My Mouth Before 3

“Another shot,” I declare, slamming the empty glass onto my vanity with more force than necessary.

Cleo raises an eyebrow from where she’s sprawled across my bed, already three shots deep. “Babe, we haven’t even left yet. Pace yourself.”

“I’m pacing myself perfectly,” I lie, reaching for the vodka bottle. “This is called pre-gaming with intention.”

She laughs, rolling over to watch me apply another layer of mascara. “Intention to what? Black out before eleven?”

“Intention to forget the five years of my life I’ve spent on that asshole.” The mascara wand trembles slightly in my hand. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Fair point.” She sits up, studying my reflection. “Damn, Soph. You look incredible.”

I step back from the mirror, taking in the full effect.

The black bodycon dress hugs every curve, stopping just below mid-thigh. The plunging neckline is borderline scandalous—definitely not something I would’ve worn with Ethan. The strappy heels add four inches to my height and make my legs look endless.

“I feel like someone else,” I admit.

“Good. That was the point.” Cleo bounces off the bed, smoothing down her own outfit—a crimson slip dress that makes her look like a vintage movie star.

“Tonight, you’re not Ethan’s ex-girlfriend. You’re not the responsible one. You’re just Sophie, and Sophie gets to do whatever the fuck she wants. And to fuck whoever she wants too.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?” I whispered.

“Then you’ll figure it out. That’s what tonight’s for,” she said, taking my hands and leading me to the entrance door.

The club hits us like a wall of sound and sensation. Bass pounds through my chest, making my ribs vibrate. Colored lights strobe across bodies pressed together on the dance floor, creating a kaleidoscope of movement and shadow.

“This place is insane,” I shout over the music.

Cleo grins, grabbing my hand. “I know the owner. VIP treatment all night, baby.”

We push through the crowd, and I’m already feeling the effects of our pre-gaming session. Everything feels heightened—the music, the lights, the way strange eyes track my movement through the crowd.

The VIP section is a different world entirely. Plush velvet couches surround low tables, and several hookah pipes bubble gently, filling the air with sweet, flavored smoke.

We settle onto a deep purple couch, and spend the next hour in a haze of conversations. The guy—who joined us at some point—is charming enough, but I find myself distracted. Every time someone walks by, I catch myself looking for something, though I’m not sure what.

“I need another drink,” I announce, standing too quickly. The room spins.

“Girl,” Cleo gives me a look. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay. I can handle a trip to the bar.”

Famous last words.

I make it halfway down the stairs before the combination of alcohol, hookah smoke, and flashing lights catches up with me. The world tilts violently, and I stumble, my heel catching on the step.

Strong hands catch me around the waist, steadying me before I can fall. “Easy there.”

I look up into the face of a stranger—at least, I think he’s a stranger because I can’t see a shit in this half darkness with my hazed eyes.

There’s actually something familiar about him, but my alcohol-soaked brain can’t place it.

“Thanks,” I manage, acutely aware that his hands are still on my waist.

“You okay?”

“Just peachy.” I try to step back, but my legs aren’t cooperating. “Little too much liquid courage.”

“When’s the last time you had water?”

I blink at him. “Water?”

“Come on.” He doesn’t ask—just guides me toward a quieter corner of the club where the music isn’t quite so overwhelming. “Stay here.”

He disappears into the crowd and returns minutes later with a bottle of water, already opened.

“Drink,” he commands. Something about his tone makes me obey without question. The water is cold and perfect, and I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until I started drinking. “Better?”

“Much.” I study his face, the parts of it actually, underneath his mask that I can see now. “Not many men in here care whether I’m coherent.”

He leans closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive.

“That’s because they don’t want to earn you.”

The words hit me like a physical thing. When’s the last time someone wanted to earn me?

“Dance with me,” he says, and again, it’s not really a question.

He leads me onto the dance floor, and suddenly we’re surrounded by bodies and music and heat. His hands find my waist, pulling me against him, and I go willingly. He leads, and I follow, our bodies finding a rhythm and everything to do with the electricity crackling between us.

One song bleeds into another, and we don’t stop moving. His hands are respectful but possessive, resting on my hips, occasionally sliding up to the small of my back.

When he spins me around, pressing my back against his chest, I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder blade.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

“Good,” I breathe back. “I’m tired of being safe.”

He turns me around to face him, and the intensity in his eyes nearly makes me stumble again. This time, it has nothing to do with alcohol.

“Can I ask you something crazy?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t be gentle with me,” I whisper. “Just… make me feel something.”

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then his hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, I rise up on my toes and kiss him.

The kiss is electric, demanding, nothing like the careful pecks I’m used to. He kisses like he means it, like he wants to consume me, and I let him. His hands tangle in my hair, and I press closer, wanting more contact, more heat, more everything.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“Come with me,” he says, and I nod without hesitation.

He leads me through the crowd toward a section marked VIP, past velvet ropes and security guards who nod at him like they know him.

The private room is dimly lit, furnished with plush couches and low tables. The music is muffled here, creating an intimate bubble away from the chaos outside.

The moment the door closes behind us, he has me pressed against the wall, his mouth on mine again. This time there’s no hesitation, no careful exploration. His hands gripped my face like he couldn’t bear space between us, then slid down, gripping my waist, pulling me flush to him.

I can feel every hard line of his body, and it makes me dizzy with want. This is what I’ve been missing—this fire, this desperate need that makes everything else fade away.

My breath hitched as his fingers slid beneath the hem, hooked into my panties, and yanked them down. His palm pressed between my thighs, fingers finding my slick heat without hesitation.

He didn’t ask. He knew.

I cried out, and he swallowed it with his mouth, devouring my gasp as his fingers sank deep inside me—thrusting, curling, relentless.

One hand at my throat, just enough pressure to keep me pinned to the wall, the other between my legs, dragging moans out of me like he had every right to them.

He twisted his fingers and I nearly collapsed. But he didn’t let me fall.

Instead, he spun me.

Before I could blink, my cheek hit the wall, cool and jarring. One palm curled around the back of my head, his other hand slipping right back between my thighs like it had never left.

I was gone. Floating. Writhing between him and the wall like nothing else existed.

My fingers scrambled uselessly at the flat surface, lips parted in a silent moan. My body bucked. My mind blurred. There was nothing but him. The way his fingers filled me, stretched me, how the pressure in my core coiled tight, tighter, burning—

My phone rings, shrill and insistent, cutting through the moment like a knife.

Cleo’s ringtone.

Reality crashes back into me like cold water. I’m in a private room with a stranger, drunk and completely out of my mind with lust.

“I have to—” I start, but he’s already stepping back, giving me space.

“Go,” he says simply.

I grab my phone with shaking hands. “Cleo?”

“Sophie, where the hell are you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

“I’m… I was just…” I look at him, standing there in his leather mask, looking like every dark fantasy I’ve ever had. “I’m coming to find you,” I say finally, not taking my eyes off him.

“Good. I’ll be by the bar.”

I hung up and didn’t even look at him before telling helplessly, “I have to go.”

I smooth down my dress and head for the door. As I stumbled out, I could feel wetness trailing down my thighs, heels clacking like gunshots on the tile and heart threatening to explode.