of her, eyes roaming up and down the length of her body, and . . . she started to feel afraid. Like really, truly afraid and not just freaked out.
"No," she said decisively, hoping he wouldn't push it. "That kiss was a one-time thing. It's not happening again."
Pressing his lips together tightly, he exhaled. "Look out at the bar," he said.
Frowning, confused, she turned her back to him and slowly crept over to the door. She looked out and saw Bellamy sitting right where he'd been when she'd danced, but there were two men to his left now, neither of whom was really watching Roma, both of whom made the briefest of eye contact with her before glancing back up at the stage.
"You see those two guys next to Bellamy?" Roan seethed as he slithered up behind her. "Those are my guys, the same two who laid into him the other night."
Her stomach clenched as she watched Bellamy sitting there downing a beer, no clue at all that the same guys who had attacked him were now right there beside him.
"All I have to do is say the word, and they'll do it again, worse this time," Roan threatened. "Of course . . . it doesn't have to be that way."
She felt tears sting her eyes as she imagined what might happen to him. Sure, a black eye and some hurt ribs were bad, but those things would heal. There were other ways to hurt him that wouldn't. And even though she had faith that Bellamy could hold his own in a fight . . . it'd be two on one. And those guys were the same size as him, maybe even a little bigger.
Slowly, resignedly, she turned around and asked, "What do you want?"
"Just another kiss," he answered innocently.
"Just another kiss?" Did he have any idea how repulsive that had been for her the first time? She hadn't kissed anyone except her boyfriend for over two years, and now she felt like she had to kiss him.
"Well . . . maybe a little more than that."
She inhaled sharply, fearing what he might have in mind.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," he promised, taking her hand, leading her away from the door. "I'm not gonna do anything you don't give me permission to do." Backing her up against the wall, he leaned forward, enveloping her body with his larger one. "Can I kiss you, Clarke?" he asked, ironically politely. "Can I hold you?"
Her bottom lip quivered with doubt. What if he didn't stop at a kiss?
"Or should I tell my guys to go wait for Bellamy at his car?" he added menacingly.
She blinked back her tears, determined not to see him let her cry. She didn't want to seem weak, not in front of him. "You can kiss me," she told him, reluctantly granting him the permission he'd been seeking.
"Good girl," he whispered, already leaning in. The minute his mouth touched hers, she had to fight the urge to recoil. It wasn't like there was anywhere to go. There was a wall behind her and him in front of her. She quite literally felt trapped there, and it was a horrible feeling. All she could do was turn her face to the side, but that didn't stop him. If anything, it spurred him on. He kissed her cheek, the underside of her jaw, her neck. She didn't bother to roll her head to the side, just stood there, letting him suck on her skin too forcefully. He'd probably leave a mark, one she'd have to keep concealed from both Finn and Bellamy tomorrow.
Roan's large, imposing hands found their way to her waist, holding her squarely in place, and she didn't like the feel of them. His touch, much like his kiss, was too forceful, too aggressive. There was nothing soft or gentle about it, so there was no way she could possibly just close her eyes and forget that it was him making out with her. As much as she wanted to just go somewhere else for a minute, her mind kept her right there.
When he started to try to nudge his knee in between her legs, she quickly shoved him back a bit. "No, stop," she said, not willing to let him have that much. Just because she'd showed off everything tonight didn't mean that anything was for him.
"Good enough," he declared, backing up. "See you around."
Still leaning back against that wall, she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves after he was gone. Her heart felt like it was beating a hundred miles a minute, and not in a good way. Her hands were clammy, and she felt like she could start crying any second. But she didn't. She held herself together, readjusted her shirt, and pulled her long hair over her shoulder to conceal the side of her neck.
She walked out into the club just in time to see Roan leaving. The guys at the bar got up and followed not far behind him, and for the first time, Bellamy seemed to notice them. He watched them leave intently, as if something were clicking in his brain. He tensed up, too, and she could tell . . . he knew. He realized he'd been sitting there next to the same guys who had beaten him up.
"Hey," she said softly as she approached him. "You alright?"
"Yeah," he said, even though he probably wasn't. "You?"
She forced as much of a smile as she could and nodded. Even though she wasn't alright, either. Neither one of them was being completely honest with the other right now, because neither one of them wanted the other to worry.
"You did good," he told her. "I mean, I still don't think you should be . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "But you did good."
