Sweet Curves for the Marine

by Piper Anne

  Sweet Curves for the Marine

  A Sweet Curves Novella

  Piper Anne

  Dear Reader,

  This is a placeholder file. This is the file which was uploaded as a placeholder on the Kindle Unlimited platform at the time the author created the book listing and is not the complete book. If you’re seeing this message, don’t worry! Please be sure that your Kindle or other reading device is set to accept updated books. If it is, you should get the correct file on your reading device. Or, please remove this copy of SWEET CURVES FOR THE MARINE from your reading device and try uploading the book one more time directly from your Kindle app, or from your digital purchase history on Amazon. If you preordered this book, the correct copy should be available to you by 4:00 pm CST on 10/21/19.

  Please note, in most cases, the placeholder file was incorrectly left in place by Amazon. I apologize for the inconvenience.

  Sincerely,

  Piper

  Copyright © 2019 Piper Anne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and not to be construed as real.

  Chapter One

  “There was another note taped to the carousel.”

  Claire Reva plucked the offered square of paper from her friend and employee Marissa’s hand. Both women looked at the note as if neither wanted to touch it.

  “That’s the fourth one this week,” Claire sighed. “Want to take bets on what this one says?”

  Marissa shook her head, her brown curls bouncing around her head. “Just throw it away, sis.”

  “I should. But I feel like these are passively threatening, you know? What if the police need to see them?”

  Being the owner of a thriving burlesque opened the doors for a lot of creeps, but she hadn’t run into this level of low-key ickiness before. Sure, her employees wore revealing costumes, sometimes nothing, depending on their mood, and the music was always seductive and sexy. The lighting was always low and inviting and the alcohol never stopped flowing. Men were horny bastards and every now and then one of the patrons would take things a little too far.

  Leaving hand-drawn images of herself in various sex acts with a faceless man was a little extreme, though. Someone had taken the time to think about the images and then draw them out. Her hands shook slightly as she unfolded the paper.

  “Christ.”

  She was mildly impressed and completely yucked out. The artistry was really good; her likeness done in pencil which perfectly captured the fullness of her hips and breasts and thick thighs. Even the little dimple behind her left buttock. She was being taken from behind in this drawing, a faceless man going to town on her ass, his huge cock halfway in and showing off some impressive veins on the shaft. He had a huge fistful of her hair, and her expression was one of pure pain.

  Not pleasure.

  There was fear in her wide-spread eyes. The emotion was so clear that Claire shuddered. The last drawing portrayed a man’s hand around her neck, her eyes bugging out of her head and her lips shaded to suggest she was being strangled. The secretive psycho artist liked to tape his creations to one of the horses on the antique carousel located in the lobby.

  “That’s it. We need to get a security camera hidden near the carousel.” Claire folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of her jeggings. “This could get out of hand in a hurry.”

  “I agree. We need to get someone in her to fix the cameras, though. We’re still having issues with static.”

  Claire sighed. She’d paid big money to have a security system installed when she took over the burlesque two years ago, but the security company never came back to fix a bug in the system. Over the past few months, the cameras were increasingly fuzzy, making surveillance nearly impossible to ascertain. This was Texas. Everyone carried a gun in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Sometimes, she needed to see who was starting a fight or roughing up one of her girls. After nine phone calls and a strongly worded certified letter, she still hadn’t been able to get the security company to live up to their work.

  She was going to have to change her tactic.

  “We open in an hour,” Claire said. “Let me take care of this, okay?”

  “You’re the boss, sis.”

  She smiled at Marissa’s easy use of the intimate term. She called most people sis, but Claire liked to think it meant more between them. Marissa was one of the first dancers she’d hired, and their bond had grown incredibly strong. If not for her friend, Claire never would have thought to market the Sweet Curves Burlesque to women with traumatic pasts as a safe place of employment. Every one of her girls had suffered through something, and each of them stayed because Claire made them feel appreciated, valued and safe.

  Her girls were all beautifully curvy. They all had issues. Yet, when they came together, their friendship and the sense of family they created at Sweet Curves was like nothing Claire had ever imagined. She’d cultivated a highly successful business which put more money in her girls’ pockets than she’d ever thought possible. Her hands clenched as she walked to her dressing room. She didn’t need some creepy asshole causing trouble for her, or any of her girls. They were up against enough adversity as it was. They were all thriving, and nothing could get in the way of that.

  She was going to protect all of this, no matter what it took.

  Claire sat at her mirror and took out her makeup bag. It was Texas Taco night, which meant her patrons would flood the place for all-you-can-eat tacos, tap beers and three amazing shows. She was leading the first performance. It was a sexy cowgirl routine. She made up her eyes in shades of gray and black, false lashes for days, a golden-pale face and ruby red lips. Then she slipped a glossy auburn wig of cascading curls over her own white-blonde hair and put on a saucy pair of fake glasses.

