Directing You

by Katana Collins

  Her expression shifted, one eyebrow arching like a cat stretching its back after a long nap, and we held an entire conversation without speaking a word, with a few eyebrow twitches. She pulsed her hips toward me, an invitation to tug on the scrap of silk tied around her waist, covering her ass.

  “Your crowd’s getting restless,” I said. “Better move on to someone else.”

  “Restless men tip better,” she whispered, then glanced at Noah, who gave her a wink.

  “Dammit,” I grunted. “I should’ve known you were behind this.”

  Noah held up his hands. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Reluctantly, I grabbed the string at her hip, and she twirled away from me, pulling loose the scarf that was left in my hand along with a golden ticket taped to the inside. Hazel twirled back into me, grabbed me by the wrist, and lifted my hand holding the ticket high in the air for the audience to see. They went nuts. Almost as if they all knew what was going to happen. Like they were in on some larger cosmic joke that I was not privy to.

  She grabbed my hand and tugged me onto the stage with her as I inwardly cursed my former best friends still down at the safety of our table. Putting her fingers on top of my head, she pushed me to my knees in front of her. Then, she pulled a chocolate out from inside her bra, put it between her lips, and bent to meet my mouth.

  I swallowed hard, feeling the stir in my pants as I looked into her low-hooded eyes. In the spotlight, they were such a dark shade of blue, they looked nearly black. She smelled like a heady mixture of lavender and chocolate as she hovered in front of me, and I parted my lips for her, a movement that was entirely out of my control.

  Leaning forward slowly, she pressed the chocolate into my mouth, her wet lips meeting mine, and I had to swallow my groan. The moment both lasted forever and passed far too quickly for my liking, leaving me speechless and frozen on the stage, kneeling at her feet.

  She straightened back to a standing position. Then, grasping my shoulders, she turned me so that I faced the audience and pushed me onto my back, lying on the stage. Facing me, and only me, with her back to the audience, she undid her bra. Bending at the waist, she flashed the audience her ass, shaking it and licking her lips as she tossed the bra aside, her perky, perfect B-cup breasts in my face…only for my viewing. Two tassels covered her nipples and I found myself wondering what they looked like beneath. Were they a rich mauve color? A pale rose hue? My mouth watered…and not for the chocolate that dripped down her cleavage. The whistles, the cheers, the horny men around us faded away, and for a moment, it was just Hazel Moon and me, lost in each other’s eyes again. She licked her lips, smiling down at me as her brows twitched.

  “Ready?” she whispered.

  “With you?” I said in return. “Something tells me I can never be ready enough.”

  Her dark blue eyes twinkled. “You’re a fast learner.”

  She lowered herself down onto me, her nearly bare pussy pressing against my now fully erect cock, and she rubbed her breasts against my mouth. “You know what to do,” she whispered as she writhed against my body.

  I gave in—not like I had much choice—and opened my mouth, laving the melted chocolate between her breasts and just beside her tassel-covered nipple. Jesus Christ. In that moment, I would have given my left nut to have sucked her nipple into my mouth.

  A vibration pulled me from the moment. A moan…her moan. Could it be that she was enjoying my tongue as much as I was enjoying this? Or was that part of the act?

  Her chest heaved as she pulled back. Her lips were wet and parted as she panted heavy, hard breaths. “Meet me after. In the Champagne Room.”

  With that, she pushed off of me, spun around, revealing herself to the audience, and circled those tassels for the rest of the audience to see. And just like that, her performance was over.

  Chapter 2

  Hazel

  What the hell was I thinking? Inviting him into the Champagne Room with me? Yes, Noah had asked for me to pull him on stage as a favor. He asked for whatever VIP treatment I’d be willing to give his friend. But the Champagne Room? I snorted at my reflection in the mirror, shaking my head and tugging off the necklace from behind my neck.

  Despite the fact that I desperately needed the money, I hadn’t done a private dance in the Champagne Room in over a year. That was reserved for the new dancers who didn’t know any better—and for the months that I couldn’t make rent, if I was being honest. This, admittedly, was one of those months. And Noah had already arranged an envelope of cash that was waiting for me at my dressing room mirror.

