Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Men that watch strippers are considered randy or bachelor party dickheads or desperate,” he returned.
Hmm…
“I do not let men objectify me, Mo. I don’t drag them to the club to watch me dance. They come on their own. And you can look at it two ways, just as you could look at a woman watching men dance while taking their clothes off. I make a damn good living off a man who’s totally down with appreciating the female body and he’s at one with the fact he enjoys it, or it turns him on, and it ends right there. Or I make a damn good living off weak men who are weak because they’re not strong enough to respect strong women, even if those women are strong women taking their clothes off. And I’m okay with both.”
“You’re you,” he grunted.
“And what does that mean?” I asked.
“You’re beautiful and together and confident and I hear you’re talented. Most women who do what you do don’t do it because they’re proud of it. They do it because they’re in a life where they don’t want to. But they have to.”
There was a lot there.
Primarily the fact he thought I was beautiful, together and confident.
Good job I didn’t trip when pivoting to show him the living room.
But also, he had a point.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
His expression registered surprise.
“I don’t have an argument for that,” I told him. “Though I will note that I didn’t ask about how you felt regarding the career of stripping as a whole. Just me doing it.”
For a second, his face blanked.
Then he let out a roar of laughter.
I was relatively sure my toss pillows wobbled.
And I was transfixed.
Totally transfixed.
I’d heard one thing that was more beautiful.
The laughter of my nephews.
But this was a close second.
I stayed transfixed for only a beat.
And then I dedicated my life to making him laugh as often as I could.
Thus I was smiling at him when he quit.
He didn’t look in my eyes then.
He stared at my mouth.
Now we were getting somewhere.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Are you going to tell me about your military service?” I went on.
He shook his head.
“Are you going to tell me how your dad’s a dick?” I kept at him.
He shook his head.
“We’ll get there,” I mumbled, beginning to head to the door, still mumbling. “I’m hungry. Time for dinner.”
I walked out the door of my bedroom.
Kim Seamus “Mo” Morrison, my bodyguard and the most fascinating man I’d ever met, followed me.
Chapter Three
Start with Your Toes
Mo
She was on the stage, busting out a performance to Shakira’s “Loca,” and making Mo, for the first time since he started with Hawk, wish he had another job.
Honest to fuck, if he managed to get through the whole night, and all three of her feature sets (this was number two), without jumping off the stage and punching every motherfucker watching her in the throat, it’d be a miracle.
He got why she was the headliner.
He got why it was a packed house.
She was graceful. She knew how to dance. She was beautiful. She had an awesome outfit on (or was taking it off).
And she was sexy AF.
Christ.
He’d learned during the first set that he needed to watch the crowd, which was his goddamned job, and not her or he’d be standing in the shadows just offstage, unable to take his eyes off her at the same time fighting his dick getting hard.
Which was what every motherfucker out there was doing.
And why Mo wanted to punch them all in the throat.
Fuck.
If they didn’t get this guy and soon, this was going to be torture.
Mo knew this without a doubt.
And he knew it wasn’t just about her dancing.
It was also about her just being her.
But he was trying not to go there.
And failing.
Her house was the shit.
Her fridge was as neat as his (if he went grocery shopping, which was rare, he was too busy working and hanging with his buds and his family, but if he did, the inside of his fridge looked like hers, mostly, without the lining up of shit, but he’d start doing that the minute he got the shot).
Her barefoot, all that blonde hair tumbling down, in that tight tank and those jeans with her little ass he could palm in one hand, for fuck’s sake.
That massive bed he’d give his left testicle to fuck her in.
The fact she could concede a point in a discussion without being a bitch about it.
Her huge, bright white smile.
And most of all, how she’d taken the news from Hawk and Smithie.
She read the letter. Hawk’s call. Smithie had not liked it (and honestly, Mo didn’t either), but Hawk wanted her to understand the seriousness of the situation.
Mo knew she’d been freaked.
Her face got a little pale, and that was it.
But he could smell it on her.