Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,51

man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”

I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.

It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”

Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.

It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.

I said I wouldn’t pursue him, and I’ve had plenty of distractions to stop me from accepting his invitations. Five weeks ago, Nikolai and I nailed our Samba performance at the Fourth of July celebration at the Arch. I’ve also been juggling dance lessons at home and the shelter in between the evenings I work here.

The schedule is killing me, and after a lot of internal debating, I’ve decided to transfer my dance students to Nikolai. He teaches at another school and needs the income more than I do. I can always take the students back, if and when this casino gig goes south.

As Trace charges around the empty tables, I cast him a cease-and-desist order with my eyes. He slows his roll, hovering at a distance behind the creepy restaurant patron.

“Do you do private dances?” The man’s tongue slithers like a dying slug along his bottom lip. “I’ll pay handsomely for the lap variety.”

Bile creeps up my throat. Do I look like an exotic dancer?

My cherry-red half-circle skirt wraps low on my hips and attaches to a metallic gold mini underskirt. Chunky glass rhinestones and beaded appliques fringe the hardshell bra, red panel draped around one hip, and matching satin upper-arm bands. The belly dance costume is feminine and artistic. Certainly not designed for a lap dance.

I lift my chin and meet his beady eyes. “Do you miss the warm wet center of your mother’s loins?”

So much for taking my job seriously.

“My mother’s what?” His face pinches, deepening the pucker of wrinkles on his brow.

“Her loins. You spent nine months there. I assume that’s why you’re staring at mine with pathetic longing.”

His shoulders snap back, and his gaze darts toward the exit. “You don’t need to be nasty.”

“Don’t I? You just asked me for a lap dance.”

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, slipping away and walking out of the restaurant.

Servers flutter around the tables, collecting dishes and making a wide berth around the mountain of bristling power glaring at me.

“What are you looking at?” I anchor my hands on my hips.

Trace glances over his shoulder, as if I couldn’t possibly be addressing him.

“I’m talking to you,” I say. “The man with the eternal scowl.”

Clasping his hands behind him, he prowls toward me. “Interesting tactic there. He’ll never look at his mother the same way again.”

“Oh, please. All the creepers have mommy issues. That was a free therapy session. Maybe I should start charging.”

“Stay with me tonight. We can watch a movie and—”

“Nope.” Dear God, I want to. Iwantto-Iwantto-Iwantto.

I hustle out of the restaurant before I change my mind.

But he’s right on my heels, nipping and growling. “Why not?”

“I have plans.” With a jug of wine and a vibrator named Dimples.

It’s a five-second walk to my dressing room, where I slip in and close the door on his sexy scowl. Except his shoe prevents it from shutting. Then his hand.

“You’re avoiding me.” He barges in.

“I’m avoiding cuddles on your couch and long brush strokes in your bed.”

“Why?” He shuts the door behind him and crosses his arms.

Why, he asks? Why, oh why? Because I’m horny, and when I’m around him, I want to strip him, lick him, and fuck the frown off his gorgeous face.

“I’m attracted to you.” I walk into the luxurious bathroom he designed just