Insecure (31 page)

“Was bought for me and the restaurant was nice.” That was the best she could say about it and it didn't belong alongside this experience.

“Forget about it. I'm taking you dancing.”

He might've spoken code. They'd slow danced around the loft, but that was the extent of it. He laughed. “Maybe put something on that does up.” She looked down at her undone state and he cupped her breast. “Or not.”

They kissed and touched and tortured each other till Dillon's complaints from the kitchen made it too hard to kiss through their smiles.

They went to a club. One of those places where the sound writhed like a live thing that wrapped itself around you and entered your bloodstream. It made her pulse supersonic. It beat on her breastbone and interfered with her heart rate, made her shoulders sway, her hips shift, her knees soften. Or Mace did.

Dillon picked up about five minutes after they arrived and Mace wanted to dance.

The lighting was a gold wash that bathed the dance floor in shimmers and left dark spaces at the edge as cover for seriously X-rated mischief. But it was a virtual mosh pit, people packed in, with almost no room to dance, yet the place heaved with motion. She hadn't been in a club like this for years. She hadn't danced for years and it had never occurred to her that Mace could. He was light on his feet and had a masculine grace about him, but she was slightly appalled he wanted to go out in that. And more than a little excited.

He no longer thought she might break, or he might hurt her. He was dangerous, careless, like he'd been that very first night. Unpredictable and unafraid, and she wanted that.

And so did he.

They stood near the bar watching the floor. Mace had her caged in his arms, sheltered by his body. Dillon was buying drinks for a redhead who'd come dressed appropriately for clubbing. In her barely there dress she made Jacinta feel like a 1950s high school teacher. Mace had given her ten minutes to get ready and she'd opted for a simple black shift dress, knee length and fitted. She left its matching coat jacket at home, but she still looked more like she was going to a meeting than out clubbing.

“I want to get sweaty with you out there,” Mace said in her ear, grazing his teeth across her lobe, sucking it into his mouth, drop earring and all. He played with the pearl, tugging on her ear and she shivered. The way he was holding her they were almost dancing now, almost doing more. He signalled Dillon his objective and had the sound not been so thick she'd have heard Dillon's molars clack as he registered his surprise. Dillon leaned in and shouted at her. “He's a wild man tonight.”

She almost shouted back that she hoped so. He'd been so subdued. Working his paying shifts and then on Ipseity every other spare minute. He was stressed about money as well. He'd poured almost all his savings, Buster's money, into developing and testing the new prototype and hiring a freelance team of engineers in India, and he was up half the night on Skype with them.

He still slept curled around her, but he'd been more solicitous, more likely to run her a scented bath than initiate sex. In public he was usually all about held hands, quick sly kisses and secret glances, but there wasn't going to be anything shy or hidden on this dance floor. She'd wanted the edge they'd once had back, and tonight she was going to get it. Ready or not.

He took her hand, locked her close to him and threaded his way through the crowd. She assumed he'd stop at the edge of the floor, but he ploughed through till they were surrounded on all sides by writhing bodies that weren't so much dancing as grinding on each other.

The music was louder here, its pulse more hypnotic, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the bodies around them had a primitiveness to it that was thrilling. He pulled her into his body, his knees bent, one leg slightly forward to make a space for her. He palmed her butt and fitted their hips together, rolling his pelvis towards hers and rocking her back into him.

She gasped in shock. Her reticent, private, taciturn man could really move. She draped her arms over his shoulders and stared into his eyes, two bright intense worlds starring back at her.

It was too loud to talk though she wanted to tell him everything she was feeling: excited for him, scared for him, proud of him. Dillon said he'd ignored all their coaching and was brilliant anyway. She wanted to tell him how much she admired and loved him and how unbelievably hot for him she was. She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him greedily instead. He went with it till they were clinched together, barely moving, except for hands stroking and grasping and hips rocking. It was incredible and it was torment to know she couldn't get any closer to him, but it was exhilarating to be part of the heaving, throbbing mass on the floor and not care who saw them.

