by Amber Morgan
“So,” she said, her voice a throaty purr that seemed to buzz through his bones and drill down to his throbbing cock. “What's your pleasure?”
“Unfortunately, it'd be against the rules,” he said, unable to keep his gaze from dropping down to her luscious breasts, neatly cupped by the cut of her dress. “So I guess I'll settle for a lap dance.”
She laughed, swaying her hips in time to the beat of the music filtering in from the main club. “You were here last week, right? With a couple of other guys? What's the deal?”
Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it that Slater couldn't miss, even with his brain lapping up the sight of her running her hands over those glorious tits in a deliberately provocative manner. She was suspicious. Of him?
“Security,” he said. Then, realizing he sounded dumb, added, “I run a security company. We're taking care of security here.” He still sounded dumb. Shit.
She spun around, sending her dress flaring and giving him a heavenly glimpse of bright red panties. With her back to him, she ran her fingers through her hair, bringing them to rest on the tie of her halterneck.
Slater's heart thumped wildly, anticipation sending heat through him and clenching his hands into fists, but instead of untying the dress, she skimmed her hands down her body, over her hips, before swinging around to face him again.
Slater's throat was dry again. Maybe this had been a bad idea. She was mere inches from him, that hourglass figure within touching distance. She was so close he could smell the lingering traces of her perfume, something rich and warm that reminded him of the chai tea Rhonda had loved. So close that every step, every twirl, every dip and twist became a dangerous invitation. With the low, intimate lights and the sensual, slinky music surrounding them, it was too easy to fall into the fantasy that this wasn't just a business transaction.
He clasped the arms of the chair so hard the leather creaked, watching as she faced him again, hands cupping her breasts, eyes dark. “How much do you want to see?” she asked, biting her lip.
Jesus fucking Christ. He'd thought he was as hard as he could get, but that simple question, that little gesture, had him seriously worried he was going to cum in his pants like some over-stimulated teenager.
He wanted to see it all. He wanted to fuck her in every way possible, and that was exactly why he should keep his stupid mouth shut. But fuck it, he was paying for this, and he wasn't about to let her go pull this routine for Cheap Suit or some other geek. He eased his wallet out of his pocket.
“I want the whole fucking show, honey,” he said.
He didn't miss the way her eyes lit up at the sight of his wallet, and he couldn't deny it dented his pride. But what did he fucking expect? Strip away the fantasy and this was a business transaction, and every woman here relied on every man here reacting the same way he was to Freya.
She put her back to him again, this time bending over so her ass was on display.
Slater groaned and sat on his hands.
She laughed wickedly, shaking that sweet rear in a way that made him long to spank it.
“How's the view?” she asked as she straightened up, fingers reaching for the tie of her dress again.
It took him a couple of attempts to answer. “Worth breaking the rules for,” he said.
“There's a penalty for that,” she said. Then she laughed, a little guiltily, as she pulled the tie free. “Oops. Forget I said that.”
He was too transfixed by the sight of her dress falling away to care what she was saying. With her back to him, he couldn't see what was underneath the dress, but he still had the image of her earlier dance burned in his memory, and he could all too easily picture the bounty that awaited him when she did turn around. His fingers itched with the need to touch her, his shaft straining so hard against his jeans, he wasn't sure he could physically keep it in there much longer.
When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse, tight whisper. “I need to touch myself.”
She spun around on one leg, brought the other one up to rest her high heel on his knee. Her breasts swayed with the motion, hypnotic and dangerously close. “Yes,” she said.
He didn't miss the hitch in her breath as she spoke, or the glow in her cheeks. Business or not, she was turned on.
He rested his hand over his bulging crotch, watched her eyes follow the movement, and couldn't help a growl of pride and lust. The swell of her breasts rose and fell faster, and her lips parted, just a soft, sweet sigh emerging.
“Go on,” she said.
“You too,” he said.
