The Perfect Stroke

by Jordan Marie

  “Good, good. Tell Bruno to hold off. The kid might prove to be useful.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking the asshole might yet prove of use to me,” I tell him without expanding. He knows me well enough that he just closes the door, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Ana Stevens. The pretty blonde dancer has no idea what trouble she just landed into. I reach down and adjust my cock because the son of a bitch has been rock hard since I laid eyes on Ana’s picture. Why does it suddenly feel like, despite everything, my day is looking up?

  I hate everything about this club. Walking through the front doors makes me feel like I’m being locked in a prison. The staring begins immediately. Men following me with their eyes, watching every move I make. I’m not a person; I’m a piece of meat, an image they want to jerk off to, a notch on their bedpost they can brag about.

  Does that sound conceited? Maybe. There’s a difference between knowing you appeal to men and feeling beautiful. I feel tired. At twenty-six, I’m so damned exhausted of living, but I ignore it. I don’t have a choice.

  “Hey, Ana! Looking good tonight,” Joe, the sometimes-bouncer at The Dive, hollers out. I smile at him, my hand squeezing his big, scarred, beefy shoulder before walking on back to the private area.

  I know the way by heart, which is good, because my vision is limited. My eyes are hidden behind my dark sunglasses. It doesn’t matter that I’m inside. I play a role, wrapping myself in a package that makes me a mystery, all designed to make men interested. They see something unobtainable.

  In truth, the sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes until I get in the dressing room so Joyce can cover them in makeup. Not being able to sleep is a bitch.

  I sit down at the makeup table with a heavy sigh, letting my overnight bag I keep my shit in fall to the floor. Joyce immediately comes over and starts the major tease job she always does on my hair. I hate it. I usually wear my hair simple and straight. Hell, most of the time I tie it in a messy knot and go on. But I make money off of being the Ice Queen who every man wants to melt, so I let Joyce have her way.

  “You’re late,” she chastises.

  “Been out looking for Allen.”

  “Still no luck?”

  “None. I’m starting to lose hope, J.”

  I hate having this conversation. I like Joyce. She’s been good to me, and talking about this stuff with her seems wrong. When she squeezes my shoulder tight in response, our eyes meet in the makeup mirror. We’re so different, but she’s like the mom I’ve never had. She’s fifty-two but looks to be in her early forties. She has this brown curly hair that she always has styled and teased yet clipped up out of her way. Joyce has these pretty green eyes with flecks of gold in them and they see far more than people give her credit for.

  “If you don’t start sleeping, it’s going to affect your show, Ana.”

  “I know. I tried.”

  “Might have worked if you’d quit crying over that damn brother of yours.”

  She’s not wrong. Still, I can’t seem to stop the tears. I lost Allen a year ago in every way that mattered. That doesn’t mean that having him missing is any easier. He’s been gone for over a month now. He’s disappeared before, but never this long.

  “He’s my responsibility,” I tell her, the truth of that lodging in my stomach.

  “Yeah, but he’s killing you.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I know, doll. I know. Let’s see what magic ol’ Joyce can work to hide those bags,” she says with a sigh, going to work on my face.

  Twenty minutes later, Joyce manages to pull off a minor miracle and make me look good. I go to the wings of the stage and wait for my cue. Once I’m out there, I do my best to let everything go. I let the music take over and go through my routine like a well-seasoned veteran. I should be; I’ve been dancing for nine years now. I started before I was legal. It’s amazing what fake IDs and bosses who don’t give a fuck will get you. I can work the pole and I can shake the ass. I can do everything needed to make men horny and women beg for more. I can even look like I’m enjoying it when inside I’m slowly withering away. My set ends with yelling for more. I never give them that. Isn’t that an age old adage? Always leave them wanting more? I blow them a kiss and walk off, appearing unconcerned that my breasts are completely bare as my ass, except for a small string of material. Big Joe puts the white silk robe around me and I lean up to kiss his cheek.