  I liked Noah. He didn’t mean anything by it—the envelope of money. It was simply his round of tips for his table in one neat bundle rather than thrown up on stage during the show. He always arranged his tips this way when he came to the Ruby Slipper. Each dancer had an envelope of cash waiting for them if he was in the audience. And yet I couldn’t help but feel a little like a whore seeing it there at my mirror, waiting for me, with my name scrolled across it in his handwriting.

  I didn’t have to go through with it, of course. Noah hadn’t been expecting a private dance for his friend. But there was something about that man on stage with me… He was different.

  I wanted more time with him. His eyes didn’t roam my body as I made my way across the stage. His focus seemed to remain on my face—my eyes. And occasionally, when I was doing one of my harder moves, the high kick or the backbend, his head would tilt, those dark eyebrows tightening above bright green eyes. Like he was evaluating me… not just a dude out with his bros looking for some boobs to be swung in his face.

  I’d done my signature Willy Wonka dance every week for a year. I was known for it. Hazel Moon was becoming a draw for the club, solely based on that dance alone. Every week, it was the same thing. I ate some chocolates, found a golden ticket winner, pulled a guy up on stage, and fed him a chocolate from my mouth. Tonight should have been just like any other night. That guy should have been just like any other guy. But it wasn’t. He wasn’t. The moment our lips touched, the connection zipped over my skin, sending a wave of goose bumps racing down my flesh. My nipples became hard against the pasties I wore over them, the friction causing just enough sensation to send my pulse racing.

  And when we pulled back from the kiss…he wasn’t looking out toward the audience. He wasn’t making eye contact with his buddies and air high-fiving them. His eyes were on me, and me alone. I’d been dancing a long time. I was used to people watching me. I wasn’t used to people seeing me.

  I paced backstage in the dressing room that I shared with eight other dancers and hugged my silky robe tighter around my body. I chewed on the edge of my pinky fingernail…an old, disgusting habit that resurfaced when I was stressed.

  Cris, our stage manager and the woman who helped us put together our dance numbers, poked her head into the dressing room. “Hazel, there’s a man who says he’s supposed to meet you in the Champagne Room?” She gave me a questioning glance, knowing full well that I hadn’t done private dances in a long time. “Need me to tell him to get lost?”

  I swallowed, grabbing the envelope and peeking in at the cash. Shit, there were a lot of twenties in there. I exhaled a deep breath I’d been holding in my lungs and shook my head. “It’s fine, Cris. I’ll meet him there in a minute.”

  I slid out of my robe and grabbed my white lingerie set. As I slipped it on, I could feel Cris watching me closely, trying to figure me out, and I heard rather than saw her take a few steps inside the dressing room. Her hand fell gently to my arm, and she whispered, “If you need an advance on next week’s paycheck—”

  I cut her off with a smile. “I don’t. I’m okay, really.” If okay meant eating ramen noodles every meal this week, then yeah, I was okay. But Cris was a single mom and I wasn’t about to make her life any harder than it needed to be. Besides, taking an advance on my paycheck would only mean I got less next month anyway.

  Her brows dipped lower. “I just know how
much you hate private dances.”

  “I do. But this is a favor for a friend.” Noah Tripp was a friend from my hometown of Maple Grove, New Hampshire. We’d managed to keep in touch even after he hit it big on some big tween vampire show. He was sweet and supportive and had offered to get me an audition for his show multiple times. But taking that handout felt wrong. And I didn’t want to act in film and TV. I wanted to be on the stage. Or at least, I thought I did.

  So, when he texted me tonight that he wanted to embarrass his buddy who wasn’t typically a person who likes the spotlight, I was happy to help. Noah didn’t bring friends to my performances often. A few times a year, he would come. He was never out of line. Never made me feel uncomfortable. And I had never, ever offered one of his friends a private dance.

  Until now.

  Even though a flutter of excitement surged in my belly at the thought of seeing Noah’s friend again, I couldn’t help but feel like I made a terrible mistake inviting him to the Champagne Room.