She didn't hesitate, raising her eyes to meet his with an almost defiant look as she drew her fingers around her stiff, pink nipples. She licked her lips slowly and deliberately, leaving Slater imagining her red mouth wrapped around his cock. When she pinched her nipples, he lost the last of his restraint.
“Jesus Christ, woman.” He fumbled with the fly of his jeans, clumsy with lust, and Freya gave him a sunny laugh.
“Relax,” she said. “I'm not going anywhere. There's no rush.”
She wasn't the one with the raging hard-on though, was she?
He finally gripped his shaft with a moan of relief, easing it out of his jeans to Freya's appraising glance. She licked her lips again.
“Damn,” she said. “Shame about the rules.”
A shudder ran through him as he stroked himself. “No rules outside the club.”
She took her foot off his knee, placing herself a step away from him. Too fucking far. “Let's just focus on here and now, shall we?” She smiled playfully, but even in the heat of his need for her, Slater heard her tone cool. She kept up the show, toying with her nipples and running her fingers through her hair, but the light in her eyes had gone and he didn't know why.
His cock didn't care. He kept on stroking himself as she danced, his whole body coiled tight and on the verge of exploding. As his fist pumped, the world narrowed down, fading to gray at the edges, until all that existed was her, as if there'd never been anything else to start with.
She writhed and glided around the small space like a force of nature, crackling with energy as she cupped her breasts and twirled to show off her ass, but she never came within touching distance again. The space between them felt like a chasm, but it was the thing that finally pushed Slater to the brink, that frustrated yearning, that desperate wanting. It spiraled up inside him, violent and sudden, and it took every last drop of his self-control not to roar as he came.
Freya let loose a small whimper, a sound that could only be born of desire.
Slater closed his eyes. The sight of her there, half-naked and untouchable, would be too much now. If he had any sense, he'd pay up, clean up, and get out.
And he would, for sure, as soon as his head stopped spinning.
Before that happened, though, there was an almighty crash from the main club, followed by a woman's scream.
The fantasy was definitely over.
Chapter Seven
Slater took a second to stuff his dick back in his pants—it might be a strip club, but nobody was paying to see him naked—before he hurried out. The sight that greeted him burned away the last lingering traces of lust.
Zeke had a guy pinned to one of the tables a few feet away. A waitress stood nearby, hands pressed to her mouth, a pile of smashed glasses and cocktails at her feet. A crowd circled them, cries of both anger and surprise drowning out the music. Up on stage, a woman in a leather catsuit glared down at them all, arms crossed, expression pissed.
“Hey! What the fuck is this?” Slater elbowed his way through the crowd and grabbed Zeke by the shoulder, hauling him off the purple-faced customer. It was one of the frat boys he'd pegged earlier, Slater realized with a silent groan. Of course it fucking was.
Zeke was breathing hard, anger screwing up his face. “He was groping her.” He thrust a finger at the shaking waitress, who shot Slater a look of anguished humiliation.
“He's my boyfriend,” she said, shifting closer to the fallen
frat boy.
Frat Boy picked himself up, wiping his nose. Slater noticed a trickle of blood on his lips and his inner groan became a silent scream. “Is that true?” he asked the kid, tightening his grip on Zeke's shoulder.
The kid nodded, looking like he wanted to crawl off and die somewhere. The waitress took his hand, tears shining in her eyes. “He was just messing around. It wasn't a big deal. He—” She stabbed her finger at Zeke. “He totally overreacted!”
“He could have given me a concussion,” Frat Boy chimed in. “I'm a physics major! My brain is important.”
He was slurring his words, clearly drunk, which didn't excuse Zeke's actions at all. “All right,” Slater said. “Let's handle this somewhere private, okay?” He raised his voice for that part, letting the audience know the show was over and the strip-show was back on. He gave the thumbs up to the woman on stage, who snatched the crowd's attention back with a dramatic crack of the whip she was holding against her thigh.
It took mere moments for normality to resume once people realized nothing else was going to happen. Slater looked around for Frat Boy's friends as he herded him, the waitress, and Zeke toward the lobby, but nobody appeared. One less thing to worry about.
