I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.
I’d already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.
“Oh, yeah, baby!” an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.
Not bad for a day’s work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.
I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.
Time to step it up a notch.
The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement—and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.
He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.
He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.
He hadn’t even looked at me yet, but it didn’t matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He’s completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.
I continued to move with the music—continued my show for the men—but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.
She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.
As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.
I saw the heat in his eyes—and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.
And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a bitch to dance in.
I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.
And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.
I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn’t touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.
Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.
The men in the audience were holding out bills and, not being stupid, I took a little time to make a circuit around the stage and collect my tips before moving on to the next stocking.
I tried to keep my eyes on the men. To keep that eye contact that I knew dancers used to make sure the tips were stellar. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care about these men or their money. All I wanted was Tyler, but he’d disappeared. No matter where I looked, I couldn’t find him or the brunette, and something hard and tight knotted in my belly.
I felt a little sick, but I kept on, moving in time to some song I didn’t recognize.
I kicked up my other leg, getting ready to start the same show with the other, but as soon as I did, there he was.
I froze as a psych book full of emotions pummeled me. Relief, excitement, desire—and irritation.
“What are you doing?” I asked, as he stepped up onto the stage, to the hoots and catcalls and general grumbling of the men below.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He tossed his jacket over my shoulders, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me bodily offstage. I didn’t shout and didn’t fight back—I was too damn shocked. And from the silence that had settled around my stage, I think the customers felt exactly the same.
“Go,” Tyler said, and it took me only a second to realize he was talking to another girl that I recognized as one of the waitresses. Her eyes were wide, and I had a feeling that she was getting an unexpected promotion. But she scurried up the stairs and wrapped her body around the pole.
The men who’d been looking shocked in my direction turned to her, and I was all but forgotten.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, as he held my arm in a vise grip and led me toward the back. Across the room, I saw Evan standing beside Cole, their expressions unreadable.
I drew in a breath, and hoped to hell this had worked.