A/N: A shorter style fic - some chapters short, some long. Heads up - This fic contains VERY explicit language and sex - Do not read if you are under 18 - Do not read if you don't like lemons - Everyone else...enjoy ;)

He's leaning against a wall, his taut body stretching slightly higher than those he stands next to. His copper hair goes blue then red as the lights flicker over him, washing him in neon light. He's in leather. He's heaven and hell. Forbidden fruit. But I've tasted it. Sunk my teeth into it and devoured the sweet insides. MA. Explicit Lemons.

I

It's Saturday night.

Warm bodies are turning, twisting, pressing into each other. The repetitive thump of a deep base reverberates through my body, making my fingers tingle. I don't recognise the music but my body does.

Clothes stick to heated skin, slick and shimmering in the fluorescent lights. A bead of moisture trails down the back of my neck, goosebumps rising in its wake.

I'm so tightly packed in I can feel bare skin touching mine, as our bodies gyrate to the beat. Above my head, smoke swirls through the air making curious shapes. I take a breath. The air feels thick, like fog. It's heat and wet, infused with the scent of sweat, alcohol and cigarettes.

Every few weeks Victoria's parents go to Miami and we gather here. A mixture of innocents teasing with immorality and those who are already depraved; both seeking solace from monotony and craving the taste of booze, sex and the cloying purple haze that billows from the lit end of tightly packed green parcels, wrapped in thin white paper.

I find my way to the kitchen, brushing away the hands that threaten to slip under my black skirt. Teasing fingers feel cool as they brush against my slick skin but I always move away before they catch me, leaving them to acquaint with easier flesh. They aren't the fingers I want.

The light is warmer in here, casting thick shadows that loom threateningly. Heavily misted windows reach up to the ceiling, dewy beads forming across the opaque material. The thick marble counters are littered with glass bottles and half empty cups, the liquid gleaming in the soft light.

With the door closed the music is more of a steady hum and I can hear my pulse beating steadily in my ears. Amazingly, I'm the only one in here and I enjoy the rare treasure, rolling my shoulders and breathing out slowly, feeling myself relax.

I take a cup from the large stack in front of me, the red material shining offensively in the light. I fill it up halfway to the top with whisky, the amber liquid sloshing against the pale plastic rim.

I forgo mixer. I don't want something sweet cloying on my tongue, I want salty, sweat. I want him.

But he's not here yet.

The door swings open behind me, a burst of loud music drowns the room, coloured lights tearing through the warm glow briefly before the door shuts again, muting the noise and sending everything back to gold and shadow. Animated chatter follows as three girls and a guy settle by the counters, sweaty hands reaching for smooth glass, heavy breathing replaced by muffled noises as cups touch wet, thirsty lips.

The peace is broken. I leave the room.