Текст книги "A Little Too Hot"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Maybe this isn’t so bad. Thirty bucks in five minutes. I haven’t fallen off my shoes, and no one’s made a grab for me. Maybe I can do this.

There’s a pole in the middle of my stage, and I press my back against it and grind my hips in a circle as I slide lower, spreading my knees as I wriggle down so my heels meet my butt. I lift my arms and grasp the pole above me, pumping up and down a few times before sliding back up. And all of a sudden there are at least a dozen twenties being waved at me from the edge of the stage. So I guess the pole is a big hit. I work my way around the stage collecting my tips, and just as I’m shimmying back to the pole, I see him.

Sitting at a table by himself, two rows back from the center of my stage, is Trent. His eyes catch on mine and my heart stalls in my chest.

Because the last time I saw him, he was breaking up with me.

Chapter Three

WHAT THE HELL is he doing here?

I squint through the glare of the lights. He’s cut his hair shorter, and he’s in a button-down as opposed to his typical T-shirt, but it’s got to be him. The strong lines of his face, the way he crosses his sculpted arms on the table, leaning onto his elbows and accentuating his muscled chest, the angle he holds his head . . . it’s all so Trent.

I realize I’m not moving when someone yells from the front of my stage something about shaking it, and I start dancing again, but I suddenly feel totally disconnected from my body. I yank my eyes away from Trent and focus on the guys around my stage, more of whom are now waving money.

How did he know I was dancing here? I didn’t even know I was dancing here until an hour ago.

My heart pounds in my throat and I ache inside as if it’s happening all over again. I’d loved him forever, and in a heartbeat it was over.

And now he has the balls to show up here and rub it in my face.

I feel all that anger I felt the night he broke up with me swell inside and take control. He wants a show? I’ll give him a goddamn show. I’ll show him just what he threw away.

I let the slow rhythm of the music seep into my bones as I stalk toward him. A few feet from the edge of the stage, I plant my feet wide and drop down, then roll up slowly, snaking my hands over my calves, my inner thighs, my bare stomach, my breasts, then overhead, where I twist them into my red mane, knocking my hat off. And all the time, my hips work the pulsing rhythm. I stomp to the beat for maximum jiggle as I make my way back to the pole and lean my back against it. I work one hand down my curves, slipping over my satin shorts to my inner thigh. I grind my pelvis in a circle, letting my fingers settle over the V at the top of my legs for a beat, then glide my hand back up to my breast, then to my hair, where I twist my fingers into my waves.

And then I have sex with Trent right here on the stage.

I roll my hips to the rhythm of music that’s now a part of me, and imagine myself straddling him in his seat. It’s only when one song segues into the next that I realize I’m totally on the brink of getting myself off right here on the stage, in front of all these people. I open my eyes and find a pile of money along the edge of my stage.

I drop to my knees and catch my hat in my teeth, then crawl toward the edge and sweep the money up, tucking it into my hat. I slap it back on my head and undulate my way back to my feet. Marcus moves closer when one of the drooling guys at the edge makes a grab for me. Over his head, I catch Trent pushing out of his seat.

My racing heart beats faster as he stalks through the crush of bodies, like a prowling animal, and comes out on my left, away from most of the crowd. His mouth curves into a cocky smile as he holds a bill between his index and middle fingers.

I sashay over, and it’s only as I waggle down to his level, where I intend to spit in his face, that I catch all the details I couldn’t see from a distance through the glaring stage lights.

It’s not Trent.

This guy is slightly older, maybe mid-twenties, and built, but not quite so muscle-bound. And where Trent’s hair is the color of milk chocolate, with eyes to match, this guy’s hair is more sandy brown, and his eyes are pale blue.

He reaches up to slip the hundred into my top and his gaze liquefies my insides and turns my legs to jelly. He arches an eyebrow at me in a question. I lean in, wanting with every fiber of my being to know what he’s asking. He gives me the hint of a smile, and, as his fingertips brush the bare skin of my breast, my blood boils.

Damn, he’s hot.

His pale pink button-down is open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and I can’t help noticing those strong hands. The image of them on my body forms unbidden in my mind, sending a shudder rippling up my spine. His face is striking, with strong cheekbones and a square jaw, and there’s blondish stubble on his chin and cheeks that I’m dying to touch. I bet it’s soft.

He gives me a wink and turns for his table, confidence wafting off him like cologne. I close my eyes and tip my head back, intoxicated by the whole encounter.

And that’s when I remember what Nora said. Don’t linger too long.

Whoops.

I’M COUNTING OUT my tips in the dressing room when Nora comes in. “Nice show, girlie. Never seen a rookie work it quite like that.”

I shrug. “I was inspired.”

