by Danika Dare
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Mr. BOSSY
Danika Dare
Copyright © 2016 DANIKA DARE
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
It had been such a simple idea. Help the hot billionaire make his cheating ex jealous.
And he wasn’t just any billionaire. He was a filthy-talking Russian who was bossy as hell, gorgeous as sin, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. And he was paying well.
Thirty thousand dollars, half up front, to spend the weekend with a handsome, filthy-talking billionaire. Who could resist? Not this exhibitionist good girl.
Filthy-talking Russian.
He walked into her club looking for the type of woman who could accommodate his needs.
He found so much more.
Exhibitionist good girl.
She was in the business of temptation, and he was temptation incarnate.
He had money, looks, and a proposition that even she couldn’t resist.
Would Mr. Bossy make her break all of her rules?
Warning: This is a filthy, smut-filled, sheet-clawing, over-the-top, love story about finding forever in all the wrong places. This is romantic, smoking hot ladyporn at its dirtiest.
This standalone contains an HEA and a satisfying Epilogue. Enjoy. 18+ recommended.
CHAPTER ONE
I noticed him the moment he walked in the room. That was saying a lot, as I was hanging topless, upside down on a pole at the time.
He was that kind of a man. The draw all eyes type.
It was so many things about him that made it so. He was tall, around six-foot-four—going by the way he towered over everyone he passed. And he was big, a beast of a man, imposing, intimidating. His body was muscular, powerful, and tightly coiled with every move he made.
His face was handsome, but cold, austere, his jaw rock hard and unyielding. His eyes were contrary, so pale that they should have been icy, but instead exuded heat.
And more than all of that, he had a charged energy about him, one that owned the room.
Wrap all of that up in a three piece suit, and yes, we had a situation. Or rather, I did.
Attention grabbed. Head turned. Wholly distracted, I was caught fast.
The men that frequented Exhibitionist were generally blank faces to me, a sea of strangers there to stare, to want, to covet.
Somehow he separated himself from those covetous masses from the very first.
The music playing had a thick, drowning beat, the kind that made your body move in spite of itself, but at his entrance I felt myself freeze jarringly for a few magnified beats, before I caught my breath and resumed my sinuous glide down the pole.
By the time I found my platform stilettos on the ground he was at the stage.
The place was packed, but he charged right in. He didn’t even bother to sit, just stood there, right at the edge, and watched me.
It did something wild to me from the very first, to have his unfaltering attention. With men I had a tendency to be detached, withdrawn, cold even. But right from the start he had me burning hot. And I could tell that he knew it.
I don’t think much on stage, I let my instincts guide my movements. I was in the middle of my routine, if you could call it that, but I was suddenly at a loss, searching my head, instead of my gut, for which move to make next.
I fell back on the rhythm, letting my body move to the beat, hips circling, arms reaching up, grabbing the pole above me, leaning into it, my heavy breasts thrusting out, drawing his eyes down.
I had a body built for sin, lithe and tight, but curvy in all the ways that turned a man’s head.
And I knew how to move it to distraction. That was, after all, my job.
I let my distracting body take over, let it do what it did best.
Seduce the crowd. Seduce the arresting stranger.
I strutted to the edge of the stage, not stopping until my swaying hips were mere inches from his face.
He kept his blazing hot gaze on my face. There was something in his eyes that I loved and loathed, some sort of smug command I longed to wipe clean, but also, perversely, give in to—from the first.
This one would be bossy, I could tell.
When he just kept staring at my face, I jutted a shapely hip out at him, raising a brow.
My top had been tossed somewhere toward the back of the stage during the first half of the song, but my skimpy skirt (if you could call it that) was still intact.
It was held together by one neat little bow at my hip. “You need something from me?” his voice was deep and gravelly, his tone crisp and sharp. Bossy, just as I’d guessed. And I detected an accent of some kind. Not strong, but not weak either. Russian, I guessed.
“Help with the skirt, if you don’t mind.” I smiled with something that passed for sweetness if you didn’t know me well.
“Say please.” He grinned as he said it.
“I can always find someone else to do the honors,” I returned. I was not used to having this particular request turned around on me. It was disarming, to say the least.
“Don’t do that,” he said, his smile dying as his big hands reached up to the tie at my hip.
I wagged a finger in his face, my mouth moving into a teasing moue. “Don’t you know the rules? No hands on the girls.”
That shot his brows up high, and I was gratified to have done the disarming that time. “How can I help you, then?” he asked, serious tone turned playful.
“I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have more imagination.”
That caught his attention, his eyes going wild in a way that made my knees feel a little more wobbly than they had just a moment before.
“My teeth, then?” he asked, his tone almost polite now.
