Margo's Night (Interracial Erotica) (2 page)

He took another step, slowly bridging the gap between them. "You know, if you really wanna thank me, you can let me see just how hot you are beneath all those clothes." He was close enough that Margo could smell the tang of alcohol on his breath. The tongue of his ball cap and the dark club had masked his features but now, up close, his cuteness was overshadowed by something off. It was in the way his eyes bore into her, the set of his jaw.

Margo's back cried out in pain as she hit the wall. A dead end. She couldn't go any further. "That's sweet, but I don't know you. If you think I'm gonna strip down in some back room-"

He followed her to the wall, pinning her. He reached out and brushed her cheek. "Don't you like me?"

She looked at him, his hawkish eyes devouring her. Like he was a predator. And he tasted blood. “Maybe we should go back out to the dance floor.” In her mind, she was thinking as soon as she got out of there, she’d put as much distance between the two of them as possible. There was something unnerving about him now. She wasn’t trying to end up on
Unsolved Mysteries
.

His hand trailed down from her cheek and he gripped her breast. There was nothing sweet or passionate about it. It was feral. Painful. “C’mon. I know you want it.”

She shoved him backward. "Stop it."

But he just came back with a vengeance, slamming her back against the wall as he fondled her with piercing fingers, trying to undo her pants.

Fight or flight kicked in and Margo was damned if he was gonna rape her in a janitor's closet and she wasn't gonna give him a scar or two. She struggled with him, trying to push him backward, off her, but he was stronger than he looked, easily overpowering her.

"You know you want it," he growled. She looked down in horror and saw his cock was somehow free.

She started screaming, her arms flailing as she tried and failed to keep him from pulling off her jeans.

One of her hands collided with his jaw and lit him up with a series of angry, red welts that went from nose to ear. His eyes went wild with fury and she shrieked when he advanced toward her. Her heel hit a box on the floor and she tumbled to the ground. She still squirmed as he lowered himself down, his gaze laced with anger and lust.

The guy fought the hold ‘til he finally succumbed. "Alright," he gargled. The bartender slackened his hold. "She wanted it. Didn't you, babe?"

Margo would like nothing more than the prick spending a night behind bars, but she just wanted to get out of the room, out of the bar. "I just wanna get out of here."

She pushed past them, back into the bar, adrenaline pumping through her body. The sounds of music intermixed with her heart roaring in her ears. A quick scan of the room and she saw Kerry and Liz, both lost in the crowd, moving their bodies to the beat. Completely oblivious that their friend was almost raped just a few feet away.

With a scoff of disgust, Margo turned and stalked toward the patio. She needed a cigarette. She needed the chill of the night air to calm the anger and frustration that was threatening to swallow her whole.

Her heels clacked on the cement and she sighed with relief when she saw only a couple lingered outside. The guy was too busy exploring the girl's mouth to notice Margo.

She strutted to the rail and pulled out a cigarette, followed by her lighter. Her fingers shook as she tried to flick the light, but the thing didn't even spark.

"Need a light?"

She cast a look toward the voice. It was the bartender. His face was drawn, his aqua eyes colored with worry. Great. Now she'd always be that thick chick that almost got raped in the supply closet.

She turned her back to him, cursing the lighter for not lighting. She needed a cigarette more than ever. "I'm fine."

He moved closer. "I'm Scott."

His voice was a deep rumble. Margo bit her lip as the heat in her cheeks shot to her groin. There was something in the baritone that made her heart skip, something about his voice that made her think about slow jams and champagne and silk sheets.

He stepped up beside her, pulling a matchbook from his pocket. He struck it and held the flame. Margo leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. She took a drag before speaking. "T-thanks. I'm Margo."

"Nice to meet you." He leaned onto the iron rail. "You come here alone?"

She snorted. "It would appear that way, huh?" She blew out a plume of smoke, watching the wisps dance in the night breeze. "I came with a couple of friends, but per usual, as soon as a guy showed interest, it's every woman for herself." She shook her head, the remnants of fear still simmering in her gut. "Really, I just wanna get out of here."

Margo paused. She'd taken a risk with the last guy and that didn't end up so well. But there was something about Scott. She didn't know if it was the way his eyes glittered, bright as stars or the way he talked to her--actually talking and not checking her out. She could just stand outside the bar, moping while her friends had a good time, wondering why she couldn't land a cute, sane guy, or she could go home with the one that was standing right in front of her. After all, she had pepper spray, just in case things went south, but when she cast another look at him, she knew hurting her was the last thing on his mind.

She stubbed out her cigarette and gave him a smile. "I'm down."

***

Margo tried to focus on the situation at hand as Scott fumbled with his keys, but she couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed as she thought about how her friends completely dissed her. She’d texted Liz to tell her that she was gonna head home a little early, and she’d only received a one word text in response: “K”.

But as she pushed into Scott’s flat, her friends faded into the background. His walls were a crimson rose, colored with pulp posters. She padded toward the first, hanging just behind a chocolate suede couch. It was a blow up of Sam Jackson and John Travolta, a freeze frame of the titular scene where they pumped some poor schmuck full of bullets, but it was painted in neon pastels, giving it a Warhol feel. She did a semi-circle, taking in the fifties noir detective pin ups and vintage ads that lined the other three walls.

Margo smiled at Scott, his cool points racking up. “These prints are awesome!”

Scott’s cheeks turned as he gave her a sheepish look. “I’m a graphic designer from nine to five.” He sunk onto the couch. “I don’t get to express my pulp fetish there, so I kind of-” He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. “It’s probably a bit much.”