She felt rather than heard him moan his satisfaction. He broke away and turned her so he was pressed against her back. He brought her hands over her head and around his neck and she clasped them there while he played her body as if she was an instrument made for his pleasure. Now she was pleased the dress fitted and gave him such unfettered access to her form.

His lips were on her neck and she dropped her head back to his shoulder, loving his boldness, loving the declaration it made. She didn't need his words to know he was screaming this woman is mine.

The song changed, the beat stayed, the pulse in her body from the way he moved them, the way he touched her made her sweat, made her wet for him. If her dress had allowed it, his hands would've been under it and on her skin. Her head filled with the scents of sex, drugs and danger. She was so gone on Mace, on the moment, if he'd unzipped her she'd have let him. If he tried to drag her into a dark space or a bathroom, she'd have run ahead and waited for him, ready for him.

He switched their positions, moving her to face him, bringing their pelvises back together and closing his palm over her breast. There was absolutely no doubt he was as turned on as she was, she couldn't help herself but use her hands rudely on him.

They were alone in the mass of motion until she felt the brush of someone behind her, much closer than other random bumps and nudges. Mace's eyes lifted. She twisted her head to see a couple close, it was the woman who'd bumped her. Mace eyed her partner and they established some kind of understanding, like wolves with territories to defend. The woman turned and moved in against Jacinta's back, and her hands joined Mace's roving over her body.

She gasped. She was sandwiched between two undulating bodies, touched everywhere at once, by Mace, by this woman, by the ricocheting beat of her own heart.

If Mace wasn't holding her, if the floor weren't so packed she'd have dissolved, the sensations running through her were so unlike anything she'd ever felt. Did he know it would be like this, a long tease, sexual torture, a form of madness?

The woman brought her face close. She was Asian and beautiful. She spoke in Jacinta's ear. “Your man is hot,” then she moved, turning Jacinta's head, pressing her lips to Jacinta's in a kiss that made her dig her nails into Mace's arm and hold on while the world spun too fast.

The woman broke off, she said, “I want him,” and she reached over Jacinta for Mace and kissed him too, not like she'd kissed Jacinta, but with an open mouth and a seeking tongue.

She found herself pulled away, felt Mace release her and a body take his place, the other man, sliding in behind her, fitting his thighs to her butt, bringing his hands to her breasts. His breath was hot in her ear and she was burning up. The woman had hitched her leg over Mace's hip and was gyrating against him. She could see his face. His eyes were down on her, his hands holding her to him. Did he want her too? Instead? As well? Did she want the man behind her? It all seemed outrageously possible.

She swivelled her head to look at this other man; taller than Mace, he was shirtless, bald and heavily tattooed. He smiled and brushed his knuckles on her cheek. When she turned back, Mace's eyes burned through them both. The man released her, and reached for his partner, and Mace fished her back to him, crashing her into his chest and crushing her mouth to his.

All other possibilities closed out. There was only Mace, his gentle heart, his truthful tongue, his intensity, his ferocious ambition, and tenacity. He was her match, her equal, her passion. The one man secure enough in his own skin to allow her to be free in hers.

Dillon scrawled one word on the pad in front of Mace, Thunderdome. It was a concept that must've inspired every throw-them-off-the island, out-of-the-kitchen reality TV show since Mad Max rode into Barter Town. It was the perfect description of life in the Summers-Denby incubator. Not everyone made it out with their dreams alive.

Anderson Abbott had just finished explaining to the new intake of investee companies that less than half of them would get to second round funding and only one or two of those companies had a chance of making it.

There wasn't anyone in the room from the ten companies who got first round funding who didn't already know that, so it was an act of bastardry to repeat it. But he repeated it every week, because that was Anderson's job, to be harder on them than the outside world would be. Didn't mean they had to like it. But there was a lot to like about the incubator. It was a fully funded state of the art workplace providing free rent and resources. The individual start-ups had separate workspaces but shared facilities like a canteen and a concierge and services, including accounting, legal and marketing.