  “Thanks, big guy,” I tell him. He knows I hate being nude. In fact, I hate everything about dancing. I did it for a few months when I hit sixteen. I needed the money to keep a roof over our heads because our strung-out mother was spending every dime she could on her next hit. You have to do what you have to do. When mom almost overdosed and did permanent damage to herself, I got free of her, in a way, and found new paths. Allen never bothered, instead following in mom’s footsteps. So here I am, dancing and trying to save my brother who is already too far gone.

  “Another great show as always, Ana.”

  I squeeze his arm like I always do and disappear to my dressing room. I have one more set to do tonight, and then I can leave. I need to try and search for Allen some more, or try old contacts I haven’t used in years. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept. My mind churns through all the chaos that is my life and just won’t shut down long enough to allow sleep.

  I sit down at the chair in front of my dressing table. Joyce hands me a cigarette and a light, which I gratefully take. It’s a routine of mine. I always have a smoke after I dance. The nicotine helps me to calm. It’s the only crutch I allow myself. I take a drag and my head goes back, eyes closing, and I try my best to squash down the panic over Allen. I’ve tuned out the room, so when a large hand wearing one lone insignia ring on his finger reaches over and takes away the cigarette, I’m unprepared.

  “Sorry, you’re not supposed to be back here,” I say, annoyed, and look around for Joyce to signal for Joe. “And can I please have my cigarette back?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I ask the big tall mountain of a man. He’s easily six foot five, but he’s broad as a house. He’s got dark hair that’s cut close to his head in the back and a little longer on top, dark eyes, and he wears a suit that probably cost more than my entire budget for food did the last two months combined. He screams money. Worse, he screams danger.

  “My woman doesn’t smoke. That was your last one.”

  “Your woman?” I ask. Something about the way he says that seems like it’s a done deal in his mind and my heart speeds up against my chest. Fuck. Where is Joe? “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  “That’s easy, Ana. I own you,” he answers, and his words strike fear deep inside of me.

  So much for keeping my head down and not drawing any attention.

  I watch her eyes dilate with my announcement. Her breathing hitches in her chest. Fear. It can be the biggest aphrodisiac there is. At least for me. Ana’s picture didn’t do her justice. She’s fucking delicious. A tad too skinny, but she has a plump round ass that I plan to leave pink with my handprints, and tits that beg a man to fill his mouth with them and bite, marking them. Strangely enough, the part of her body that draws most of my attention is her neck. It’s long and slender, the delicate bones and corded muscle calling to the animal inside of me, and I want to clamp my teeth there every fucking day, leaving a bruise to broadcast to any fucking person around, man or woman, that she’s taken. My dick, the stupid fuck, jerks again. He’s been standing at attention ever since I saw Ana’s picture, and being this close to her is just making it worse.

  “Ready to go?” I ask, my voice brusque. I’m so fucking hard it’s painful. I plan on pounding into that body and leaving her so sore, she won’t walk right for a week. It will serve her right for tying my dick up in knots.

  “Go?”

  “Yeah, pet, we have somewhere we need to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don
’t know you. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call Big Joe in here to deal with you,” she huffs, and those eyes grab my attention. Her file said violet, and maybe they are, but right now I’d swear I could see sparks of silver. I’ve never seen anything like them before, and I’ve always been the kind of man who likes to collect rare finds.

  “Go ahead, call Joe,” I dare her.

  That seems to take her back for a moment. “Joe!” she calls, her voice thick with panic.

  “Yeah, Ana?” Joe says, coming back through the small area that leads to the dressing room. “Oh! Hey, Mr. Anthes. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” he adds.

  My eyes never leave Ana’s. I see the moment that recognition flares in Ana’s eyes.

  “You’re Mr. Anthes?” she asks in a whisper.

  The words reach me, but barely. I’m enjoying the way her throat muscles move as she swallows. I feel my cock stretch against my slacks, demanding release. In my head, I’m picturing holding onto Ana’s blonde mane and force-feeding her my cock, making her take me all the way back, stretching that pretty little throat just before she swallows down my cum.