Margo shook her head, dropping onto the cushion beside him. “You should see my place. My love of Tarantino is probably unhealthy. And don’t get me started on hard boiled fiction—Jim Thompson, Gordon Young. Oh and pinups,” Margo added, talking a mile a minute. “And just the other day I found this etsy shop that does pulp noir light switch covers. My roommates would lose their shit if I put them up all over the place, but you best believe my bedroom and bathroom switch are getting a makeover.”

She cleared her throat, taking a breath.
Jesus
, she thought to herself. She probably looked like a freak, fangirling all over him.

But she couldn’t help it. It was so refreshing to finally meet someone that could appreciate the campy, glorious pull of pulp art and fiction. She’d always had to stick it out alone at the multiplex. Romantic comedies and Michael Bay-esque productions left a bad taste in her mouth.

Still, she gave him a peevish look. “Sorry.”

He leaned toward her, his fingertips grazing her thigh. “Don’t apologize.” The sides of his mouth tugged upward. “Beautiful and you have good taste in books and movies? I really hit the jackpot.”

Margo rubbed her thighs, taking care to cover the area where he touched her. She wanted to dull the excitement, the sensation that gripped her from his touch. She didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to believe it was true. The last time she’d trusted a guy that told her she was beautiful, he’d ripped her heart from her chest.

He reached out, steeling her hands before raising his own and gently turning her head in his direction. Without another word, he drew her lips to his.

For a moment, the world stood still. Margo fell into the velvet of his kiss. She drank him in, her heart beating so fast she thought it would pound right out of her chest. He tasted like peppermint and sex: virile, strong, and passionate. But when his hands trailed up to her cheek and his fingertips ran through her ebony locks as he pulled her closer, Margo froze, turning to stone. What was she doing?

As she opened her mouth to explain her pause, she half expected his handsome features to fall with disappointment. Instead, he backed up, giving her space. When she looked into his aquamarine eyes, she saw only concern. That confused her more than anything. Why wasn’t he pissed? She came back to his place after all. Why wasn’t he making snide comments about mixed signals?

He finally spoke. “If we’re moving too fast, we could just watch a movie.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Or talk. Or none of the above. I could even take you home.”

She couldn’t help but bristle a little at the last bit. “You want to take me home?”

“God no.”

She smiled at his quick reply. Something told her that he was just as nervous, but hopeful too. She bit her lip, trying to mull over what she needed to say before they went any further. She didn’t know if he saw this as a one-time thing. As bad as she wanted, yearned for him, she didn’t want another tick on her bedpost—she wanted the beginning of something more.

She leaned in and kissed him, planting a soft, lingering peck on his lips. She wanted to tattoo his taste deep inside, just in case it was the last one. Just in case he was too good to be true.

She let out a groan. He couldn’t be that thick. But then again, he seemed to be perfect in every other way—handsome, didn’t live with his mom, had a good job, and they had loads of thing in common. Maybe this was the catch.

But when she saw his pale eyes sparkled with mischief and he was clearly struggling to maintain his composure, she pinched his arm. “Not funny!”

He winked. “It’s a little funny.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling but chuckled, the snickers snowballing into full out laughter. Once she wiped her eyes and turned her attention back to him, she went right back to being dumbfounded. He was just staring at her. Caressing her with his gaze. “What?”

“When I saw you at the bar,” he began. “I knew you were special. I knew I had to talk to you.”

Margo sat up taller, listening intently.

“I saw you smile at that-” he paused, his eyes flashing his animosity toward the douche guy she’d danced with. The guy who’d attacked her. His protective stance endeared him to her even more.

“But that smile,” he continued after a moment. He made a sound in the back of his throat. It was the kind of sound one made when thinking about something magical; eyes closed, savoring it. “I knew if I could make you smile like that, I’d be a happy man.”

Margo swallowed his words. The guys she’d been with generally only broached the romantic territory on anniversaries or when they were in the dog house. But Scott made her feel beautiful. Needed. Desired. Just because. Just because she was Margo.

He slid closer and her center moistened, waiting with bated breath for what he’d say next.

“Now, I could quote some Tarantino. Or Shakespeare if that’s more your scene,” he said, his eyes scanning her own. “I could strip you down and give you a fuck like you’ve never had before—one that’ll keep you up at night, your body wet and yearning for me. A romp that leaves you blowing up my phone, my inbox, only getting radio silence because I got what I wanted.” He took his pointer finger and traced her jawline, barely touching yet still making her body quiver. “And I want to fuck you, Margo. Bad. But I want to wake up beside you in the morning even more. I want to make you Eggos and find out everything there is to know about you.”

Margo was still stuck on him wanting to screw her. Still trying to digest the possibility of his firm body and hers crashing into one another. When she regained the ability to speak, she decided to give him a hard time. She had to joke, keep it light so she didn’t do something ridiculous like ask him where he’d been all her life. “One doesn’t really make Eggos.”

He smirked. “Well, we’ll go to IHOP and I’ll hold your hand and hold the door. And while we eat, I’ll trace my fingers up and down your thigh-” Margo gulped back a moan as he reached forward and showed her what he had in mind. As his fingers drifted closer to her crotch, dancing beneath the soft fabric of her tunic, she found herself wanting him to keep going, to see how wet his words were making her. But he pulled away, almost delighting in the fact that she was definitely breathing heavy and squirming for him.

“And just before we order,” he blazed on. “I’ll lean over and whisper all the things I want to do to you. It would stay in the front of your mind, minute by painful minute passing far too slowly before I make good on my promises.” He licked his lips and leaned in, planting a soft kiss on the nape of her neck before trailing back up to her ear, his breath a tickle of ecstasy. “And
if
we make it back to my place because, hell, with a body like yours, waiting may be impossible.” He let out a deep chuckle that made Margo press her knees together, fighting to keep the urge to throw down right now at bay. “I may have to have you in the car. And then when we get home, take you again.”