“Your teeth,” I agreed.
“At your service,” his voice rumbled along my skin, his head already lowered to the task.
I couldn’t quite hold back an involuntary shiver as he slowly bit the string on the end of the neat little bow and pulled. I felt his breath puff against my skin for one, two, three beats before he raised his head, the prize of my tiny skirt still clenched between his teeth. He released it with a sharp grin, his eyes going to my minuscule G-string. “Now let me help you with that one.”
I bit my lip to hide my smile, though usually those types of comments had me rolling my eyes or calling security, depending on the tone.
“This one stays on,” I replied, voice just loud enough to carry over the music.
“For now,” he had to add.
Turning, I grabbed the pole high with one hand, hooked my platform stiletto on it, and sent myself swinging.
I was in the mood to show off, thanks to Mr. Bossy, and I did.
I flipped my long, pale turquoise blue hair, climbed up to the top of the pole, and set myself to spinning down to the bottom. Round and round. Slowly, sinuously, I glided down to my knees. I kept my eyes on him as I repeated the maneuver, but slower this time.
I used all of my tricks, showing
off for that sexy stranger, bringing my heels up high enough to touch the ceiling, then gliding down, pole between my tight, lean thighs. I circled, I twirled, I gyrated, I flipped upside down, my big breasts bouncing with each movement. My performances were always memorable, but that night, for that man, most of all.
I was out of breath and sweating when I finally left the stage, but one glance at the stranger let me know it’d been worth the work.
He was looking at me like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.
I wasn’t sure why that thrilled me so much, but it did.
I put on a slinky little dress and started working the room, handing out cocktails and cigarettes, smiling at the customers, but never lingering too long with any of them.
The things I’d learned about myself since I started working at Exhibitionist were enlightening.
First, I liked the place. The scent of cloying perfume and desperate desire were invigorating to me. The club could get sordid, and messy, but at least it usually made me feel alive.
Second, I liked dancing. Stripping. I enjoyed strange eyes devouring my every seductive move. I ate up the attention.
Turned out, being watched was a turn-on for me.
He was still there, settled into one of the corner VIP areas now, curtains left wide open, two girls all over him. I didn’t care for either of them. In this business, women were either your friends or your enemies. I tended toward the former with most of the girls on staff, but these two in particular were nasty pieces of work.
One was already grinding on his lap while the other rubbed his shoulders, crouching down to press her breasts into his back while she said something into his ear.
Typical.
I did get a small but gratifying thrill that his eyes were on me all the while.
I tried to ignore him, but that lasted about five minutes before I got bored with the idea. With a sigh, I went to offer him a drink.
I ignored the girls glaring at me, strode close, and offered him a smile. “Can I get you anything, boss?”
His austere face moved into a predatory smile. “I’ll take a private dance in one of the back rooms.”
“I don’t do the champagne room,” I said, and it was almost regretfully, for once.
“I do,” Corona, the one on his lap, said seductively.
“You could get both of us for the price of her,” Melly, the one at his back, added.
I shrugged and turned away. I wasn’t being coy. I just didn’t do it. Sure, it was more money, but things got out of hand in there. I’d learned that valuable lesson on my first day, and hadn’t gone back since. It was easy enough to persuade anyone who asked to take someone else. Someone cheaper and more willing.
“A lap dance with the curtain drawn, then,” he offered loud enough to be heard over the distance and music.
I almost turned back. It was half tempting, but I didn’t do lap dances either. Those were harder to avoid than the back room, but I’d gotten good at avoiding a lot of things. My shift consisted solidly of stage dances and handing out cocktails and cigarettes between sets.
Some, well, quite a few, took a liking to me specifically, and tried to press the point. I’d learned to dip out of those situations artfully, and found the proper ass to fit the proper lap whenever asked, and if that didn’t work, I just pointed out that I was quadruple the charge, and that tended to solve the problem.
I thought the matter settled, but as I was handing out another round of cocktails, an agitated Corona tapped aggressively on my shoulder until I gave her my attention.
“That Russian business guy wants you, and he’s not budging. He’s a high roller. Benny lets you get away with just about anything, but if you piss this guy off, I guarantee even you will catch serious hell for it.”
I sighed. The bossy Russian did not like to hear no. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “I’ll go talk to him after I hand out these drinks,” I told her, my tone bland. Corona had an appetite for drama, and I made a point of never feeding it to her.
I finished with my drink orders, grabbed a bottle of our best champagne and two glasses, and headed straight for trouble.
The bossy Russian was all alone by then, lounging back against a cushioned bench, his eyes all over me.
Each of the VIP sections had its own table with a pole for private dances. I set the bottle and glasses on the table, giving him a tentative smile. “Champagne?” I asked.
