Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
I mask my apprehension, holding my posture straight, tits out, stomach in, a smile across my face. “You asked for me?”
* * *
He brings the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag on it, his eyes taking a slow and unapologetic tour down my body. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. His eyes flit to the pole, then back to my face.
* * *
“Dance.”
* * *
A one-word asshole. I almost prefer them, the type that issue orders and shut the hell up. Better them than the romancers, the ones who fawn over you while detailing updates about every part of their lives. I nod, glancing at Rick, who steps back, toward the hall.
* * *
“I’ll turn on the system and load your playlist.” Rick does a ridiculous little forward bow toward the stranger, who ignores him, his eyes now trained on my face.
* * *
I shift my weight and clasp my hands behind me, my knuckles brushing against my ass, the Brazilian thong barely covering anything. I should have worn the sparkly back corset tonight, the set much nicer than this one—a bikini missing half of its sequins and faded from too many washes. “How’s your night going?”
* * *
The only movement comes from the fingers of his right hand, the cigar rolling slightly.
* * *
I let out a breath and step back, turning to the stage. Fine. Fuck small talk. I can wait in the back of the stage until the music comes on. It can’t take more than a minute, not with the haste Rick seems to be assigning to this jackass.
* * *
“Why are you doing this?”
* * *
Five words that stop me, his tone one which doesn’t allow for avoidance. I turn back to face him, the answer falling out quickly. “Student loans. Credit card debt.”
* * *
I used to lie. It’s the most common question from clients, followed closely by whether my breasts are real. I used to tell a detailed sob story about a sick mother and her medical bills. Clients ate it up and my G-string filled with their sweaty, sympathetic bills. Then my mom died. My dad got sick. Karma laughed, and I ditched the lies. They were unbelievable anyway. I can’t even cover my own bills, much less contribute anything to my dad’s care.
* * *
The man doesn’t respond to my comment, his cigar lifting to his mouth, obscuring some of that beautiful face. There is a crackle of a speaker and then the lights come on, the spotlights cutting through the room, the barren stage now pooled in color. I turn, grateful for the distraction, and move quickly to the stairs, my steps growing more confident as I climb the wooden rungs and stride onto the stage, the first DMX beat hitting hard in the moment that I grab the cool metal pole and swing into the air.
* * *
Flying. A hundred hours of practice, and the action is seamless as my heels fly through the air, my momentum perfect, one leg hooking on the pole, my speed increasing as I spin once, twice, three times, my muscles tightening on the pole, my speed slowing in perfect cadence with the beat, and I release the final ounce of breath in the moment I land.
* * *
I am reckless on a pole, trusting my legs and arms in a way certain to cause damage. It is a lover I hate and I ride it relentlessly, caressing it in a sensual way that leaves nothing to the imagination. The beat moves through me and I get lost in its strength, pulsating against steel, spinning away only to return to it, my heels a blur of clear sparkle, my thoughts lost in the movement.
* * *
Everything is a swirl of bright lights, the dark back wall of the stage, the glossy black of the floor, the chrome of the pole. I can’t see the stranger or those blue eyes, can’t see the men who protect him, or the glow of his cigar, the five-o-clock shadow that had coated his jaw, or the dark clean lines of his suit.
* * *
My bra is the first victim. One quick unclasp, the release of heavy breasts as I spin slowly downward, my legs suspending my body upside down above the hard floor. One outward fling, and sparkles and black sequins become airborne and joyful in their flight. I keep my panties on, the thin fabric the only thing between me and the pole.
* * *
When the final beat hits, I am panting, my back against the pole, my legs trembling slightly from the performance. The lights flicker off and my eyes move, traveling across the empty room and over to his. The eye contact is terrifying, the cigar tight in his mouth, a fierce look in his eyes. It is more than simple arousal, a hungry and possessive stare that rips pieces of me off and marks them as his, each dagger of eye contact laced with blatant desire that he makes no attempt to hide.