Nomad Writer

His eyes were a rich auburn swirl, like whiskey beckoning her to indulge a taste of sin. When he smiled, she averted her gaze; inhibitions prettily dressed in flush purity. But this was no place for the innocent, where bodies gyrated and writhed in fevered rhythms to hypnotic music melting tension from the bones.

She’d only come with her friends, to know what their brand of excitement was like. And it eclipsed her quaint version of quiet reading and sinking into an oblivion of wild fantasies. She’d stepped into the devil’s world — that’s what her mother would’ve called this. A debauched playground for hedonists and jezebels. But she didn’t think of it that way. There was a special sense of freedom here, absent judgmental eyes. Where everyone moved as a fluid collective beneath the sensuous sway of strobe lights.

The allure stirred heat within her gut and her gaze smoked over with a desire to join the others. And she was slowly pulled in, right into the arms of the man with the bewitching eyes she’d looked away from earlier. As his hand skimmed her bare arm, sweat beaded her chest like dainty jewels beneath the sultry heat of the club.

Her mother would’ve condemned her to hell for this. Confined her to her room to repent on bruised knees and recite prayers from sore lips. But if the fires of hell were as deliciously hot as his mouth on her skin, then she didn’t mind dancing with the devil for eternity.