DANCE FOR ME (DANCE FOR ME SERIES Book 2)

by Stone, Holly

  DANCE FOR ME

  2

  FROM THE DANCE FOR ME

  EROTIC ROMANCE SHORT STORY SERIES

  BY

  HOLLY STONE

  Dance For Me (2) Copyright © 2015 Holly Stone

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United Kingdom. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “Andrea, you’ve got a private dance in room three,” Adrian shouted over the bar.

  I’d finished my stage dances for the night and had been taking a well-earned rest, but I was still on the clock for another couple of hours.

  “Okay,” I said, slipping off my bar stool, feet already groaning in my ridiculous red stilettoes. It wasn’t busy for a Friday night. January rarely was before payday with all those Christmas gifts weighing down credit cards.

  I strolled through the bar feeling greedy eyes on me, then descended the steps at the edge of the dancefloor towards the back area where the changing rooms and private rooms were concealed behind a large mirrored wall. As I rounded the corner I adjusted the underwire of my bra and looked down to make sure my panties and stockings were all in place. I hated red but it was a firm favourite among the clientele and I always made better tips when I wore it.

  I paused outside the room as I always did, wondering who would be inside and hoping that everything would be okay. There were strict rules about what happened in the private rooms but that didn’t mean that every drunken idiot obeyed them.

  The handle creaked as I lowered it. The room was darker inside than in the corridor and a dark haired man sat on the sofa, waiting for the dance he had paid for.

  “Hi, I’m Sandy and I’ll be your dancer this evening,” I walked forward, putting my hands under my hair and tossing it seductively. He looked up and met my eyes, but his expression wasn’t leery and he didn’t look me over like the clients usually did, eating up what they saw, hands twitching to touch. Instead he seemed serious and slightly uncomfortable which happened sometimes. Maybe he had a wife and kids at home and felt guilty for needing to spend his money on something so selfish and disloyal. I glanced quickly at his left hand but he wasn’t wearing a ring.

  I swayed over to the music system and pressed ‘play’. The management had a really limited selection, all tacky, sexy bump ‘n’ grind tunes that made me cringe when I heard them in the outside world. I turned the volume up and swivelled around, going to the place in my head that I used to block out the room, the deserted beach at dusk, sand between my toes, somewhere I could dance without anyone watching.

  There was a pole in front of him and I grasped it high, hooking my leg around to start a spin, putting my body into positions I had been trained to form, the ones that were supposed to be the most alluring. I tried not to look directly at the man because eye contact felt very personal and this was all about business for me. The ocean sound in my mind held strong as I rested my back against the pole, back arched, hands above my head, sliding down with my legs spread to give him the view he had paid for.

  His silence was disconcerting, not unusual, but I cut him a glance as I finished the pole dance and moved towards him to get to the up close and personal bit. My client wasn’t model good-looking but he had a rugged charm, skin too suntanned to be an office worker and the hands that rested on his knees looked big, strong and rough. There was at least a day’s scruff on his chin, and his lips, which were set in a grim line, looked full and pink. In another place, at another time I would have looked at him twice but I never found my clients appealing. Knowing they needed to frequent a place like ‘Gentleman’s Pleasure’ turned me off even the most stunning of men.

  It was his eyes though, that brought me back into the room with a bump. They looked glassy in the dim light of the room, and sad. I faced away, wanting to get back to the sea shore, putting my hands under my long blonde hair and bringing my arms up so it cascaded down. My ass was level with his face, and the thong I was wearing left almost nothing to the imagination, barely enough to remain on the right side of the law. I widened my stance, long legs even longer in my four inch heels, and bent over to give him a really good look.

  I’ll admit that it’s hard to strip without getting a bit turned on. Lacy lingerie lets in a lot of cool air. Add to that the thrusting, the brushing of your own hand over your skin, the knowledge that what you are doing is most likely making your client hard; it’s a heady combination. It’s probably partly why so many girls end up giving extras. That and the money. That wasn’t for me though. No matter how wet I got I kept my body to myself. Eyes were one thing, hands were another.

  The next part of the dance was the slow removal of my bra, first slipping straps off shoulders with a wiggle, then tugging so at least one nipple pops out and finally reaching behind and unhooking, allowing it to drop to the floor before pushing breasts together and leaning close to the client.

  I turned to start the routine, looking at my spot on the wall – in this room it was an unidentifiable yellow stain just above the sofa – hooking a finger under my bra strap, ready to pull, but he distracted me with a noise that sounded pained and I looked down, seeing what looked like unshed tears in his eyes.

  “Stop,” he said gruffly, as if he was speaking past a lump in his throat. “Don’t take it off.”

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, straightening my bra, moving to stand taller and less seductively.

  “Yes, no…I mean, just…you were great. I just…I can’t,” he stuttered out, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes and pushing his fingers roughly through his thick, dark hair.

  “You didn’t like it?” I asked warily, not wanting to get blasted by the management over a complaint.

  “It’s not that. I just…I thought I could do this but it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking a step back. “Do you want me to go?”

  He sank right back in the sofa, rubbing his face with both hands looking almost distressed. In the real world, outside of this place, I would have sat down next to him, maybe rested my hand on his forearm and asked if he wanted to talk about it, but this was fantasy land, and I was almost naked. I had a feeling that attempting to get closer to him would only make him more uncomfortable. I took a step back.

