The Billionaire's Sweet Surrender

Zina.

         Fuck.

 My dress was short. I knew. I clambered into the club with my friends around me. My hair was slicked with gel, reducing my bushy hair to beautiful, brunette, wavy hair. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. My heart was empty, my soul was withered. Maybe withered was an extreme word for it, but the bottom line was: I was unhappy.

Wallowing myself into music brought out a small shade of happiness in me. The music beamed from the speakers, echoing into my heart, and sending water to my soul. The colored, disco light wasn’t helping matters. I couldn’t even see where I was.

I took a seat far away from the dancing floor–at a cold booth, where I waited to cool off. The air here was static and stank from sweaty bodies. I would have laid in my bed and cried. That would have been better.

“Come on, Zina, let’s go dance.” My friends tried to pull me from my chair to the dance floor. I didn’t want to dance. There was nothing to dance about. My boyfriend cheated on me with another woman and called off a relationship of five years. Was that something to rejoice in?

“I’m not ready to dance.” I take my stand, fixing my butt on the chair. “You three should go, I’ll stay back.”

They shot me with angry looks and scoffed away in annoyance. I didn’t want to get them angry, but I didn’t want to dance, either. I looked away from the dance floor and kept my face on my phone’s screen, waiting for my boyfriend to send a text, maybe to reconsider calling off the breakup. I’d forgive him. I always did.

After so much swiping, I gave my phone a break and wiped the tears on my face with the back of my already wet hands. I sat still, thinking and crying about what went wrong in my life.

A burning desire for a drink reached my throat. I needed a drink–a cold, tipsy, clear liquid. Alcohol would send heat down my cold body; something that would take me out of my sad state. Something that would stand as my therapy.

I stood up from the floppy booth and made my way to the bartender’s hub. A whole lot of people carried around in their drinks buying, smooching–which I always looked away from when I saw a couple doing that. A striper stood stark naked on a pole and danced her heart out, men turning toward the rhythm of her body.

I sat hard on the bar stool and waited for the bartender to serve the drink he was preparing for a red-haired man who tried to woo me by grinning. It didn’t work.

“What can I get for you, miss?” his voice is soft and soothing, too appealing for a man. I would have liked to talk with him, to cry out my heart and eyes before him, but I restrained myself.

“I’d like a cup of your strongest drink,” I said.

He gave me a look and seemed like he wanted to ask me to reconsider, but he shoved it away and said instead. “Rum or Tequila or Vodka?”

I didn’t know what to go for, so I picked the fanciful one. “Tequila. Add some lime to it.”

He nodded in appraisal and walked off with a shot glass. I might want another shot after this, depending on how well he mixed his drinks. I sat on my chair and held my hands to my chin, waiting. When he arrived, I smiled at him and went for the shot.

It was strong and furious, burning my mouth, then my gut, then my stomach. Somehow, it reached my brain and I felt the effect two seconds later: I was beginning to forget the name of my ex.

He wasn’t serving another one, so I asked. “Another?”

“Are you sure? That could do you dirty. Real dirty.”

I snorted so hard. “Dirty? I’m already dirty. It doesn’t matter what the drink would do to me.”

He didn’t say anything but went back to prepare the shot. When he passed them to me, I hurriedly gulped them all at once. The alcohol worked like the former, but it was stronger than before. It kicked in and my memory became fuzzy.

I burned for more. I laid the glass in front of the man, mouthing more. The bartender hesitated but took the shot glass.

“I wouldn’t go for another glass if I were you.” In between the loud music, I hear a husky voice speaking to me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“I have every right to take any amount of alcohol. It isn’t your business.” I spat at him. Gradually, I was losing my mind. I couldn’t even make out the face I was seeing.

“Hmm.” He brought his clear liquid to his mouth and sipped. I waited for the bartender and took shots and shots. Maybe I should have listened to him.

As I stood up, I slipped and headed for the floor. Luckily. He was there and held me tight. Like the strength of Superman. I felt at peace being in his hands, but I slapped him anyway.

“Leave me alone.” I took in a whiff of his cologne, blended with the smell of alcohol on his lips. I wanted to kiss the alcohol away.

“You don’t look too good.” He grabbed me with his right hand and turned to the bartender. “How much for all our drinks?”

“About a hundred and ten bucks.”

He dug out several dollar bills from his pocket and gave them to the man. I couldn’t tell the exact amount, but I knew that there was a lot of tipping in there.

He turned to me. “Do you want to go home?”

I wanted to melt in his voice and his body. Probably I’d be a butter if I could see his face. I nodded. At that point, I forgot I came to the bar with my friends.

“Where’s your house?”

I slurred at every word. When he saw that my words weren't helping him, he took my purse for me and scanned my ID. “Okay.”

We walked out of the bar and toward his Tesla. Or so I thought.

We drove in silence. It had to be. I was a drunk girl with a man I didn’t know. I just watched him while he drove, making out his handsome features. His dark hair was invincible to the night. His own body was, but I knew this man was the real definition of what a handsome man would bear.

He carried me like a child to the house. He fit his hands under the doormat and brought out a set of keys, turned the lock of my house, and carried me in. The lights were turned off, but I didn’t let him bother about that. In his arms, I was dreaming of forever.

He plopped me gently off my ragged bed. I was ashamed of my untidy room, but he said nothing about it. “Never forget to get back up whenever you go to a bar. I might not be there to be your knight in shining armor.”

“I won’t,” I say. He turned to leave and I was tempted to draw him back. His whole body affected me at that point.

Something about his voice turns me on. Maybe it was the way he spoke or the pitch of his voice, I wanted to be inside of him. The alcohol gave me the boldness to hold his hands. I traced it with my fingers up to his lips and outlined it, calling in for a kiss. I jumped on him and intertwined my legs around his torso, smiling at him.

“Don’t you want me?” That was the only question I asked, the rest was history.

I kissed him hard like I was hungry for him. My hands were in his hair, trying to taste every bit of his mouth. I was drawn to him.

He kissed me back. His big hands were everywhere around my body: my thigh, my hips, and my breast, and slowly, he was making his way to my panties. He tore my gown like a wolf and my breasts fell limp and cold against his touch. He held it and caressed it, driving me further into him.

My loose bed was shaking now, his hands were doing magic all over my body, sending sparks of passion all over. I didn’t want this to end. I was glad I drank a lot of alcohol to give me the courage to fuck this guy. He was good in bed. Better than my boyfriend.

“Are you sure about this or are you still under the influence of alcohol?” his voice was something else. I knew it wasn’t the alcohol. I shook my head once and went back to do my job, kissing his ragged, rough lips. He was a good kisser, that I was sure of.

He slipped his hands into his pocket and dug out a condom. He was fully prepared. When he slipped it in, he thrust into me, giving me both pain and pleasure all at once. I bit my headboard hard as he got in further.

He was better than my boyfriend. I was sure.

After lapse and lapse of sex, I got tired and pulled out of it. He pulled me into a big embrace with his big biceps and I fell into his hard chest. We both slept in my small bed and I was worried he wasn’t comfortable in it. His leg probably would have been sticking out of the bed.

Maybe I should count this as a one-night stand, but it was beginning to be the best night of my life.