Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,8
sexual passion? Would she be as bold during sex, taking the lead and showing him how he could please her? Brandon took an involuntary step toward her before he remembered he wasn’t interested in touching her. He was interested in getting her out of the room.
Yeah, right, his conscience chimed in, and I’m the Tooth Fairy.
“I’m not here for that,” she protested, and he’d been so distracted by the inappropriate nature of his thoughts, it took him a moment to recall his last words. Then she frowned. “So you don’t do private lap dances? Really?”
“No,” he said, trying to decipher her tone and failing. Disappointment? Or relief? “I never have. I only stepped in tonight because a dancer canceled at the last minute. Normally, I’m back of the house. I haven’t done a show in a couple of years.” He shook his head, dismissing his explanation as unnecessary. “But you still need to leave. This area isn’t for the public.”
“Oh.”
She looked so absurdly pleased when told he didn’t dance that Brandon wondered if he’d misjudged her. But something still didn’t add up. Even if she wasn’t here to seduce him—he tried very hard to ignore the disappointment that swept through him—she was still plenty nervous, biting her lip and twisting the chain of her purse into tortuous knots.
“Well, then, I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll just show myself out and let you get on with whatever it is you’ve got to do now.”
She edged toward the door. He reached out and closed his hand around her wrist, impeding her flight. Her quick intake of breath sounded loud in the silence and her eyes darkened, although her expression remained stubbornly noncommittal.
“You came back here for something. Why don’t you just save us both some time by telling me what it was,” he said. “My guess? Sex.”
She gasped at his bold charge. “No.” She paused. “Well, yes, but not really.”
“Which is it?” he replied, and she sighed.
With her free hand, she dug into the pocket of her skirt and handed him a rumpled business card. He studied the tiny picture and read the note before tossing it carelessly onto the dressing table.
“Pretty girl. You back here to broker the deal?” he said cynically, trying to ignore how soft her skin felt beneath the pads of his fingers.
She shrugged. “No. The plan was to make sure you didn’t.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Gillian’s the reason I’m here tonight. It’s her hen party. You know, rhinestone veil, raunchy gifts. The…uh…”
“The stripper?” he supplied, and she nodded. Her explanation didn’t add up, though. In his years at the club, he’d been accosted by more than one giggling and inebriated bride or bridesmaid. This woman’s palpable discomfort was something else entirely.
He took a stab in the dark. “So you wanted to save her from a fate worse than death, then? Keep her pure for the honeymoon?”
She giggled, then pressed her lips together, clearly struggling to contain her mirth. “Gillian? Are you kidding? She may look like an angel but she’ll screw anything on legs. I was actually thinking about Jeremy, the guy she’s supposed to be marrying.”
A surge of jealousy rocketed through him at her mention of the groom’s name. How the hell could he be jealous? He didn’t even know this woman.
“What’s so special about Jeremy?” he asked, trying for an even tone.
“He’s a good guy. And he doesn’t deserve to hear about his fiancée catting around two weeks before they tie the knot. What she does afterward is her business, but before?”
“Well, you can rest easy. I’m not in the market to provide stud services. I dance. Period.” Her face lit up at his avowal. She was a pretty girl when she wasn’t smiling, but when she did, she transformed from run-of-the-mill to dark-eyed and exotic. The pull of attraction he’d been fighting strengthened. “When I’m with a woman, it’s because we both want it. Not because she’s paid me.”
Her eyes widened at the suggestion implicit in his claim. He breathed deeply, trying to tamp down his rising need. She wore some kind of perfume. Fruity, with a hint of lemon and maybe vanilla. He didn’t recognize it but whatever it was, it was intoxicating. Brandon stroked his thumb against the tender flesh of her inner wrist.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Tiny circles. So small, they were almost nonexistent, and they shouldn’t be having this mesmerizing effect on him. The slight hitch of her breath told him she was turned on too. He wondered what it would feel like