Forbidden Cravings-Chapter 9: Here She Comes

The afternoon faded fast, and soon the workers, waitresses and dancers were scrambling to get everything ready.

Evening was go-time at Heaven's Feel Brothel—the doors would swing open, and the place would flood with guests ready to dance, drink, and let loose.

The air started buzzing with that electric hum you could feel in your bones. Up on the third floor, they'd decked it out special for Mrs. Elora: dim red lights draped the room in a sultry glow, opera music played soft and slow from hidden speakers, and a sleek black table sat off to the side, loaded with sex toys—vibrators, cuffs, a couple silky blindfolds—all arranged like some fancy display.

The carpet was plush underfoot, and a faint whiff of jasmine lingered, probably from some scented candles they'd lit earlier.

By the time evening hit, the ground floor was a madhouse. The stage was swarmed with people dancing, bodies pressed close, swaying to the booming music—some heavy bass track that rattled the walls.

Over at the bar, dancers worked the poles, their skin glistening under the flashing lights. They danced in barely-there outfits—lacy bras and tiny underwear—but a few peeled those off mid-spin, tossing them into the crowd with smirks. The air smelled like sweat, booze, and perfume.

Drinks flowed wild—girls in fishnets and bunny ears poured shots straight into guys' mouths, laughing as liquor splashed down chins. Some pairs were already sneaking off, disappearing into the private rooms down the hall, hands groping private parts before they even reach the doors.

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I was parked near the drink cellar with Jonathan, away from the chaos. The cellar was this little nook by the bar, stacked with bottles and crates, the wood cool against my back. I held a glass of water, swirling it absently, staying sharp for the job.

Jonathan, though, was halfway gone—his Hawaiian shirt hung open, and he clutched a tumbler of whiskey, ice clinking as he waved it around.

"She's late, man," he said, his voice thick and a little sloppy. "Should've been here, what, twenty minutes ago?"

"Yeah, you're right," I said, glancing at my watch. The glass felt cold in my hand, and I took a sip, keeping my head clear. "Maybe traffic's a mess out there."

"Pfft, traffic," he snorted, tipping his head back. "Big shots like her don't wait in traffic." He grinned.

Before I could answer, a bodyguard at the entrance—a hulking guy in a black suit with an earpiece—caught my eye. He flicked two fingers in a quick signal: she's here. I straightened up, peering through the glass doors. Outside, tires crunched on the gravel as a shiny black car rolled to a stop, sleek and silent like it owned the night.

The driver—a skinny guy in a cap—jumped out fast, circling around to pop the back door open.

And there she was: Mrs. Elora. She stepped out smooth, one long leg at a time, her high heels clicking sharp on the pavement. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the neon glow from the brothel's sign.

She was busty and thick from sides, probably early thirties, with a body that screamed confidence. Her black one-piece clung to her skin, tight around her hips and chest, the deep cleavage popping out framed by a buttoned collar that only made it stand out more. The sleeves were sheer, see-through fabric that shimmered as she moved, showing off toned arms.

She adjusted her hair with a flick, her lips painted red, and strode toward the entrance. She looked sexy as hell.

"Showtime," Jonathan muttered, nudging me with his elbow. "That's your girl."

"Yep," I said, setting my water down on the crate beside me. My pulse kicked up a notch, but I kept it cool, watching her cut through the crowd like she was the only one who mattered.

Jonathan stumbled ahead of me, his flip-flops slapping the floor as he made for Mrs. Elora. He stuck out his hand, grinning wide despite the whiskey on his breath. "Hey, we've been waiting for you, Mrs. Elora. Good to see you."

She shook his hand, her red lips curling into a little giggle. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her voice smooth and playful. "Had to come up with a better excuse to slip out tonight—hehe. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I get it," Jonathan said, waving her in with a sloppy gesture. "Come on in, make yourself at home."

She stepped into the hall, her heels clicking sharp against the polished floor. The crowd parted a little, heads turning as she scanned the room.

"So, where's Ezra?" she asked, her tone curious but edged with something hotter.

"Right there," Jonathan said, jabbing a finger toward me.

I set my water glass down on a crate, wiping my hand on my jeans, and after standing up, I flashed her a comforting smile. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Elora."

She didn't say a word—just locked eyes with me, her gaze sharp and steady. It was like the noise of the brothel faded out for a second, the music and chatter dropping to a hum.

Her blue eyes flicked over me, sizing me up, and then she stepped closer, reaching out to grab my hand. Her fingers were soft, warm, her grip firm as she tugged me toward the elevator without a word.

"Mrs.." I said under my breath, letting her pull me along. We stepped inside, the doors sliding shut with a quiet ding.

She still held my hand, her nails brushing my skin, and I couldn't help but sneak a look at her from behind. That black one-piece was tight as hell, the skirt part short enough to show off her bare thighs—smooth, toned, and looking like fire under the elevator's soft light.

Her blonde hair swayed a little as she shifted, and I caught a whiff of her perfume—something sweet and sharp, like vanilla mixed with spice.

The elevator jolted to a stop on the third floor, and we stepped out into that red-lit room, the opera music humming low in the background. I pushed the door shut behind us, the latch clicking into place.

"So," I started, turning to her, "would you like to have a conversation first, or—"

Before I could finish, she shoved me back against the door, her hands planting firm on my chest. Her lips crashed into mine, cutting me off, and damn, I could feel the heat rolling off her. She wasn't messing around. I kissed her back, matching her fire, our tongues tangling as I grabbed her ass—firm and perfect under that tight dress. She hooked one leg around my waist, pressing herself closer, her heel digging into my thigh.

She was desperate as hell. I scooped her up in my arms, her legs wrapping around me as she straddled my hips. She was light but solid, her body fitting against mine like she belonged there. I carried her across the room, the carpet muffling my steps, and eased her down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under us.

I hovered over her, our kisses getting sloppier, deeper. Her boobs pressed up against my chest, soft and full under that thin fabric, and I could feel her heartbeat racing under mine.

My hands slid down, tracing the curve of her thighs—warm, smooth, trembling a little. I moved up, pressing my palms against her boobs over her dress, squeezing gently as she arched into me.