  “I am,” I confirm, knowing that even if she doesn’t know me personally, she will recognize the name that signs her paychecks. I grab the coat folded over her small dressing table when she stands. “Put this on. We have business to discuss.”

  “Business?” Her hand goes up to her throat. I don’t bother answering her; instead, I hold the coat for her to slide into. “What kind of business, Mr. Anthes?” she asks.

  She looks like a small, frightened doe who’s just been discovered by the hunter, who has her in his sights and his gun loaded. My mouth twists in a wry smile. It’s an accurate analogy because she is my prey and I’m definitely loaded and ready to fire into her—or maybe on her.

  “Now, Ana,” I order, and it could be my imagination, but I see a shiver of awareness run through her body.

  “I can’t leave,” she protests, standing. “I have another set.”

  “No, I don’t believe you do. Joe? Get one of the other girls to fill in for Ana.”

  “Sure thing, boss. Libby can do it.”

  “I can’t afford to take off.” I ignore her answer. “I need to put my clothes on,” she says, holding on tightly to the belt of her robe.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t,” I tell her because I just plan on ripping them off of her soon. “Now put on your coat and let’s go. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

  “Listen, Mr. Anthes, boss or not, I’m not leaving until I get dressed. Further, I don’t think I’m stepping foot outside of this club until you tell me where we’re going.”

  I look at her then. She’s completely serious. It’s a glitch in my plan that I didn’t foresee. Usually, women know who I am and are only too thrilled to do what I order. The fact that Ana doesn’t, irritates and intrigues me all at once. It is… unexpected.

  “Everyone out.” I order, and the room goes still. Within just a matter of moments, everyone that had been viewing my conversation with Ana is gone. The last to leave is Joe, and as the door shuts behind him, I can see reality sink in on Ana.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you to get dressed so we can leave. You have two minutes.”

  “I can’t get dressed with you in here!” I ignore her and lean against the closed door with my arms folded and wait. “You need to leave,” she insists again, the nerves coming through her voice loud and clear. It’s clear she’s not going to fall into my hands easily. I could use her brother as leverage, but I find myself reluctant to do that, even now. Interesting.

  I don’t know what it is about Ana. Normally I wouldn’t touch one of the dancers, or hell, any of the women that work for me. I’m careful about the women I choose. I have no explanation other than I want her and I always get what I want. Time to make that clear.

  “Take off the robe, Ana.”

  She looks around the room helplessly.

  “I—”

  “Take. It. Off.”

  “I will not. Why on earth would I?”

  “Because I ordered you to,” I tell her, taking a step closer. This might be more fun than I anticipated.

  “Then I quit. I’ll get my things and leave,” I tell him, completely bluffing. I hear something in my voice. Something I don’t want to put a name to. He walks towards me … slowly, stealthily. He reminds me of a mountain lion on the prowl for its prey. The problem is, I’m the prey in the scenario and my legs seem to have become deadweights refusing to move. He stops when he gets right in front of me. He towers over me and I’m having trouble catching my breath.

  “Take it off, Ana,” he orders again, but this order isn’t like the other. This order is soft and seductive. His voice is hoarse and needy like a lover’s, and when he says my name, small shivers of awareness run through my body.

  “Why?”

  “I want to see,” he says, which seems absurd because I was just naked onstage.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, confused about why my body feels… excited. There are so many undercurrents between us, it seems surreal. Attracting Roman Anthes’s attention should be the last thing in the world I want, so why am I enjoying it?

  “You caught my eye,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

  It doesn’t explain my reaction to him, however.

  He’s standing right in front of me. His large body overshadows me, making my five-foot-five frame feel small. His shoulders are so broad that even under his expensive suit you can tell he’s solid muscle. His dark hair is so black, the light in the room seems to absorb it so that it casts a glow around him. He’s that commanding. I instantly know he could color everything around him, take any room or situation over. Take me over. I should fear that, and on some level I do. It also excites me. The blood runs through my body and my pulse thrums as if I just ran fifty miles nonstop. His eyes are deep pools of blue, but not just any color of blue; these shine like the sky on a hot cloudless summer day. They warm you, and I do mean that literally. I feel the heat from him. My body feels hot and he’s most definitely the source. So hot that, without thinking, I come close to pulling the collar of my robe away from my body. At the last moment, I stop myself and lamely rub the side of my neck instead, unable to tear my eyes away from him.

