Smoking Area Seduction

Clubs are too loud for talking. That's why the real connections happen in the smoking area.

I was three drinks deep, ears ringing, leaning against the railing and watching my cigarette turn to ash, when she appeared beside me.

"Got a spare?"

I handed her one without looking. Lit it for her when she leaned in. Then I looked.

Christ.

Long dark hair with the kind of waves that took hours or came naturally, either impressive. Tight dress that was more suggestion than fabric. Heels that could weaponize her legs. Big eyes, bigger lashes, lips painted red enough to cause traffic accidents.

"Thanks." She took a long drag, exhaled slowly. "Needed that. Me feet are killing."

"Could take them off."

"And stand barefoot in a club smoking area?" She wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather die."

"Fair point."

We smoked in companionable silence, watching the chaos around us—girls crying on phones, boys trying and failing to chat up anyone breathing, bouncers looking bored.

"I'm Jade," she said eventually.

"Tyler."

"What brings you to this shithole, Tyler?"

"Mate's birthday. He's inside somewhere, probably being sick."

"Charming." But she smiled. "Mine's inside too. Being chatted up by some bloke who thinks Lynx Africa is a personality."

"Tragic."

"Tell me about it." She moved closer, close enough that our arms touched. "What about you? Got a personality beyond the fags?"

"I like to think so."

"Prove it."

We talked. Actually talked—about jobs (she was a hairdresser, I was in IT), about dreams (she wanted to open her own salon, I wanted to literally anything else), about the specific kind of despair that came from being twenty-five in this economy.

By the third cigarette, we were sitting on the steps, her heels discarded despite her earlier protests, my jacket around her shoulders.

"You're alright, you know," she said, head tilted against my shoulder. "Most blokes out here just want to get in your knickers."

"And you think I don't?"

She laughed. "Oh, I know you do. But you're being nice about it. That's rare."

"Maybe I actually like you."

"Maybe you do." She looked up at me, something shifting in her expression. "What would you do about it, if you did?"

"Kiss you. If you wanted."

"Been waiting for you to ask."

I kissed her—soft at first, then deeper when she grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer. She tasted of vodka and lipstick, and when she moaned against my mouth, every part of me paid attention.

"Not here," she breathed. "Too many eyes."

"Where then?"

"Alley. Round the side. Mate showed me once." She grabbed her heels in one hand, my hand in the other. "Come on."

The alley was exactly as romantic as you'd expect—bins, graffiti, the distant thump of bass from the club. But it was dark, and it was private, and Jade was pressing me against the wall with an urgency that made everything else irrelevant.

"Wanted this all night," she admitted, her hands working at my belt. "Saw you inside, on the dance floor. Thought, 'yeah, he'll do.'"

"Flattering."

"Should be." She freed me, stroked once, twice. "You're fit. And you're hard. Win-win."

"What about you?"

She guided my hand under her dress. No knickers. Just heat and wetness and her sharp intake of breath.

"Been ready since you lit my cigarette."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"Condom. Tell me you've got one."

"Wallet."

"Good boy."

Thirty seconds later, I had her lifted against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels clutched in one hand while the other grabbed my shoulder.

"Yes—fuck—right there—"

She was tight, hot, and making sounds that would echo off the walls if either of us cared. I fucked her hard, the way she wanted, the way her fingers digging into my back demanded.

"Harder—don't stop—gonna come—"

She came with her teeth in my shoulder, muffling what would have been a scream. The pain and the pressure pushed me over—I came hard, buried deep, feeling her shake through it.

We stayed there for a moment, panting, connected.

"Well," she said eventually, "that was better than the club."

"Much better."

She kissed me—soft, sweet, a contrast to everything before. "Give us your phone."

I did. She tapped in a number.

"There. For when you want a haircut. Or a repeat performance." She winked, straightened her dress, stepped back into her heels like nothing had happened. "I'm gonna find me mate. Tell her I pulled."

"What do I do?"

"Whatever you want, babe. You've already done me." She blew a kiss and disappeared around the corner.

I walked back to the smoking area, lit another cigarette, and grinned like an idiot.

Best smoking area conversation I'd ever had.

She texted me the next day: You alive?

Barely. You?

Same. Round two this weekend?

I was already counting down the days.