Dance for Me

by J.C. Valentine

  Dance for Me

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  J.C. VALENTINE

  Books by

  J.C. VALENTINE

  Night Calls

  Stranded

  That First Kiss

  Surrender to Love

  Trust

  Wayward Fighters

  Knockout

  Tapout

  Blue Collar

  Sweetest Temptations

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  What if the person who stole your heart wasn't who you thought they were?

  When my parents passed away, I grew up fast. Learning to stand on my own two feet has been a challenge, but I'm making it... my way. I make no apologies for the path I've chosen. My choices have served me well, but no one knows the real me.

  Except one man.

  He's a mystery to me. He's controlling, demanding, and he has me wrapped around his little finger. Anything he wants, I'll give it to him. The hours we share together aren't about love. It's just sex. Hot, dirty, passionate sex. It was never supposed to be anything more than that.

  Until everything changed.

  Now, I'm more confused than ever. The more I learn about him, the less I seem to understand. What I do know is that I'm falling, and I have the feeling when I land, it's going to hurt.

  For my friend, Kim.

  ONE

  Whoever said life was fair must not have been talking about me. Growing up, I was a dreamer. A little girl with raven black, bouncing pigtails who was convinced that Jude McIntyre, my second-grade crush, would one day realize that I was a girl instead of one of the boys. I dreamed he would one day set those mesmerizing ice blue eyes on me and the world would realign. He would sweep me into his arms and carry me off into the sunset and together we would live an amazing life with two-point-five kids.

  But that was just a fairy tale, and fairy tales don’t come true. At least, not for people like me.

  By the time I turned eight, my world as I knew it had begun to collapse, and dreams like boys and marriage and kids had evaporated. The only concern I had was keeping Dad happy and praying to God to give us another good day.

  It was two weeks before my eighth birthday that the doctor diagnosed my mother with an inoperable brain tumor. He gave her two years. She was gone less than six months later.

  Nothing mattered after that except getting from one day to the next. If Jude McIntyre or any other boys ever noticed my existence, I didn’t know it. I was too busy making sure the man, who used to carry me around on his shoulders and told silly jokes at the dinner table, didn’t waste away. After Mom had died, Dad became a shell. He went to work only because there were bills to pay. He only ate out of habit, and the blank stare, that never seemed to go away, made me wonder if he even tasted what I laid in front of him.

  Dad passed away of natural causes shortly after my eighteenth birthday.

  I say it was a broken heart.

  He held on only long enough to make sure I made it into adulthood, and then he let it all go to be with Mom. I can’t say I blame him. I miss her, too. I miss them both. But now isn’t the time for crying. What’s done is done. Now, my only concern is carving a path through this minefield called life, and I do that the only way I know how.

  The floor-to-ceiling curtains hide my figure from curious eyes as my song of choice filters through the speakers, but I can feel them—touching, craving, yearning... For me.

  This feeling used to scare me shitless. The vulnerability. The exposure. But all of that is long gone. Now, all I feel is the rush.

  Being a stripper wasn’t my life’s ambition. Far from it. If my parents were looking down on me now, I don’t think they’d be very proud of what their daughter has become, but this job is the key to my survival. Waiting tables doesn’t pay much, but taking off my clothes means the difference between paying the bills and living on the streets. Student housing isn’t cheap, no matter how you slice it. As a bonus, with all the tips I’ve saved up, I will have paid my tuition in full by the time I’m finished with my degree.

  Right now, stripping is the solution I’ve chosen, because nothing else makes sense. And, if I'm being honest, I kind of like it.

  The sensual beat of Porcelain and the Tramp’s “I feel perfect” signal the show is about to begin. Standing with my feet slightly apart, I watch the dark curtains part in the middle. For one prolonged moment, I remain shrouded in a blanket of darkness. Then, as the lyrics take over, the ruby spotlight exposes me, and my feet begin to move. As I walk slowly forward, kicking my long legs out in front of me, I’m unable to see my audience, but I can feel them.

  This is how I do what I do. I am shy by nature, but I learned early on that if I can block out the eyes watching me, my love of dancing is free to take over. At the end of the stage, I grasp the gleaming silver pole and twist, pressing my back into it. The shadowed figures watching my every move hover in the darkness just beyond my reach, urging me on.

  Slowly, I slide down the length of the metal bar, my legs bending at the knee and opening wide, exposing the glittering gold strip that serves as a barrier between their eyes and the most intimate part of me.

  There is something about taking my clothes off for strangers that I find exhilarating. It’s the knowledge that all those eyes are focused on me, on every movement, no matter how small, and that I affect them. It gives me a sense of control, of power. I push these men to the brink, testing the limits of their willpower, and the only thing they can do is watch.

  And give me their money.

  Dropping to my knees, I crawl across the stage. Encased in stretchy gold fabric, my breasts sway with each movement, creating a hypnotizing effect. Men can’t get enough of breasts, and thankfully, I have plenty to flaunt.