  “Mr. Anthes,” I start, but my voice is quiet. I can barely hear it over the way my heart is pounding against my chest. Can he hear? I try to concentrate to make my words clearer, louder. “I don’t know what that means,” I tell him, not sure I’m succeeding with the whole “louder” thing. In fact, I’m almost positive I’m hyperventilating. Can you faint from too much … everything? Roman is too much, period, dot, and end of sentence.

  His fingers move to my hand and glide slowly up my neck, his thumb brushing the side of my face. The touch isn’t gentle, but it has that quality. I get the feeling Roman doesn’t do gentle. His fingers curve into my hair and, for a split second, I forget to breathe. He studies my face and I’m afraid I’m giving away more than I mean to. I feel his fingers at the pulse point on my neck and I know he can feel how it’s beating out of control. His eyes move over my flushed face, then lower to my breasts. I want to bring my arms up to cover them because my robe is thin, but I can’t because he’s so close. I’m painfully aware of how my nipples are erect against the fabric. I’d like to say it’s because of the coolness of the room, but I can’t. I bite my lip to keep from begging him to do something. I hope it would be demanding he leaves, but in all honesty, that’s doubtful. What is going on with me?

  “Are you a virgin, Ana?” he asks, and the bluntness of the question jars me so much that my head jerks back in reaction.

  “I can’t believe…”

  “Answer the question, Ana.” Again, that commanding tone drips from his tongue and pours over me, and I react in a way that surprises me: I obey him. I’m submissive in the bedroom by nature, but Roman is the first man to ever have the power to ma
ke me follow his lead outside of the bedroom, and without effort. It’s madness, and I do my best to pull myself away from the hypnotic effect he has on me.

  “No.” I tell him, and I see his eyes flash. It’s like an emotion skitters through them and causes the color to deepen. What would they do when he’s touching a woman? Or when he’s making love to her? It might be best if I don’t think of that. Ever.

  “Then why are you so opposed to me seeing you when the entire room outside just saw the same thing?”

  “They were strangers,” I whisper inanely. It’s hard to explain how I differentiate myself from the room when I dance and how I can zone everything out except the music and the steps.

  “But then, so am I Ana.”

  “It’s different,” I defend.

  “How?”

  “They don’t matter,” I tell him, immediately wanting to kick myself. What happened to the woman who is self-controlled and can handle any situation? She’s gone right now for sure, because that didn’t come out how I meant it to. “I mean, it’s not that you matter either. When I dance, there is distance. I don’t focus on anyone. One-on-one is different. It’s why I don’t do private dances. Taking my clothes off for a man is reserved for someone I’m dating, someone I care about.”

  I’m blathering on and the embarrassment infuses deeper into my face, the heat from it coming off of me in waves so that I know it’s there.

  I try to pull away because I’ve made a big enough fool out of myself. He doesn’t let me. Instead, his hold increases in strength and he pulls me into him. I fall awkwardly against him. His hand locks against my neck. I look into his eyes, which are just a breath away from mine. “Mr. Anth—”

  That’s all I get out before his lips crash against mine. His are firm, but soft at the same time. His tongue slips through my lips and instantly finds mine. For a moment I don’t respond, too shocked to move, but then slowly it all hits me: the feel of his rough hand against my neck and face, the way he towers over me and makes me feel small, the sweet taste of his mouth, the way his tongue is searching mine out, and most importantly, the way his body crushes up against me—solid, determined, warm. I give in with a moan, pushing into him and wanting more. My tongue finds his and they dance, wrapping around each other in their fight for supremacy. I feel one of his hands move to my ass, pushing under the robe and cupping it as if we weren’t in the middle of a club. I should stop him, but his fingers flex into my ass cheek and the feel of that is so good that combined with his kiss, I’m too lost in all that is him to even think of calling a halt.