“Well, I hope you’re still inspired, because you’re not done yet.”

“I’m going back out?” A little thrill skitters my skin into goose bumps, despite the heat. Between the money and the rush of being on stage, I think I’ve found the job I was truly meant for. I come totally alive on that stage. And even after my sixty percent to Ben, I’m taking home almost four hundred dollars in tips tonight.

Plus, if he’s still out there . . . All the muscles in my groin contract at the thought.

“No, you’re not going back out,” Nora says, and disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. “But you have a private.”

“What’s a private?”

“A private dance. Ben has a VIP room for more discerning individuals who prefer the discretion of a private show. You’ve been hired.”

I feel suddenly dizzy as the blood runs out of my head. “What do I have to do?”

She cracks up—a smoker’s cackle, all rough and throaty. “No, girlie, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s the same rules as out there,” she says with a flick of her wrist at the door. “They pay two hundred for a half an hour. You get a hundred, Ben takes the rest. No touching, keep your clothes on at all times, and never get closer than three feet. The cops are always snooping around, looking for a reason to shut Ben down. Break the rules, you’re gone. It’s that simple.”

I look at my huge mound of tip money and decide I’m not going to break the rules. Ever.

She holds out her hand for my stash. “Ben will hold that for you till you’re ready for it. You don’t want to leave it sitting around in here. We’re family, but a stack of cash is just too tempting.”

I hand it to her and follow her up the hall to Ben’s office. He glances up when we walk it. “That was some show,” he says to me with an appreciative nod toward the window.

“You saw?” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

He gives me a cool look I’m not quite sure how to read. “I see everything.”

Nora hands him my money. “She’s got a private.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Nora turns and I follow her back past the dressing room to a door across the hall near the end. “Remember, same rules,” she says, her hand on the knob. “If he wants to tip you, it’s all yours, but he can leave it on the table. Never closer than three feet. There’s no bouncer in there, so it’s for your protection. And when I say no touching, I mean no touching. Sometimes they want to jack off, but that’s another hard and fast rule. If they want to touch themselves, they have to wait until they’re off the premises. There’s a panic button on the back wall near the stereo, which will get Marcus there in a heartbeat. And the door doesn’t lock, so you can always just walk out if there’s any inappropriate behavior.” She looks at me. “You ready?’

“So, all I have to do is dance.”

“Absolutely,” she says with a sharp nod.

I breathe deep. “Yeah. Ready.”

She pushes the door open and I walk in. The room is dimly lit by a single torch lamp with a red shade in the corner. A fan whirring on the ceiling dries the sheen of sweat on my skin, sending goose bumps skittering over my exposed flesh. There’s music playing in the background, a slow Bruno Mars song, and along the back wall is a red velvet sofa.

There’s a guy on the sofa, and when I see who it is, my hammering heart stalls.

Chapter Four

HE STANDS, AND  that cocky almost-smile pulls at his perfect lips as his eyes, the pale blue of glacial ice, eat me alive.

“Hi,” he says in a deep voice, and another ripple of goose bumps pebble my skin. His pink button-down is tailored, accentuating the taper of his wide shoulders and chest, down to a narrow waist. The tails are loose over faded jeans that fit him perfectly. And on his feet are a pair of well-worn square-toed cowboy boots.

I glance back at Nora, who gives me an, “Okay?” tip of her head.

I nod and she shuts the door. I turn back to Hot Guy. “I guess I’m supposed to dance for you?”

He settles back into the cushions and lifts an eyebrow. “Unless there’s something else you had in mind.”

Oh, God. He has an accent that makes my insides go gooey. It’s not really a southern twang. It’s just something about the way the words sort of meander off his tongue—smooth, like plush velvet dripping in warm honey. And hot as hell.

“I’ll just . . . dance, I guess.”

Between my sweating palms and the fact that I’m about to hyperventilate, I feel like I’m back in high school . . . like it’s that first conversation with Trent. The way he carries himself, his easy confidence—this guy reminds me of him so much. But what he has that Trent doesn’t is a layer of sophistication over all that hotness. From his tailored clothes, to the sexy stubble on his face, to the way the left side of his mouth pulls into the hint of a secret smile, as if he knows things—it’s just so worldly.

“You do that,” he says, his eyes flickering over me, the heat in them warming me from the inside out.

I spy the stereo in the corner and stumble over to it, turning up the music. I close my eyes and start moving with the rhythm. But I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in a room with the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And he’s here for the sole purpose of watching me move . . . Which makes it really hard to move.

I turn my back to him and swing my hips to the slow melody, but I’m still not feeling it. I look over my shoulder and there’s an amused expression on his face, like he’s trying not to laugh. I spin and cross my arms over my chest, glaring down at him, pissed that someone I don’t even know can make me feel this stupid. “Is something funny? Please share.”