Oh, yeah. Just as she'd suspected, it was a completely different compliment coming from him.
"Why didn't you tell me you were taking everything off this time, though?" he asked.
"Because . . ." She stepped in front of him, standing in between his legs, placing one hand on both of his thighs. "I didn't want you to try to talk me out of it. We both know you would've."
"And we both know it wouldn't have worked," he added. "I've tried talking you out of a lot of things."
He had. He really had. He'd told her to stay away from this place, to stay away from Roan, but she hadn't listened. And she was really starting to feel like she was in the thick of it now. "It's okay," she assured him. "I was completely safe . . . up there." Backstage, on the other hand . . . that had been a different story.
"You want a ride home?" he asked her.
Oh, did she ever. The thought of sitting next to him in that run-down car of his . . . it sounded safe and it sounded comfortable, and it was exactly where she wanted to be. So she nodded mutely.
"Yeah?" he said. He slid off his stool and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, let's go."
God, she was so happy to leave.
That night, she got in the shower, too impatient to fill up the bathtub. She scrubbed at her neck, trying to forget the feel or Roan's mouth there. She lathered up her sides, trying to block out the memory of his hands. She didn't feel . . . dirty, per say, but she didn't exactly feel clean, either. And that wasn't a good feeling.
...
Bellamy had to jack off when he got home. No question about it. He got in the shower and got straight to work, pumping his cock feverishly, letting himself do what all sorts of other guys were probably doing tonight when he thought about how sexy Clarke had looked up there tonight, how round and supple her breasts were, how gorgeous the curve of her ass was. He let himself imagine it was her tight pussy around his shaft instead of his hand.
God, he wanted to fuck her.
He was able to cum pretty quick, then relax and finish out his shower. When he plodded out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, someone knocked on the door. Getting his hopes up, he threw it open, hoping to see Clarke standing on the other side. But it was another blonde girl he knew well, one he hadn't been thinking about in the shower: Bree.
"Hey, stranger," she said, grinning at him flirtatiously.
"What're you doing here?" Back when they'd been sort of dating, it hadn't been unusual for her to show up at his place out of the blue, but nowadays, it was.
"I missed you," she said, coming inside without an invite. "Especially . . ." She glanced down at his crotch. ". . . certain parts of you."
Oh, of course she did. But that certain part wasn't exactly excited to see her. She looked good, he supposed, but . . . not as good as Clarke.
"Look, I just got out of the shower," he said. "I'm tired."
"Since when has that ever stopped you?" She kicked the door shut and then leaned against him, splaying her hands against his chest. "How do you want me?" she asked, rubbing against him wantonly.
Well, that depended on if he even wanted her at all. A few months ago, he would have undressed her and put her on all fours. But now . . .
She pushed him back onto the couch, hovering above him. "I could strip for you," she offered. "I hear that's what you're into these days."
Shit, did everyone know? Or was Bree just more perceptive than he'd ever given her credit for?
Swinging her legs over his lap, she straddled him and sat down, rolling her hips against his. "I know you missed this," she said, bending her head to capture his mouth with hers.
He kissed her, more out of habit than anything else. Did he miss this? No, not really. Sure, it was nice getting laid on a regular basis, but . . . he didn't miss Bree. She'd always been more of a pain in the ass more than anything else.
But she was blonde, like Clarke. And pretty, like Clarke. And he couldn't lie that there was a very small, very perverted part of him that wanted to lay her down and just pretend that she was Clarke for one night.
"Make me your bitch, Bellamy," she murmured against his mouth.
That took him right out of the moment, not that they were having much of one. Clarke would never say that. When they—if they ever hooked up, that wasn't what she'd be to him. At all.
Frowning, he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her away.
"What?" she asked confusedly.
God, was he really going to sit here and make out with someone he was only marginally attracted to anymore, someone who had always aggravated him more than she'd impressed him? "We're not doing this," he decided, letting her down bluntly.
She stared at him in disbelief and huffed, "You're kidding me, right?"
No, he wasn't. To prove that point. He lifted her off his lap, got up, and went to the door, opening it for her. She'd locked that door on him once, the very act that had spawned his relationship with Clarke in the first place. But now that he knew what it was like to feel something for somebody, to really feel something, he was happy to show Bree out.
"Fuck you, Bellamy," she grumbled, giving him a shove on her way out.
He smiled as he shut the door, pleased to be the one kicking her out this time.