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Bodies moved on the dance floor, the heavy bass punctuated by flashing lights and noise from the crowd. Secluded tables occupied by groups lined the walls of the huge club. There were more on the second and third levels, and countless high tops where even more patrons milled and gathered. Still, most of the activity could be found on the main floor at the centre.
From the second balcony overlooking the dancing crowd, a woman leaned against the railing. It was certainly a good opportunity for people watching, but if asked, she would admit this type of thing wasn't really her scene.
She stole occasional glances towards the third deck, and the party she was there with—a distant cousin's birthday celebration that she had found herself obligated to attend. The table seemed to have a rotation of beautiful people making the rounds, and that had allowed her to slip away largely unnoticed.
She glanced at her empty glass and debated for a moment—not much of a drinker, she was happy to let her cousin foot the bill in exchange for forcing her to make an appearance.
Time for another, she decided after a moment of consideration. As she turned, a very tall man appeared in her path. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He spoke in confident, slightly accented Russian. Smiling thinly, she answered—sorry, I don't understand.
He nodded. "English?"
Another wan smile. "Not my mother tongue, but I can hold my own."
He chuckled. "Then let me try again; hi, I'm Chris. What's your name?"
She regarded him for a moment too long—though to be fair, he was a lot to take in.
"Ellie," she finally answered, leaning back into the rail. He raised a brow, like he was a little incredulous. She smirked. "Short for Eleanor, if you can believe it," she added.
He crossed his arms. "I'm not sure I can," he put in with a slight grin. "What brings you out tonight?"
She glanced at her empty glass, turning it around as if inspecting it. "Birthday party. Yourself?"
"A good time."
"I see," she said. "Your Russian sounds natural, but your accent is American. Are you local?"
He raised a brow. "I'm from California."
"Just visiting?"
"Just visiting."
She stirred the melting ice in her glass. "Business or pleasure?"
"What's with the twenty questions?"
She gave him a simpering look. "Should I not be curious about the handsome stranger who's out looking for a good time?"
He nodded in acknowledgement. "You've got me there," he answered. "I'm in town on business, technically. What about you? You said you don't speak Russian, but you've got an accent, too."
"Oh, you noticed that? I was so sure I'd gotten rid of it," she remarked dryly.
He gave a soft chuckle, and her smile warmed a little.
"I've bounced around; I'm from London, but grew up in Mumbai."
"That where you're living now?"
"One might assume so, but no," she said, standing up straight. "Los Angeles is home right now, but I travel often enough." She motioned to their surroundings.
He nodded. "Cool, I can relate. I end up traveling a lot for work."
"And where does Chris hang his hat?"
"Still California. L.A., these days."
She cocked a brow as she looked at him appraisingly. Her expression remained guileless, but an unusual tension passed through him while she looked him up and down. When she finally turned her attention back to the glass in her hand, he found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
She motioned to his empty glass. "Would you like to continue this conversation over another drink?"
He smirked. "Sure."
Her smile was almost sly, but not quite. "What are you having?"
"Tequila."
She breathed a laugh through her nose, then beckoned him as she slipped past. "Walk with me."
He followed her willingly, and she noticed that he kept a respectful distance. Once she had slid into a high seat at the bar and waved over the bartender to place their orders, she turned back towards him.
"And what is it that you do for work, Chris?"
"Professional MMA. What about you?"
"I'm an historian by trade, but right now I'm working as an archivist at The Heather."
"Yeah?"
She hummed as she took a sip of her drink. "So, professional MMA… what drew you to that?"
"I needed a way to make money, and found out I was good at it. And I like to stay busy, so it works out."
"So you enjoy it?"
"Most days. It's still a job, so it's got its moments of bullshit, but what doesn't, really."
"Well said," Ellie nodded as their drinks arrived and she took a sip of hers. Chris tossed his back in one shot, which made her eyebrows jump slightly in surprise.
He examined his glass for a moment then looked at her again. "What are you having? Looks like a Shirley Temple."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she admitted.
Chris hummed as he leaned against the bar. "So you said you're here for a birthday party. Yours?"
"No," she shook her head. "Duress for a distant cousin. I wouldn't have bothered to come if my mother hadn't badgered me about making an appearance."
"Not one for crowds?"
"Oh, I'm fine with crowds, and even spending time with strangers," she said, pausing for effect. "It's more that I know inviting me is more of a… strange formality, and a convenience. My cousin doesn't have a lot of scruples, and I'm here primarily as eye candy for his other guests."