“No,” he says, eyes wide and hands in the air, all feigned candor. “By all means, continue.”

“You know, if you harass me, I can just walk out of here and you don’t get your money back, right?”

That smug, oh-so-sexy smile tugs at his mouth again as he rests his arms across the back of the sofa, pulling his shirt tight across his chest and making something tingle deep in my belly. His eyes rake over every inch of me, and after a long minute, he stands from the sofa and moves toward me, the same slow stalk that he used in the club earlier. But as he gets closer, I back away.

“There’s a three feet rule,” I warn.

His feet stall and his eyebrows arch. “Three feet rule . . . ?”

“You’re supposed to stay three feet away from me.”

He tips his head at me. “Do you want me to stay three feet away from you?”

No. “Yes.”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth for a second, disappointment clouding his eyes. “All right, then,” he finally says, backing toward the sofa. He settles into the cushions.

I just stand here, not sure whether we’re done or if he still expects me to dance.

“Sit,” he finally says after a long, awkward minute. He pats the cushion next to him.

I move to the far end of the sofa, which is just about three feet from where he’s sitting, and perch on the edge.

“I’m Harrison,” he says.

“There’s no touching,” I say, looking at his outstretched hand.

He stifles a smile and nods, pulling back his hand. “I’ll settle for your name, then.”

“Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

I nod.

He leans toward me, elbows on knees. “So . . . I was told you might be able to hook me up.”

My heart skips. “Hook you up?”

He taps the side of his nose and sniffs, giving me a “You know what I mean” tip of his head.

“Oh!” It’s actually a relief he’s looking for coke. “Um . . . no. Sorry.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, giving me a look. “I’d share.”

“A friend of mine can probably get you anything you want. I could ask him after my shift, if you want.”

He settles into the opposite corner of the sofa and looks at me a little funny. “How long have you worked here, Sam?”

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to try to jump me, I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed. I glance at the clock on the wall. “About five hours.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Wow.” He drawls out the word, like that’s in some way disappointing. “I never would have guessed based on your performance out there. It was . . .” He trails off and makes the “mind, blown” gesture with his hands at the sides of his head.

“Big Pete said it was my virgin appearance,” I say, afraid he’ll ask for his money back for the private, “so you were warned.”

“I came in after you started, so I guess I missed that.”

Even so, he must not be a regular, or he’d know I’d never danced here before. “So you don’t come here very often?”

He shakes his head. “Never been here before.”

“Why did you come tonight?”

He laces his fingers behind his head and tips it back, staring at the ceiling and blowing out a breath. “To take my mind off some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Woman problems.” He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Thinking about it now, it’s occurring to me coming here to watch hot women dance probably wasn’t the best strategy.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Ignoring the cramp in my stomach isn’t as easy as I hope it’s going to be. I lower a hand to my belly and press.

“Had. A fiancée, actually.”

“Had,” I repeat.

He lifts his eyes, but not his head, peering at me out from under some of the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. “She left me standing at the altar a few weeks ago.”

His aloof confidence is gone, replaced by a vulnerability I never would have guessed at. But instead of making him pathetic, it makes him so much sexier. There’s at least twenty seconds where I forget how to breathe. I can’t imagine what kind of person would leave this—one of the most perfect examples of the male species I’ve ever seen—standing at the altar.

“Wow. Sorry.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off, but he can’t totally hide how deep it cuts. “Shit happens.”

“Tell me about her.”

He sinks back into the cushions. “You really want to talk about this?”

I get up and turn down the music. “Yeah.”

“I have to say, this is the last thing I expected when I walked in here.”

I settle onto the sofa, closer than I was before. “What did you expect?”

There’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Me. A private room. The most devastatingly gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. That doesn’t seem like a recipe for pouring my heart out about my ex.”

Electricity ripples under my skin. I shudder, and hope he doesn’t notice. What I really want to say is, “You think I’m devastatingly gorgeous?” But what I say instead is, “You don’t have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He leans in a little, and I wish it was more. “I get the feeling you’re a good listener.”

“I am.” I could listen to that lazy drawl all day.

That almost-smile curves his lips again, but this time it’s shyer. “You seriously want to hear this?”

Maybe my motives aren’t exactly pure, because I really want to know what type of woman it takes to snare this guy’s heart, but I do. “Yeah.”

He looks at me a moment longer, then blows out a breath and rubs his neck again. “I’ve loved her forever.”

“How long is forever?”

His eyes lift to mine. “We met freshman year at UCLA, so eight years.”

“That is forever.”