  My empty stomach turned over itself as I wondered what it was they were celebrating. God, I hoped it wasn’t a bachelor party. That would mean he was taken. I squeezed my eyes shut. Not that it mattered, because I was far too busy to get involved with anyone. Especially someone Noah was friends with. He was likely in the business too. Another actor, maybe? And I was not going to be known as the girl who dated fellow actors.

  I paused, heat flooding my cheeks as a thought struck me hard and fast. He probably wouldn’t even consider me as anything other than a hook-up, anyway, because of my profession.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Burlesque had started as an outlet. A way to dance and express myself creatively while being on stage and getting paid. But the more I did it, the more I lost sight of why I’d moved to New York City in the first place. To be an actress. To do musical theater on Broadway. I needed to find my way back to that passion and not the one that—just barely—paid my rent.

  I made my way down the hall to the Champagne Room and took a deep breath. I could get out of this. It would be easy. I’d go in there, introduce myself as one of Noah’s friends, pour him a glass of the complimentary champagne and toast whatever it was they were all celebrating tonight, then escort him back to his table to say hello to Noah. That would be my excuse. My reason for inviting him back here.

  Reaching out, I turned the doorknob and entered.

  I thought I was prepared, but I wasn’t. Even though I had only left him on that stage a few minutes earlier, he looked even more handsome back here in the dim light of the Champagne Room. His dark hair was cut short. Angled, chiseled features were shadowed by the low lighting. And he stood in the back corner with his hands in his pockets, looking at the vinyl records framed on the wall.

  In the moment he became aware of my presence, his shoulders tightened, barely perceptibly, lifting toward his ears. He spun to fully face me, and his striking good looks and confident pose robbed my lungs of breath. I balanced the tray of champagne and two flutes on my hip and kicked the door shut behind me.

  “Here.” He rushed forward to take the tray from my hands. “Let me help you.”

  “Thank you.” His fingers brushed mine, and that same heat I had felt earlier zinged from his fingertips up my arm until I felt my skin flush pink.

  “I’m Reid,” he said, holding out a hand to me. I eyed it for a moment before taking it and shaking it.

  “Hazel. But you knew that.”

  He gave a thoughtful hmm sound before nodding. “Shall I pour us a couple glasses?”

  “Usually the dancers do that for the patrons,” I said, taking the bottle from his hands and tugging at the cork. The loud pop echoed in the room, and I gave a squeal as champagne foamed out the top into the two glasses. I laughed and looked up into his eyes—those green, scrutinizing eyes. There was humor in them and the slightest crinkle at the corners, alluding to a smile that hadn’t quite edged from his brain to his mouth yet.

  “Cheers,” I said, handing him his flute and tapping the edge of mine to it.

  “Cheers.” We each took a sip, keeping our eyes on each other over the tops of the glasses. He licked his lips, setting the flute down on the table, and lowered himself to the couch. “Why did you invite me back here?” he asked.

  “I’m, um, well… Noah’s a friend from high school. He asked me to give you special treatment.”

  Another moment of silence. Was that disappointment in his eyes? “Ah,” Reid said. “Well, that’s very kind of you. But I’m sure you have lots of other paying customers—”

  He moved to stand, and panic swept me. I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want this to be over just yet, though for the life of me, I didn’t know why. I wanted to get to know him better. This elusive man named Reid who didn’t seem to frequent these sorts of clubs.

  My hands fell to his shoulders, pushing him back to a seated position. If he was startled, he hid it well. Or maybe nothing startled him. “I haven’t danced yet,” I said quietly and swallowed another sip of champagne. Oh boy. What was I getting myself into? He’d given me an out. Why didn’t I take it?

  I chose a song on my phone, which was wired to the Bluetooth speakers in the room, and being sure to keep a safe distance between us, began circling my hips, running my fingers over the straps of my lacy bra.

  Reid watched me carefully, his arm strewn over the back of the couch in a seemingly casual way. But I knew better. Nothing about this man was casual. Nothing from his crisp Oxford button-down shirt to his sleek, gray, flat-front pants that were now just the slightest bit tight against his cock.