  A few feet from the end of the stage, when I have reached as far as I am willing to go, I stretch my arms across the hard, cool surface, like a cat. Making eye contact with the darkness, I’m aware that whoever is on the other side is meeting my gaze with strained desire. Easing onto my back, I lift my hands overhead and stretch my long legs into the air, opening them wide, and then closing them again. The arch of my back presses my breasts toward the ceiling. Imagining what I must look like—nearly naked, needy and wanting, my body moving and arching, calling for my love to take me here, now—makes me feel edgy and wanton. As if the little clothing I wear is too much, threatening to smother me.

  I’m not an exhibitionist, but there are times like this that an almost overpowering need to push past my own limits threatens to consume me. It takes everything I have to pull back.

  Rotating onto my stomach, I push up onto my knees, reach for the pole again, and pull myself up. With both hands, I lift myself from the floor and bring both of my legs up, swinging in a full circle. Bills flutter to the stage, and I feel my smile inch up, slow and seductive.

  It is then that I feel Him.

  I’d noticed Him my first night on the job about five months ago before I learned the importance of lighting. He stuck to the perimeter of the room, choosing the same table in the same dark corner every time. From what I could tell, he had long legs, he was tall and had dark, almost midnight hair. The air of importance that cloaked Him made me peg Him as a professional. Although he alternated between jeans and slacks, polos and button-downs, I remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who should be wearing business suits—sharp, expensive, and tailored.

  He isn’t a regular by any stretch, but he’s definitely a creature of habit. I’d only seen him a total of four times before I began plunging the room into darkness—and I’ve only felt his presence a handful since—but I never miss the short glass, two-fingers, neat. My stomach flutters remembering those dark, penetrating eyes focused solely on me, glued to my every move, every sway, reading m
y body like a book. I’d never been more turned on in my life than the day I laid eyes on him—a perfect stranger.

  He is the reason I now perform under the cover of darkness. I know if I had to see those eyes watching me, I’d never make it through my performance without combusting.

  Times like this, I wished for a private dance. A chance to get up close and personal with my mystery man, but not knowing only added to the experience.

  Asking around about Him isn’t an option. I’ve made it a point not to get close to the personnel. This isn’t the type of place I want to make friends. I came to dance, make a quick buck, and go home. No, the people I choose to associate myself with are classy, intelligent, and would never be caught dead in a place like this. If anyone found out what I did for a living… I’m not sure what would happen, but I’m not willing to find out.

  Sensing Him watching me, I feel a familiar thrill tickling my insides. True heat spreads through my limbs, pooling in my stomach and lower as I imagine those dark eyes. What is He thinking right now? Is He imagining me, like I’m imagining him, his hands on my hips, his hot mouth tasting my skin? Pressing my breasts to the pole, I draw my focus inward, silently devoting this dance to Him.

  I’ve built up a lot of strength since I began dancing, and I use that power now to pull myself up the pole. Wrapping my legs around it, I lock my feet at the ankles and release my hands. Arching back, my body folds over, until I hang upside down with only my legs to hold me. With my long black hair sweeping the floor, the gentle curve of my throat exposed, and gravity drawing my breasts up to full, round mounds, the effect is nothing short of erotic. When I allow my hands to touch my fevered skin, I imagine they are his, and find myself hoping he is doing the same.

  When the dance is over, I collect the cash and hurry off-stage just as the lights come up. Just before I duck through the curtains, I glance toward the corner. My breath is lost the instant those dark pools of black meet mine. My feet continue to carry me to safety, but I don’t miss the seductive curve of his lips, nor the promising wink he sends me.

  TWO

  I rap my knuckles on the door twice—two quick, rapid taps. It’s our signal. Sometimes, I pretend that this is a little game we play to keep the intimacy alive, but the reality of it is that the man behind the door is more concerned with secrecy. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess why.

  I don’t know what possessed me to accept His invitation, but I’ve been coming here every second Thursday and every first Sunday for months, ever since he’d taken an interest in my routine. He knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about Him, except that he likes control, an occasional glass of scotch, and he fucks like a god.

  If I had to explain it, it’d sound crazy. The truth is, I have no idea how I got here. It just happened one day, and it keeps happening. And I’m not inclined to stop anytime soon.

  He could be married. He could have kids. He could be a drug smuggler. I have no way of knowing, but I know that the few hours I spend in his bed are some of the best, most exhilarating moments of my life. At least when I am old and gray, I’ll be able to say I had lived.

  The door cracks open revealing nothing but darkness and I am sucked inside by a strong, unyielding arm. A squeak of excitement leaves me as I am whirled around and my back is slammed up against the door.

  Hard, punishing lips crash down on mine, and a hot, wet tongue forces its way past my teeth. I moan shamelessly as my purse drops to the floor and my hands find the short fine hair that I know to be as black as the midnight sky.

  My mystery man is always hungry after watching me dance.

  Ripping the button on my jeans free, he plunges his hand into my panties and groans as his fingers part my moist folds. “Jesus fucking Christ. Always so wet,” he mutters as he nips my jaw, and then begins moving down my neck.

  I am always ready for this, for Him. Maybe it’s because he’s my only source of sexual release besides my fingers since I broke it off with Eli last semester, or because he is so talented in the sack. But the truth of the matter is that a part of me gets off on the mystery. Our sex is just that—sex. It’s wild and dirty and passionate and honest. Strip away the mystery, and you lose all of that. Maybe not right away, but one day.