“Only if you drink it with me,” he said, eyes heavy lidded.
I poured us both a glass without another word. I didn’t drink a lot on the job, and I never got drunk, and unlike most of the girls, I never used drugs, but I wasn’t opposed to a glass or two of champagne, or even the occasional shot of liquor to take the edge off.
“Tell me your name,” he ordered.
I smiled. “Delilah.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your real name, not your stripper name.”
“Delilah is all you’re getting tonight,” I told him resolutely.
“How about a private dance on the pole, curtain drawn,” he offered the compromise as more of a statement than a question.
I smiled. That I could do. “Only if you promise to behave yourself.”
“That’s no fun,” he shot back in that sexy as hell accent of his.
He had a point. I took a long drink of champagne and closed the curtain.
“Clothes off,” he ordered as I stepped up onto the table.
“Are you always this bossy?” I asked him, taking another drink.
“Pretty much. Everything, even the G-string. Off.”
“I keep that on. One of my rules. But the rest is negotiable. How do you want it? Should I take them off while I dance, or do you just want me to strip down now?” My tone was challenging and more than a touch sarcastic.
He didn’t take offense. “Strip down now.” He stood suddenly. “I can help.”
I found myself tempted, more tempted than I’d ever been, to cross that line. I wanted his hands on me. The very thought was more intoxicating than the champagne.
“Rules,” I reminded him. “No hands on the girls, remember?”
“What about my teeth?”
A small, intense jolt of pure desire moved through me. I found myself licking my lips and answering breathlessly, “That’s a terrible idea.”
“I thought you wanted me to use my imagination.”
“Maybe not. I have a feeling your imagination would make me break all of my rules.”
He was closer suddenly, staring up at me, his hard, stubbled chin inches from my quivering belly. “Every single one. Now. Clothes. Off,” he bit out brusquely. He held up a hand. “I’ll hold your glass for you. It seems to be slowing you down.”
I handed it to him, holding his gaze while I slid out of my dress. There wasn’t much to it, a bit of wiggling and shimmying had me back down to a G-string and holding a hand out for my champagne flute again in under a minute. I downed it and handed it back to him.
“Any special requests?” I asked him, grabbing the pole.
“None that you’ll agree to.”
Fair enough. Without another word, I got to it, pulling myself up, hooking one leg on, letting one hand swing loose as I twirled on the pole for him. I climbed it, and slid back down for him. I caught myself with my hands, and posed for him at the bottom. I loved the way he looked at me, and some part of me felt the need to blow his mind.
So I did. Gyrating, working the pole, climbing, and swinging, working it sideways, and upside down, posing at each maneuver to give him the perfect view of my toned body and my big, perky tits.
I was panting and sweating by the time I finished, satisfied that I’d given him a hell of a show.
CHAPTER TWO
He was standing, offering me a refilled glass of champagne when I finally stopped to take a breath.
I gulped it down so fast that I felt a few drops escape from the glass, running along my cheeks, down my neck to my collarbone.
The tab
le was lower than the stage, which put him at a level with my chest.
When the glass was empty I glanced down to watch the drops trail down, one rogue stream beading at my nipple.
Even I was panting at the sight.
With a rough groan, he bent his head and sucked the puckered bud into his mouth.
I shocked myself by not stopping him, just watching him instead, my entire body quivering.
After a few strong pulls, he pulled back, looking up at me.
Still, I didn’t protest. He took my glass, refilled it, and handed it back.
“More,” he demanded.
I knew exactly what he meant, and I found myself accommodating him without thought, tipping the glass against my clavicle, letting a more generous flow of champagne dribble down onto my aching breasts.
Rolling his eyes up at me, he put his mouth on me again, sucking and licking off every last drop, then drawing with hard pulls on each nipple. I heard myself moaning out loud and couldn’t quite believe it. “More,” he said gruffly, lips still on my skin.
I shocked myself by doing it again, and again.
He was panting roughly when he finally pulled back, taking an unsteady step away, then another, until he was at the cushioned bench and taking his seat again. “Come down here,” he ordered.
I don’t know why, but I just did it.
That wasn’t true. I knew.
It was because I wanted to. Because I wanted him.
I stepped down from the table and moved closer to him.
He patted his lap. “Here.”
My eyes went to the hard-on straining against his pants. It was large and impossible to miss. I licked my lips. “I’m not a prostitute. Some of these girls are, but I’m not.”
“I know you’re not.”
“You don’t seem to.”
“That thing has a mind of its own. Ignore it. Come here.”
I moved closer in spite of myself. When I was in arms’ reach, he opened his legs, grabbed my hips, and pulled me closer.