He'd have preferred to deal with this in Benedict’s office, but loyalty to his Wild Blood brother meant he didn't want to make a bigger deal of this than it needed to be. Zeke had been doing as instructed, after all. The waitresses were supposed to be off-limits. How was he supposed to know Grabby Hands here was the girl's boyfriend?
Even as he rolled the excuse out in his head, Slater knew how hollow it was. Security was supposed to de-escalate situations. Zeke had done the exact opposite. Slater rubbed his temples, feeling a headache lurking.
In the cool dark of the lobby, with Dayo pretending not to look on, Slater offered Frat Boy a formal apology on behalf of the Hot House, which he accepted grudgingly. Now the heat of the moment had passed, he seemed more embarrassed than angry, and worried he might have endangered his girlfriend's job. Although he had zero authority to do so, Slater gave the girl the rest of the night off and paid for a cab for the pair of them home. He'd catch heat from Benedict most likely, but it would put an end to the whole mess quickly, which was all he wanted.
Once they were gone, he turned to Zeke. His fellow prospect slouched against the wall, face downcast but dark. Something about his expression pissed Slater off.
“Dude,” he started.
“How was I supposed to know?” Zeke flared, balling his hands into fists. He glared at Slater from under his thatch of pale hair, and despite the extra muscle he carried, that look made him seem young.
Young, dumb, and full of—something. Slater ran his hands through his hair, trying to figure out how to respond. As another prospect, he didn't have the right to chew Zeke out. As head of ArcLight, he absolutely fucking did. As Zeke's friend, he really didn't want to. This impulsive, sulking kid wasn't the Zeke he knew.
“Go back to the mill, Zeke,” he said, suddenly just wanting to be done with the whole night. Ten minutes ago, he'd been jacking off to a knockout in fuck-me heels. It already felt like a week ago.
Zeke looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged and walked out, pushing past Dayo without a word.
Dayo peered back in at Slater, wide-eyed.
“What bit him?” he asked.
“Wish I knew.” Slater suddenly remembered he hadn't paid Freya for the dance and guilt quickly swamped out everything else. “Everything okay out here?”
“Yeah, man, this gig is easy.” Dayo shrugged. “Sounds like all the action is inside.”
Freya and Zeke jostled for position in Slater's head. “You don't know the half of it.” He clapped him on the back and headed back inside.
There was no sign of Freya on the club floor. Christ, he hoped she wasn't giving the squat creep from earlier the same show she'd just given him. Irrational jealousy surged through him, and instead of looking for her, he went out back to Benedict’s office.
The little man had his back to Slater when he walked in, his chair swung around to face a window that looked out onto the parking lot behind the club. He was talking on his cell phone, voice low and frantic.
“I know. You think I don't know? I know better than you! Fuck me, you think I'd—hold on a second.” Benedict must have heard the door open. He peered over the back of the chair at Slater, annoyance flitting across his face. “I'll call you back.”
He hung up and swung the chair around to face Slater, pasting on a jovial smile. “How you doing? Enjoying your night? Get a dance yet? Girls looking good out there, huh? Can't wait to get this place all classy and shit, you know? Gonna be good, real money-maker.”
“Yeah,” Slater said, eyeing the battered, rolled-up dollar bill in front of Benedict. He didn't have a problem with drug-use in theory, but he didn't ever approve of people using while working. Still, he wasn't Benedict’s boss and if the guy wanted to get coked up, that was his business. “Speaking of dances...”
“You want one? You know you can just pick a girl, right? I recommend Jasmine. She's a dyke, but you wouldn't know it. Great tits.” He made an expansive gesture with his hands.
Slater suddenly wanted a shower. “I got one. But I had to deal with something and I didn't get a chance to pay the girl. Will you pass it on for me?” He counted out a roll of notes and handed them to Benedict. It was a generous amount, and he hoped Freya would interpret it as both a thank you and an apology for ditching her without paying.