“We had statistics together and the prof put us in the same group for our midterm project.” His mouth pulls into the hint of a smirk, and it’s a totally sexy look on his strong face. “She was a math geek, which was just so damn hot.”

Well, that’s a first.

“One thing led to another and we’ve been together ever since.” He shakes his head as his jaw clenches. “I just never thought . . .”

I shift closer. “So . . . what happened?”

He drapes his arms over the back of the sofa and his fingers brush my shoulder, sending my heart beating just a little bit faster. “She said I was married to my job and she wanted someone who would put her first.”

I swing sideways and tuck my knees up in front of me, pressing my shoulder into the back of the sofa, just an inch from his hand. “What is this job you’re supposedly married to?”

He hesitates, his gaze flickering over my costume and lingering on the deep V of my neckline. “I do set locations for a movie production company. There’s a lot of travel,” he adds, waving an arm at the room.

My heart kicks. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“I’m a film and media major at UC Santa Cruz . . . or I was, anyway. Who do you work for?”

There’s a second where he just stares at me, but then he flashes me that smug smile. “An indie production company. No one you would have heard of. What do you mean, you were a film a media major?”

Am I ready to tell this person who I hardly know what a fuck-up I am? But then I realize if I’m never going to see him again, who better?

“I flunked out last quarter, which sucked because I’d finally found a major I liked.”

His eyes widen slightly. “How many majors did you have?”

“Three.” I tip my head into my hand and rub the pink out of my cheeks. “I was asked to leave two others. But that wasn’t really a bad thing, you know? I started in math because that was always my strongest subject in high school and Greg, my stepdad, said there’d be lots of employment opportunities.”

“Math,” he says pensively.

He reaches for a lock of my hair with the hand that’s still on the back of the sofa and rubs it between his thumb and index finger. I try to pretend like the gentle tickle on my scalp isn’t doing things to totally unrelated parts of my anatomy. When my eyes find his face, there’s something reflective in his expression, and that’s when I remember that he just said how hot his fiancée being a math geek was.

“Math,” I answer, even though it wasn’t a question. “But I missed a lot of class first quarter. I ended up on probation and never really got off.”

“Why did you miss so much class?” he asks, still playing with my hair, and I decide, as long as his fingers stay on the technically dead parts of me, we’re really not breaking Ben’s rules.

But it’s super distracting. “What?”

“You said you didn’t go to classes first quarter,” he reminds me, his gaze becoming deeper and more liquid.

“Um . . . I guess I sort of partied a lot. My parents are kind of control freaks. Mom especially. She micromanages my entire life and second-guesses every decision I make. All we ever do is fight, so . . .”

“So, when you were out from under her, you did what you wanted for a change,” he finishes for me.

I nod. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Understandable, but not terribly forward thinking.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but I don’t pull away, because more of his fingers are playing with my hair now, and I don’t want him to stop. “I went to class after that . . . mostly.”

“Then why did you fail out?”

“My boyfriend broke up with me and . . . I guess I started partying harder and forgot to go to class again.” I cringe as it’s coming out of my mouth. I know it’s lame to blame Trent. “So, you’re not from around here?” I add to change the subject.

His fingers stall in my hair. “I’m on a location scout. I volunteered because I needed to get the hell out of L.A. for a few days.”

“L.A. . . . that’s where you live?”

He nods. “Santa Monica.”

“But you’re not from there originally.”

He looks a question at me. “How would you know that?”

“Your accent.”

His mouth pulls into half a smile. “Thought I’d shaken that.”

“So, where are you really from?”

“I grew up in Texas.”

“That explains it,” I say. What I don’t say is how hot it is . . . the way certain words take their time sliding off his tongue. It makes me want to sit and just stare at his lips as he tells me all his secrets. “How long are you here?” It comes out a little desperate, which is stupid, because it doesn’t matter whether he says a day or a month. I’m never going to see him again after tonight.

“Just a few days. I leave Saturday morning.” He lowers his gaze. “My ex is coming for her stuff this week. She’ll have moved out by the time I get back.”

“I’m really sorry.” The sudden urge to make him forget all about the woman who broke his heart is overpowering. I want to crawl into his lap and run my fingers over that beautiful face. I want to kiss away his hurt. Hurt I understand.

As if he read my mind, his fingers tighten in my hair . . . a gentle tug that becomes more insistent as he pulls me closer. My heart beats hard against my ribs and my breathing goes a little shaky as I realize what he’s preparing to do.

It’s crazy, but I want to let him do it. I met him less that thirty minutes ago but I want so much to kiss him. We’re just inches apart and our breath mingles, sending a shudder through me to my core. I lick my lips and tip my face up, and my heart stalls when his fingers thread through my hair and cup the back of my head, drawing me closer.