"You sound like you don't like him," Chris snorted as he set his empty drink down.
"Is it that obvious?" She remarked, not without sarcasm.
He chuckled. "So an historian, huh? That seems like an interesting career choice…"
His expression wasn't expectant, but she could read between the lines. "I quite enjoy it. I've always had a knack for research, though I understand it can be dry and unappealing for many."
Chris hummed. "I imagine you'd have to go to college to do something with it?"
"Just so. And even that isn't a guarantee that you'll be able to find a niche and make a living. But I was privileged to have had access to a good uni program where I learned a lot," she answered.
"I bet," he answered. "What got you into it?"
"History? Well, seeing what we've come from, as peoples, cultures, and societies is fascinating. It's an interesting mirror for the modern world, though it often comes with a lot of contextual differences and nuance. The things we can learn from it offer candid glimpses into what's come before us—where we've come from, and where we might be going, but perhaps most fittingly that even after hundreds of thousands of years of human existence and cultural morals and values and shifts, we are still just people at our core."
"You make it sound interesting," Chris remarked. A new glass of tequila appeared, and Ellie offered it to him with a wry smile.
"It is interesting, you just have to know what to look for."
Chris turned the newly-filled glass over in his hands, glancing at her mouth briefly before he tossed his drink back in one shot.
"What do you enjoy most about being an historian?"
"Just learning, quite honestly. I love poring over archives and papers and research, and I love learning new things, or more about the things I already knew or thought I did. Rarely, I've been afforded the opportunity to visit sites and archaeological digs, but mostly my job is just research or archiving. Hardly glamorous most days, but it's an exercise in passion. It requires discipline, not unlike your work—it's just that the energy is directed and expended a little differently."
"I don't think I've ever had someone compare something that high-brow to fighting before, but I'll take it."
Ellie laughed. "Am I wrong, though? Doing something as strenuous for a career must require commitment of time and energy on your part, and that takes discipline to maintain."
Chris watched her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You've got me there. I guess I've never really thought about it."
She stirred her drink with a hum, watching him intently as a silence hung between them. Finishing it, she set her empty glass on the bar. Tilting her head towards his empty one, she looked at him inquisitively, and he shook his head.
"I'd love to, but I shouldn't. I have a fight tomorrow—can't go too apeshit tonight," he said with a charming smirk.
Ellie folded her hands across her knees. "Oh, are you participating in that card I've seen floating around? Who is it? Knight versus…"
"Lutovinov," Chris finished for her.
She nodded. "Yes, that's the one. Are you challenging or defending?"
"Defending."
Ellie's brows shot up. "Oh." She had been half-joking, but leaned forward with a curious expression. "You must be ‘Knight', then?"
He nodded.
"How many times have you defended the title?"
"Four times, so far," he said. "After tomorrow night, who's to say?"
Ellie smiled thoughtfully. "If you've successfully defended the title four times already, your odds of defending a fifth time are probably quite good."
Chris shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think about it too much."
Another silence fell as her eyes traveled over him appraisingly. Chris tried not to squirm under her gaze. The way she looked at him made him feel strangely exposed, his cheeks feeling warm as they met eyes. After a moment, she smiled again, that deep gaze having dissolved.
"Well, is there something special that you're supposed to say to wish someone good luck in a fight?"
"I think just ‘good luck' probably works," he answered, expression softening.
She laughed. "Well, good luck tomorrow night, then."
Chris smiled. "Thanks."
Ellie watched him for a moment, uncrossing her legs as she leaned forward in the chair again.
"You mentioned you were from Los Angeles," she began, waiting for him to nod before going on. "You might remember I mentioned I'm living there now, as well. If you're so inclined, I'd like to get together once we're both back stateside. You seem like a good time."
"Yeah," he agreed. "That sounds fun."
She pulled out her phone from the small clutch at her side. "Can I have your number, then?"
Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. They spent a few minutes exchanging information. Ellie took a quick selfie on his phone, applying it to the contact profile before she gave it back.
"So you won't forget me," she said with a cheeky smirk when he looked at her. He smiled in kind, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
"Thanks."
She nodded, leaning a little closer as she rested her chin on her hand. "Would you like to dance with me?"
"Yeah."
