Page 16 of Make Me Laugh

Throwing as much caution to the wind as I can, I brush my fingers down the outside of West’s arm before hooking them around his pinkie and ring finger. I pull him against me, giving him permission to touch by placing his hand against the curve of my waist hidden by my oversized T-shirt.

I’m taller than average with long legs and a curvy waist. I’ve got a bigger ass than I do boobs—but that’s nothing a nice bra can’t fix! I keep in shape by running, staying on a lifting schedule, and being forced to do yoga with Frankie at least once a week.

The guide of my hands is all West needs to grab me by the waist and twist me back around. I throw one arm over his shoulder, my fingers tangling in his soft hair at the back of his head. It’s not yet damp with sweat, which is what tells me he hasn’t been out here yet tonight… because I’m already warm and sticky after only one song. I grind my ass against his lap and don’t shy away like the corporate Jo I’m fighting to rid myself of tonight would.

I remind myself I was once fun. That I used to go home with random strangers and not think twice about it; that I would dance all night and still choose to go home alone if that’s what I wanted.

This doesn’t have to be anything more than that. If I don’t want to see West ever again, I don’t have to. I could have a good night with my best friend, dance with a hot, up and coming comedian—even one I don’t find funny—and have a story to tell to my grandkids when I’m eighty.

I close my eyes and feel the buzz creeping in. I don’t drink often, so this is the perfect level for me to stay on all night—where the touch of a stranger’s hands exploring my body as I dance in a club like I’m not about to be thirty-two sends goosebumps down my legs.

One of West’s hands grips my thigh, a few fingers slipping through the holes in my fishnets as if he’s chasing the bumps his touch creates.

I feel the brush of his lips against my neck a few times, but only enough to leave me wanting more. His hands explore, slipping up the side of my shirt to meet the skin clear of fishnets. I don’t worry about anyone seeing my ass when it’s pressed firmly against West. No one will see anything but him, and I'm sure he’s not complaining about the view.

The song changes, and it’s no longer suitable for me to grind against him. I point at Frankie, who somehow, someway, got the Broody-Brit to come dance with her.

And he’s not as stiff as I expected he’d be. Neither is West.

She points back to me, and we scream the next song while meeting back in the middle of the dance circle.

Song after song, we twirl around, dancing with each other, with West and Enzo, with the random girls around us. It feels like we took a step back in time and have nothing to worry about tomorrow morning.

Thoughts of today fall away, and I don't think about being jobless, or that West and Enzo meet mine and Frankie’s energy entirely too seamlessly.

This goes on until my T-shirt sticks to my torso, and I no longer feel much of a buzz. I nod to the upstairs bar, letting Frankie know where I’m headed.

She holds out a finger, telling me, one more song.

I’ve heard that before. I shake my head and make sure she hears me tell her I’ll meet her up there.

Frankie gives me a thumbs up and goes back to dancing, slipping into the sea of bodies until I can’t see her anymore.

I shouldn’t leave her alone… That’s how the start of nearly every murder-mystery documentary begins.

West must be able to read the way my body tenses, coming up beside me. “She’s safe with Enzo. I promise.”

I’m a good judge of character. My best friend is not… But none of my usual alarms are blaring for me to snatch Frankie up and get out of here.

I pause, glancing back and forth between the floor and West. He raises a brow like he’s asking, Are you coming? without saying a word.

And you know what? I do wanna fucking come.

Really, really bad.

So, I let my pussy lead the way tonight—not my logical brain with every answer under the sun as to why I shouldn’t go home with this handsome, much younger man.

I lay my hand on the side of his hip and give him a light nudge forward, following him up the stairs while trying to focus on anything but his ass. The flashing lights, the thumping bass, the sticky air. Then his ass.

Fuck.

No, I don’t think his comedy style is all that funny, but I get the appeal. I get why the few viral videos I’ve seen of him have thousands of girls thirsting after him in the comments.

West Parker is fucking hot. And if the way his hands roamed my body on the dance floor is anything like what he can do without clothes in the way, then I’m sure his playboy title is well earned. His fingertips shot tendrils of a live electric current through whatever part of my skin they met.

I don’t let myself think about the wetness I feel between my legs at the memory of my ass grinding against what I know is bound to be an impressive dick.

It’s quieter when we get to the upper deck. The music’s not as echoed up here in the lofted seating area.