  A brown leather vest rested nicely to her full breasts, hanging open enough to show off some impressive boobage, without showing her nipples. She slipped into a little red fringe skirt paired with crimson cowgirl boots. Covering her bare skin in body glitter, Claire gave herself a once over in the mirror. She barely recognized herself and that was okay. She never got tired of wowing the crowd, of pretending she was someone else—someone with so much confidence and presence.

  She’d never been that woman before, not until Sweet Curves. She used to despise the width of her hips, the annoying softness of her belly; the too-much fullness of her breasts. No diet ever did a damn thing. No personal trainer could make a difference. And then she’d started dancing and realized just what her body was capable of.

  And once she’d opened Sweet Curves and saw how men flooded the place to see her curvy dancers, she felt validated for the first time in her life. Years of therapy to try and fix the body issues her mother had laid on her hadn’t done squat compared to the healing that dancing brought.

  She didn’t hate her body anymore, but she still loved the sneakiness of dressing up to be someone she wasn’t. Not that being anonymous was doing her any good. There was a creep in the crowd, someone who’d been watching her. Drawing her. Obviously fantasizing about doing terrible things to her. The sketches were aggressive, almost violent. The thought that the artist might be in the audience watching her tonight made her chest tighten. At least the image
s of her resembled herself in costume, as her alter-ego Selima. Maybe the perp didn’t know who she really was.

  There was a knock on her door before it cracked open. “Ready, boss?”

  She swiveled in her chair. “I am. Come in and let me see you.”

  Her head of choreography Jade swished inside and gave a little, ‘ta-da’ spread of her arms. She was covered in halo body glitter, each movement making her sparkle and shine. Her breasts were bare save for pasties over her nipples that looked like gold Sheriff’s badges. A leather fringe skirt barely covered her crotch. One good sway and patrons would get an eyeful.

  Good. As long as Jade was comfortable with that.

  “Are all of you girls ready?” She had ten backup dancers including Jade on this routine.

  “Yes, Ma’am! And the house is full. Yee-haw!” Jade swirled a cowboy hat on one finger and plopped it on her head. They hooked arms and joined the other girls in the hall. Claire’s chest filled and expanded, her heart thrumming as she stepped between the ruby curtains and onto the black floor of the stage.

  The announcer called from behind the curtain, “Put your hands together for Selima and the Rowdy Rangers!”

  The lights momentarily blinded her, jacking her pulse even more as it always did.

  The music started and her body moved by rote, doing its own thing as if she were a puppet and her body the master. She shimmied to the edge of the stage and the crowd came into view. The scents of spicy male cologne and beer lingered in the air. The crowd cheered as she twisted and turned her body, sending her fringe skirt into overdrive so everyone got a very clear view of her red leather thong. She spun and bent down her full, round ass clear as day for anyone who cared to look.

  In the moment, she didn’t care if they did.

  The crowd cheered more. Claire laughed and spun back around, her eyes immediately locking with a pair from the front row.

  Her heart lurched to her chest. She faltered, but quickly recovered. Spinning away, she huffed out a breath as a tickle of lightheadedness went through her.

  It was him!

  Smoking hot with an angsty vibe that was potently masculine and sexy, Mr. Front Row usually sat in the middle a few rows back. He’d been creeping up closer and closer over the past couple of weeks. She’d been able to tell he was attractive from a distance, but now that he was right there…

  She turned back to face him, continuing her dance even as her pulse hummed in her ears. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes focused on her with such intensity, she could barely draw a breath. His strong thighs were spread wide in his chair, the posture inviting and perfect for wedging her hips between. He’d grab onto her waist, his face in the perfect position to kiss between her breasts…

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  Claire mentally slapped herself and kept on going, spinning with her back to him again, fully aware that he was watching her every move.

  He’d been here so much the past couple of weeks; nearly every night. He was moving closer and closer. Could he be the creep leaving pornographic pictures on her carousel? The thought sent a chill down her spine. The thought of having sexy thoughts over a man who might be stalking her made nausea rise in her throat.

  Turning back, she prepared to face him again, to get a good read on him this time.

  He was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Ethan Donnelly didn’t like the feeling he was having.

  Something was off, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe it was the whispers he heard from two of the cocktail waitresses earlier. Something about finding a threatening message taped to the carousel earlier today. They’d had their heads down as they bantered about it back and forth, but he’d heard them clear as day.

  And he didn’t like it.

  Hell, he didn’t want to walk out on Selima and her crazy good performance. She mesmerized him and he couldn’t get enough. God, he came here to watch her too much. He was becoming obsessed or something, which was ridiculous. He never got deep with a woman, yet here he was at Sweet Curves almost every night, just hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  Selima had curves that didn’t quit. Her breasts were made for his hands, her thighs for wrapping around him. That soft belly? Fuck, he could put a lot of babies in there. She was made to be a mother. And the very fact that he never, ever thought about a woman this way told him his PTSD was back in a big way. It had to be. He didn’t fixate on things, didn’t numb himself with addictions to get rid of memories being a Marine for too long had instilled in his head. But the way he was focused on this gorgeous dancer said something was going on in his head.