She slipped off her chair, the distance between them closing as her gaze flicked to his mouth. She took his hand then, guiding him towards the dance floor. He followed her, almost mesmerized by the way she moved.
Among the throngs of people, she wasn't shy. Her body pressed against his as she moved and swayed to the beat. There was a fluid grace to her movements, despite the frenetic energy of the music. Heat radiated between their bodies as her hips slotted against his. She was short—like everyone was next to him—but she made it work for her.
He hadn't put his leg between hers; it had just ended up there. Or maybe she had made that choice. He wasn't really sure, but he wasn't complaining, either. The heat of her pressed against him made his nostrils flare, his fingers flexing at her sides. She moved his hands along her body in a way that wasn't precisely sexual, but it had the unfortunate effect of sending pleasure coursing over his nerves, straight to his groin. Or maybe it was fortunate—he hadn't decided yet.
They spent some time familiarizing themselves with each other to the measured beat. Her back pressed against his chest, and she guided his hands along her body. He paid careful attention to where he was allowed to touch her, those places expanding as the minutes passed. He leaned down to close some distance, even as she reached back for him.
She passed his hands along her thighs, one moving dangerously close to the hem of her dress. The sound she made sent heat coiling in his gut, desire snaking out over his skin. It wouldn't have been a stretch to say he wanted her, but he wanted to enjoy this part a little longer.
She turned in time with the shifting beat as the next song moved in. Draping her arms over his shoulders, he felt her move closer, and the heat of her pressed a little more firmly against his thigh. She gyrated against him, and he couldn't help his smirk, hand on her hip as he guided her. The move to close the distance was instinctive. She didn't shy away.
The warmth of her breath, sweet with the scent of the maraschino of her drink, touched his lips. He could have kissed her, and found he wanted to. He didn't though—that wasn't a choice for him to make, even if it certainly felt like the right one. Instead, he leaned further, mouth hovering over the curve of her throat.
He got lost in her for a moment—in the sweet smell of her skin, and the warmth of her body as she pressed and ground against him. He encouraged her, moving with her as she sighed.
He was hard, and he was sure she could tell. She didn't move back, or look at him with disdain, and so he carried on. She let him, biting her lip as pleasure trickled out from her centre.
Chris found her gaze as he leaned back, her eyes lidded and filled with a latent hunger. He knew that look all too well, certain he was mirroring it. Those bedroom eyes sent a frisson of pleasure out over his skin, the tension in him coiling just a little tighter. He began to mull the idea of asking her back to his room, wondering if she would accept the offer.
He hoped she would.
They got lost in the music for some more long minutes, hungry eyes delving deep, telling a story as the distance seemed to naturally close. The idea began to take shape in his mouth, and then came the brief moment before the beat dropped.
The silence was deafening, and it was all she needed to snap out of whatever trance had overcome her. The melody continued a moment later, but it was already too late. She stiffened and Chris noticed. She worked her way out of his hold with care—like she was reluctant to do it.
Ellie looked at him apologetically, and he wondered if something was wrong. Beckoning him in, he leaned down, turning his ear to her.
"I should go," she said, voice raised so she could be heard over the roaring bass. "This was fun. Don't forget to look me up when you get back to the States, alright?"
Chris nodded, clearly bewildered as she smiled at him. She squeezed his hand, and he felt the words forming in his mouth—is something wrong? But before he could gather himself enough to ask, she was already moving away, threading through the throngs of people.
The tension remained coiled in his limbs, and he made his way off the floor. Finding a partially unoccupied couch, he took a seat, releasing a long breath. He ran his hands through his hair as his elbows rested on his knees, going over the events of the evening and trying to piece together where it had crumbled. He never quite found it.
It's fine, he decided. Sometimes people just make snap decisions, and that was hers. He allowed himself a moment to lament that she had left so suddenly. Chris made another mental note then to follow up with her once he got back home—she was cute, and seemed like she could be a lot of fun. And she had asked him to, anyway. A request he found himself wanting to fulfill. With a sigh, he leaned back, hands passing up his thighs as he did.
He paused. What…? His pants were wet. He lifted his hand, finding beneath it an oblong strip of moisture that stood out against his jeans. Suddenly, his mouth was dry. He might have been able to excuse a damp thigh as just sweat—a natural part of warm bodies gyrating against each other. But that was a very specific shape, and reminded him a little too readily of the way she had moved against him, very specifically. He swallowed, putting his head in his hands.
"I think I need to leave…"