  Relationships almost always have an expiration date. I’m not naive enough to think our arrangement doesn’t, but at least I know I won’t lose anything in the process. When my mystery guy gets bored, I figure I simply won’t see him again.

  Right, I should be concentrating on what he is doing to me now. We only have so much time together, and I don’t want to miss a second.

  I feel Him lowering down to his knees, and I kick out of my shoes. I luxuriate in the feel of smooth, strong hands sliding patiently down my sides to my thighs, taking my jeans with them. My pants are then tugged free from my ankles, and they land somewhere in the room with a heavy plop. My panties follow them, and in an instant, I feel the magical heat of his mouth cover me.

  Thrusting my fingers into his hair, I hold Him to me as he sucks my clit between his lips and feasts. He loves this. It’s always the first place he attacks, and who am I to deny him that pleasure?

  As his fingers push up inside me, my eyes cross and I tilt my pelvis higher, trying to get closer to that tricky little spot that needs his attention. But he isn’t in the mood to play for long tonight. Must have been a long week. Of course, I’m only guessing because we never talk. About anything.

  I don’t even know his name, and he doesn’t know mine. Like I said, we know virtually nothing about each other. Sex is all that connects us. Fantastic, life-altering sex.

  I whimper in protest as his fingers and mouth leave me and he stands. In the slashes of light coming in through the window across the room overlooking the river, I can see that he is still dressed to thrill. He’s wearing some kind of casual dark suit ensemble. I want to rip it off him and run my hands over all that honed muscle hidden beneath.

  The light catches on his wolfish smile, the white of his teeth breaking up the dark, and he wipes his fingers over his mouth.

  “Get naked and climb on the bed, ass in the air.”

  I shiver at the rough sound of his voice and I rush to do as he says. That voice haunts my dreams—dark and smooth, just like the liquor he drinks. I’ll do anything he says, so long as he keeps talking.

  With my butt up in the air, I look over my shoulder and watch as he removes his own clothing then climbs up behind me. Running the flat of his palm from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck, goosebumps break out all over my skin as he wraps a handful of my long, black hair around his fist and yanks my head back.

  Gripping my hip in his other hand, he pulls me back against his straining erection. “I’ve missed this ass. Did you enjoy teasing me up on that stage?”

  I scream as his hand comes down on me, my skin singing from the force of it. “Yes,” I pant, pushing my hips up higher.

  He smacks me again, and I swear my head spins. Like I said, we have passion between us. We know we aren’t committed to each other, but he likes to tease me as though we are. It is the game we play.

  “You like shaking those tits and this ass for all those sweaty, horny fucks, don’t you? It gets you off.”

  “Yes,” I groan as his hand slips between my legs, fingering my opening. If he didn’t have such a tight hold on my hair, my head would have dropped to the bed already. My legs tremble beneath me as I feel the head of his cock stroke me from clit to ass.

  “You feeling adventurous tonight, babe?”

  I stiffen, knowing what he is asking of me. It is the only thing I haven’t allowed him to do yet, and I’m uncertain if I am willing to try. It would just be another level to our dirty sexcapades, but I already moved up the ladder on his last visit when I let him fuck me against the window in broad daylight, for the entire city to see. If we don’t pace ourselves, we’ll run out of things to do to each other.

  His low laughter pierces my thoughts. “You’re thinking
too hard. I’ll make it easy on you, then. Tonight, no anal, but next time I want inside this tight hole.” I am still reeling over his words when he shoves his way inside me, stretching me to capacity.

  Sex with my mystery man is never nice. It is hard and fast and sometimes it leaves marks. For instance, I know my scalp is going to hurt tomorrow. He is riding me like a cowboy on a bronco, yanking and tugging on my hair so hard, it’s difficult to concentrate on the hard cock between my legs. The hold he has on my hip is going to bruise, too. The force of his body slamming into mine is something I always relish, though. It’s our connection. As long as he’s buried inside me, I can pretend he’s mine.

  “Touch yourself,” he demands, his words grating past his clenched teeth. He’s getting close, and if I don’t rub one out now, I’m going to lose out. What I learned early on is that he chooses when I get to orgasm and how. Sometimes he takes the extra time and care to work me out. Other times, like tonight, he plays then dives in. He doesn’t wait. If I don’t take care of it now, I’ll be taking care of it later, alone in my bed.

  The thing is, and what the romance books won’t tell you, that sometimes it’s friggin’ impossible for a woman to get off, no matter how hard she tries. She can concentrate until she is blue in the face, or relax and let it come to her, but it’s all a joke. Orgasms are like bobbing for apples. Sometimes you get one, but most of the time, you just ended up with wet hair, smeared makeup, and a backache.

  Tonight, no matter how hard I try, I can’t get there. So, I do what any woman would do who wants to please their man—I fake it.

  “Ohhhhh ahhhhh,” I moan into the bedding, really laying it on thick as I clench my inner walls around him. He thickens almost immediately, grunting as he comes inside me. Thank fuck for birth control and condoms. The man is so potent, it’d be stupid not to double up.