  It had to be. Because he was two seconds from storming the stage and flinging Selima over his shoulder to carry her off somewhere. This had to stop. Yet, getting the inkling that some pervert was bothering her, and her girls, had him up in arms. Sixteen years as a Marine who’d been to combat three times had honed his senses for trouble. The burlesque had its share of overly enthusiastic customers, for sure. He’d quietly put a few dudes in their places himself in his time here. But the looks on the waitresses’ faces when they’d been talking tonight displayed their unease. Fear, even.

  That, he couldn’t stand for.

  Hands in the front pocket of his jeans, he made a slow scan of the lobby. It was deserted save for a man and woman just walking in the door. He wandered to the carousel. It was a garish antique, the horses sporting chipped paint in bold jewel tones. Devilish grins showing off huge teeth. A little plaque on the wall said it had come from an amusement park somewhere in France. Not something you expected to see inside a burlesque done up in shades of pink, cream and brown with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. But it fit.

  Sweet Curves was a blend of surprises. Seems he found something else that intrigued him each time he walked in the door. From the physical scars some of the dancers sported and made no move to hide, to the posh décor of the lobby that faded into a blend of modern industrial in the stage room, this place offered layers that enticed you to keep looking.

  He gave the carousel a once over, walking around it, checking out the horses and poles. What would make someone tape a nasty note here? It was near the exit, so the guy probably planted his love letter on his way out. He wanted to be heard, but not seen.

  A loud cheer went up from the stage room. Ethan mentally cursed. He’d missed the end of Selima’s show. Damn it. Curious, he stepped away from the carousel as people began to exit into the lobby. Some would divert to the restaurant, some to the bar; some to leave. From his new vantage point on the far wall, he pretended to be perusing old images of the burlesque hung on the wall, while keeping an eye across the room on the carousel. A flood of people walked by it before parting their separate ways. Within moments, the lobby was deserted again.

  He waited an extra minute, but no one came around.

  Ready for a beer or two, Ethan headed back into the stage room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Selima. The stage was empty. Damn it. He really needed to approach her one of these days—get out of the shadows and be a man. He wanted her and the craving was only getting stronger.

  Mine.

  She was meant to be his. He felt it in the very center of his soul.

  “Can I help you, Sir?”

  Ethan spun to the feminine voice, his chest going tight when he came face-to-face with the woman of his dreams. Selima—he’d love to know her real name! —smiled with her big, ruby lips, and a surge of lust and possessiveness coursed through him.

  He swept her with a slow gaze. “I enjoyed the show.”

  “That’s good considering you only saw half of it.”

  He grinned. Had she been keeping her eye on him, too? As if reading his mind, she tapped a finger to his chest. “That’s right. I see you here every night and you usually stay for the whole performance. Thank you for being a loyal customer.”

  “You’re welcome.” His mind was racing with so much more that he wanted to say.

&nb
sp; “Well, now, you don’t want to miss out on the all-you-can-eat taco bar, do you? Right this way.” She put a hand on his arm, paused and swept him with a shy gaze. Her fingers kneaded his muscle lightly, her eyebrows going up.

  Ethan looked down at her. “I didn’t come for tacos.”

  “Everyone comes for tacos.”

  He took her upper arms in his hands, lightly restraining her and pulling her in closer. She gasped, her eyes going wide as she looked up at him. But she didn’t fight, and she didn’t pull away. He longed to hear his name come from her lips in that soft, Southern lilt she had.

  “Not me, darling. I came for something a little sweeter.”

  This isn’t how he’d planned to make his move. But fuck, she was right here, her luscious breasts nearly bare for his view, her hair tumbling down and her hips so close to his. He wanted to see her, the real her. The woman without the wig or the heavy makeup or glasses. But for now, he’d take what he could get.

  “There’s… there’s a full dessert bar, as well.”

  Her chest rose and fell hard with breathing she didn’t try and control. Her hand was still on his bicep, her fingers absently working his muscle as if she couldn’t get enough. Damn, she wanted him, too.

  “That’s not quite the treat that I’m after.”

  Her eyelids fell halfway, a jaunty smile crossing her lips. “Enlighten me, then.”

  Ethan pulled her up against him. A hard breath puffed from her lips, a dark hue of desire coloring her eyes.

  “How about if I show you?”

  She hitched a brow and a knowing grin crossed her lips. “Sorry, hon, we don’t usually audition men.”

  He flashed a brilliant smile, loved how she pulled in a quick breath. “You think I’m here to audition?”

  “I mean, you certainly have the goods. If this were, say, Magic Mike, I’d be all over watching you try to get my approval.” Her fingers streaked down his chest, leaving hot little tingles. Fuck, she was playing with fire. “In fact… I might be curious to see what kind of moves you have.”