Benedict snatched the money. “Sure thing, I got ya. Which girl?”
“Freya—Belladonna.”
“Ah, nice. Nice. Yeah, she's a cutie. Great tits.”
Slater agreed, but hearing Benedict say it still made him grind his teeth. He silently took his leave. Benedict barely seemed to notice, grabbing his phone up as soon as Slater reached the door. He was chattering away again before Slater had left.
Something about their exchange left Slater feeling tired. He checked his watch and saw it was only ten o' clock. The Hot House closed at two. He had no inclination to stick around now, despite the little voice in his head whispering he could get another private dance from Freya if he did. The idea was appealing, but he'd come across as desperate. She'd shut a part of herself during their dance, so he already knew there was a danger in pushing too hard. His gut told him if he wanted more than a lap dance, he needed to play the long game.
His libido thought the long game was a stupid fucking idea. As he left the Hot House, memories blazing across his mind's eye. He knew it was going to be a battle to keep his libido in check.
****
Freya stared in dismay at the wad of money Benedict handed her. “That's it?”
It was considerably thinner than it had been. She'd known he would take a cut, of course, but she'd done pretty well with private dances—all but one, she amended with a grimace. And even though most of the notes that been tossed at her on stage were one dollar bills, there had still be a lot of them. The cash Benedict had counted out for her was less than half what she'd estimated she'd earned all night.
He shrugged, puffing on his cigarette and blowing smoke rings. “You know the deal here, sweetheart. Sammy gets his cut, then I get mine, then you get yours.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Listen, you don't like it, talk to the big man, okay? My hands are tied, doll.”
Freya chewed her lip, a knot forming in her stomach. It wasn't worth arguing, and she definitely didn't want to talk to Sammy. She was aching from head to toe. She was sweaty, weary, and more than ready to go home. She took her cut silently and left without saying goodbye.
This is good, she told herself, searching desperately for a silver lining. The more money Sammy took, the quicker she paid off her debt. She wished her first private customer had paid up. Bitterness stole through her as she headed back into the club. He'd been hot as hell, unexpectedly so, with that messed-up dark hair and smooth voice. Watching him get off to her
dancing had been a powerful aphrodisiac that she hadn't found with any of the other guys she'd performed for tonight.
But then the asshole had stiffed her, and because he'd said he was with security, she'd been too afraid to ask Benedict about the missing money. For all she knew, he could be one of Sammy's guys.
She hobbled wearily across the empty dance floor. It was nearly three in the morning, and all the waitresses and other dancers were gone. A couple of cleaners mopped the floor and collected glasses. With the stage lights off and the stark house lights up, the club looked tawdry and soulless, and that was how Freya suddenly felt as well. All the eroticism and triumph had fled her, gone along with the money she'd earned.
She wished Sefina had stuck around. It would have been nice to share a ride home with her and commiserate—although she doubted Sefina was giving up most of her earnings to Sammy.
One of the bouncers, a Jamaican guy with long dreadlocks, was outside smoking when she left. She nodded at him in greeting, hugging herself. The pre-dawn air was crisp and cool, pleasant enough now when she was still so warm from dancing all night, but she knew she'd be shivering before long.
“You got a ride?” the bouncer asked her.
She shrugged. “I was going to walk.”
He eyed her outfit. She was back in jeans and a t-shirt, but still in heels, because she'd stupidly thought she was too used to walking in heels for it to bother her. A lesson learned: walking in heels was one thing, dancing in them was another entirely.
“Call a cab,” he said. “I'll wait with you.”
She thought of the slim stack of notes in her purse, then thought of the forty-minute walk back to her apartment and decided a cab was a better plan. While she called a local firm, she looked the bouncer over more carefully, noting the leather vest he wore under his hoodie. There was a simple patch at the bottom, black with white letter. Prospect.
“You're in an MC?” she asked when she hung up.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said.
“You and the other guys that were here when I auditioned?”