  “Tell me, Ms.…” He paused, waiting for me to fill in my last name.

  “Moon,” I said.

  “Right.” He smirked. “Ms. Moon. Do you come up with your own numbers?”

  I nearly stumbled in my dance moves with the question. I’d been asked that before, but usually by women. Not men. “Yes.” I opted for the simple answer.

  “All of it? The costumes, the themes…the choreo?”

  Choreo. He abbreviated choreography. Which probably meant he was in the business somehow. My suspicions were right. “Yes,” I said, dancing closer to him and crawling onto the coffee table as though it were a stage. “I come up with my numbers. The songs. The choreography. I even make my own costumes. In the burlesque world, you get more street cred if you do it all.”

  He swallowed, his eyes flitting briefly to my feet before darting back to my eyes. “And this burlesque world…that’s your dream?”

  I didn’t stumble this time. Now, I was ready for his line of questioning. And this was one I’d heard before. Many times. A man who felt I was in need of saving from this seedy life. “Do you have a problem with this world?” I challenged.

  He shook his head. “Not if you don’t. And not if it’s your dream.”

  “In the Champagne Room, it’s not about my dream. It’s about your fantasy.” There. That should shut him up.

  He grunted a sigh, pressing his lips together, and leaned forward, leaning his elbows to his knees. “Except this isn’t really my fantasy either.”

  I quirked a brow. “No? Then what is?”

  “Right now, my fantasy is to watch you do something you really love to do.” He swallowed and leaned back, pleased with himself. “I do believe you love to dance. You seemed to love being center stage in your Wonka performance. But this? A one-person audience doesn’t seem to ignite the fire in you like being on stage did.”

  Normally he’d be right. And this lame hip-thrust dance I was doing for him definitely wasn’t my passion. But with him as the one-man audience? There was something sparking inside of me, though I didn’t think it was my passion for performance.

  I stopped dancing. “I do have a new number I’ve been working on. But I’m not sure it’s ready for an audience yet.”

  His eyebrows jumped. “Now I’m intrigued. Test it out on me. It’s okay if it doesn’t go perfectly.”

  Doesn’t go perfectly would be an understatement. If
it went badly, it would go really badly. “Okay,” I said, grabbing the champagne glass and standing up on the coffee table. I took a deep, steadying breath, tilted my head back, and balanced the glass on my forehead. Carefully, I lowered into a backbend, keeping the champagne from tipping and giving him a nice view of my cleavage. Then, slowly, I lowered myself to my knees and down onto my back without spilling a drop as I lifted my legs into the air, bringing them up around my face. I clamped the champagne glass with my knees and somersaulted over onto my stomach into a yoga cobra pose, all without spilling a drop of champagne.

  I glanced at him, putting one hand in the air, and sang, “Ta-da!”

  He clapped slowly, nibbling his bottom lip. “Well done.”

  “There’s more.” I lowered my legs, setting the glass on the table, and once I was sure it wouldn’t spill, I spun around, spreading my legs into a straddle. Bending, I bit the edge of the champagne glass, lifting it in my mouth with no hands, and walked over to where Reid sat.

  My chest heaved with each heavy breath, and I could feel the racing pulse thrumming at the base of my jaw with each step closer to him. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted to feel his lips again. I lowered the glass to his mouth and he opened, wrapping his lips around it as I braced my hands on either side of his thighs. My palms pressed into the firm pleather cushions as I hoisted myself up into a handstand, forcing him to drink the glass of champagne quickly to avoid spilling it all over him.

  A little bit of the bubbly liquid sloshed down my jaw and his neck, and when I lowered, I grabbed the glass. We were both laughing, wiping at our mouths as I curtseyed for his slow clap. Then, I fell to the couch, sitting beside him, curling my legs beneath me. “The end needs a little work,” he said. “But otherwise, a solid performance.”

  I tipped my head in a fake bow. “Thank you.”

  His eyes grazed down my neck and he started to lean in but stopped himself. “You have some chocolate on your neck still,” he whispered. Every molecule in my body buzzed to life with his awareness of me.