Dillon was Mad Max. He was out to get control of this new environment and make certain they were the ones who got to leave with an intact business. He made cosy with all the Summers-Denby people and the other investee company teams. He traded information for knowledge, he got on top of the new rules and he learned how to keep them ahead of expectations without over-promising what they could deliver.

For Mace it was a wonderful distraction. He was more like the guy who had to shovel pig shit or the whole of Barter Town would collapse. Dillon was their ignition, but Mace was their engine.

He was used to working alone, hiding in plain sight at a workstation at his day job or at home. Here he had a room to himself with windows and whiteboards, a workbench and a desk that dwarfed his laptop. It was luxurious and yet it was a mirage. The day they didn't meet their targeted development milestone was the day they were back on the street with the worn tech they'd arrived with. It was no idle threat. They'd been here a month and two companies had already folded.

Apart from good lighting, free food on tap and the freedom to work on Ipseity full-time, the other thing he wasn't used to was explaining himself to someone other than Dillon. Now he had overlords who had opinions on how he did things. It was a major head-spin and an enormous test of his patience. Dillon sheltered him from it as much as possible so he could get on with the real work, but it was a new fact of life. They weren't a garage business anymore and there were processes and politics to negotiate.

There was also the team in India. It was agreed they'd keep the freelance team on board for the short-term before hiring their own, but management of that aspect of the work had to be tighter. Along with his new office, Mace had a new passport and an airline ticket to Hyderabad. He'd be gone a fortnight. It was the first time he'd been anywhere without a backpack, hiking boots and the address of a youth hostel. His ticket was for a premium economy seat. It amused him that those two concepts could be shoved together and he'd get to experience it without having to pay for it himself.

Buster would've been so excited for him. Cinta certainly was. He came home exhausted every night to paint and turps smells but decent food and soft music, and he talked it all through with her. This was much more her world than his now and she had insights that helped clarify what Summers-Denby wanted from them.

But tonight was their last night together. He flew out in the morning so he had no intention of staying late or taking work home. Anderson was talking about cash burn rates and Dillon was taking notes. He was free to think about what he had to achieve in the next two weeks, think about the night ahead.

He no longer felt worried about being with Cinta, about reminding her of the man who'd threatened her, hit her. Time together had rebuilt his trust. He'd watched her so closely, looking for the things he'd missed that might've warned him to be more careful.

He'd known from the beginning she'd been hurt, but he'd been so wrapped in her strength he'd discounted the impact of that violent assault. But she had no secrets from him. She wasn't hiding her fears or scared of him in any way. It was one bad moment and it was over and he'd relaxed and enjoyed being with her again without monitoring himself.

She'd loosened up too. It was as though she'd needed that explosion in the studio to finally clear her head of Wentworth, her fucked up stepfamily, and her concerns about getting her career restarted. She no longer fretted about not working and she poured her time into art school, the new friends she'd made there and her painting.

He'd met part of her family as well: Bryan, Kath and Brianna, a night of amusement at his expense about what Malcolm might make of him, especially when he told them the story of how he'd quit. It was only then they worked out he and Cinta had quit the same day. He'd not met Tom, but Cinta was in touch with him again, if cautiously.

They'd had the art school crowd for dinner. A loud night with Chinese food and lots of dope, which gave him a headache and made Cinta giggle like a little kid. He'd liked the giggle, it made her seem young and finally carefree. He liked the art school crowd, although he could do without Alfie.

Alfie was a good-looking dude. He had a little Johnny Depp about him. He was apparently talented but also articulate in a way Mace found both admirable and deserving of a good punch in the mouth. Alfie had a lot of opinions, and for the most part they were interesting. He was the uncrowned prince of the group, laying his arguments down only to those of their teacher Margaret, and Cinta, and that made Mace grind his teeth. Not because Alfie was a suck-up who knew when he was beaten, but because he looked at Cinta as though she was a prize to be won.