A lapdance

The breath gets knocked out of me as his hands find my waist and pull me down. I land hard across his thighs, my bare skin pressing against the rough denim of his jeans. The latex rides up my hips, and I feel his fingers dig into the exposed curve of my waist, holding me there like I've always been meant to sit on his lap.

My hands brace against his chest on instinct, my palms flat on his shirt, and I can feel his heartbeat under my fingertips. He's looking up at me with a drunk, hungry smile, the kind that says he's been watching me all night and just decided to take what he wanted.

I don't push away. The alcohol has made everything syrupy and slow, and the way his hands hold me steady feels like a current pulling me under. I can hear the others whooping behind me, but it's muffled, distant, like I'm underwater.

"You know," I say, my voice low and rough, my hips shifting against his lap in a way that makes my breath catch, "I think you've been thinking about this all night."

My hands slide up from his chest to his shoulders, and I lean in closer, my lips brushing against his ear. "I'm not your girl, though. So you're gonna have to ask Joe if you want to keep me here."