Barbi sat at the bar in the Blacklight, sipping a club soda and cranberry. Even now she couldn't bring herself to drink again. She sipped the drink slowly, letting the booming, high pitch of Nikka Costa's voice drown out her never ending stream of thought.
"You're Barbi Starr." The voice was male, smooth, deep with a touch of Chicago twang.
She glanced to her right, and found herself staring into the dark black eyes of one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. He was tall, with a broad chest and shoulders. He had coffee colored skin with the slightest hint of cream. He ran his hand over his smooth, bald head and smiled.
"I'm aware of that." She tried not to seem interested. "So, who the hell are you?"
"Mitchell." He held out his hand.
His hand shake was firm, but not over powering.
"Well Mitchell, how can I help you?" She turned towards him, leaning her head on her hand.
"I'm a fan. I just wanted to talk." He took a seat next to her. He made sure to brush his thigh against her as he adjusted onto the small bar stool.
She smiled. She couldn't help it. He was nice. She hadn't been around nice for a while. The fashion industry wasn't known for nice. Back-stabbing, bitching, snipping and snapping for sure, but not nice.
"How about a dance instead. I'm kind of sick of talking." She stood, putting her drink on the bar.
She didn't wait for an answer. Instead she walked into the crowd of people thrashing on the dance floor, and she was glad to see Mitchell following her. Suddenly he was pressed against her, his hands tracing her stomach, then her hips, then her thighs.
She couldn't help it. She melted against his touch. He enveloped her, puling her close, their bodies swaying. It wasn't the normal club grinding. This was something else, something more personal. He wanted her, and from what she was feeling, he wanted her bad.
The only thing she was wondering was why. She knew she was still attractive, but Mitchell couldn't have been older than twenty five, and there he was going after one of the oldest women in the club. He could have his pick of any half naked, totally drunk club girls whipping around the floor, rubbing their store bought bodies against anyone they found attractive.
Mitchell had chosen her. That felt good, especially after the disaster that was her marriage finally up and died on her.
It didn't take long for them to move from the dance floor to a taxi, and then into her bed. She hadn't realized how much she needed that moment. That total and complete release that only one hot, steamy night could give a person.
When she finally fell asleep, Mitchell's thick, muscular arms wrapped around her, she found herself slipping into the first good dream in a long while.
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