  “No,” he blurted out, realising I was retreating and he hadn’t answered my question. Then he looked me right in the eyes, the grey of his pupils swimming like quicksilver. “Yes,” he said, reluctantly. “Maybe that would be best.”

  As I was about to pull the door closed I heard a soft ‘sorry’ follow me out.

  ***

  My shift ended at 3am and I was beat. Working four nights a week, I made enough to get by. Just. The rest of my days were spent trawling the papers and internet for a proper job but each one I applied for seemed to have a thousand applicants and at least a few requirements that I had no experience in.

  I waved to Adrian as I made my way to the staff exit, and then braced for the cold to hit. My practical quilted coat, jeans and fur boots would keep me warm but I hated that first bite of wind against my face. I thought about my beach again and the warm sun that shone there. I had a framed picture in my bedsit – something I had picked up in a charity shop – of a woman facing the ocean, arms stretched above her head, sarong blowing out as she held it aloft. From behind she looked
a lot like me and that was maybe why I kept picturing it, like a borrowed memory.

  The street wasn’t deserted; a few revellers from the clubs further up the road hung about, waiting for a taxi or chatting. I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder and walked in the direction of home. There was a poster peeling away from the bus stop for a circus show that had been in a local theatre before Christmas. I’d wanted to go but it hadn’t happened. The newspapers had raved about the aerial silk act, but it was the kind of thing you did as a date, and I hadn’t had one of those since... My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a voice calling “excuse me,” and I initially thought it would be someone seeking directions or maybe the time but then the voice said, “Sandy,” and I realised it was the man I had danced for.

  My heart sank.

  I didn’t like talking to clients outside of the club. It was awkward to be seen in my own clothes, feeling in a way like I hadn’t got my armour on, even though I was so much more covered up than I was at work.

  I stopped but didn’t move closer to where he had fully opened his car door and was now standing on the kerb behind it, waiting instead for him to continue.

  “I just…I felt bad about what happened. I wanted to explain.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said, half turning back towards home.

  “I was married,” he blurted out and I turned back, seeing hurt in his eyes and vivid pain in his expression. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling fifty shades of awkward, and more sympathy in my heart than I knew what to do with. I knew what was under his skin, that desperate sadness that’s impossible to escape, the feeling that every tomorrow is going to feel as dark as today.

  “It’s okay,” he said, shaking his head, his strong hand resting atop the car door as if he needed an anchor point to continue. “It feels like a long time…since I could look at a woman and feel…” He trailed off, obviously finding it hard to continue.

  “Desire?”

  “Yes, desire.”

  “And you couldn’t?”

  “No, I did…but it hurt. It felt…”

  “Wrong?” I finished for him.

  “Disloyal.”

  “It won’t always feel that way,” I said.

  He shook his head again, and his expression was so raw, so filled with deep, cloying agony it stole the breath from my lungs.

  There are times when you know in your heart that you have something important to say that will help someone but that didn’t make saying it any easier. It was as if fate had directed him to me and I had a chance to pay forward the sympathy I had received three years ago and the advice that had gotten me through. “I lost my husband,” I said, looking at a point over his shoulder. “He was killed in a hit and run. When it happened I thought I would never climb out of the hole of grief. I lost myself in it all. The guilt of living when he was dead, the guilt of thinking about anything other than him, the guilt of wanting to feel better and of wanting to forget so I could breathe again without feeling such a terrible weight on my chest and such a terrible empty space where my heart used to be.” I trailed off to see his dark grey eyes, framed by beautiful thick dark lashes, fixed on me. “I still miss him, every day. But it doesn’t hurt like it used to. I can see a future, I can go a whole week without crying and I can hope things will be better again…and you will too.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hands through his hair as he had done in the private room, a nervous, restless habit that I found endearing.

  “Nothing for you to be sorry about. Life gives and it takes away. We wouldn’t appreciate the good without the bad.”

  He paused, stepping back and putting his hands in his jean pockets.

  “I should go.” I looked over my shoulder, wishing I could afford to take a taxi.

  “It’s late, can I give you a lift home?” When I turned I must have looked wary because he put his hands up. “I know in this day and age it’s probably not the done thing to get into a stranger’s car but…maybe if you text someone my number plate or something? I can show you my driving licence and you can text that too. It’s bloody freezing out here and goodness knows who’s lurking around. I’d feel better if I could take you somewhere…where ever you need to go.”

  It was probably stupid for me to take up his offer but I had a long walk home in the cold. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of his car with him in the frame and sent it to my sister Ailee with the message, ‘will tell you what this is about tomorrow’ underneath, then walked around to the passenger side, opening the door to the black Volkswagen Golf he was driving. He slid in too, and we closed the doors at the same time, suddenly sitting close in the cocooned interior. A vanilla air freshener hung from the rear view mirror, making the whole car smell sickly sweet.

  “I haven’t told you my name yet.” He held onto the steering wheel, pushing his hands from the sides to the top. “It’s Dan. Dan Brown.” He smirked, the first smile I’d seen on his lips and it suited him, especially when his eyes crinkled at the sides. I thought he must be about 35, only a bit older than me. “I know…it’s crappy when someone you share a name with suddenly becomes famous.”

  I smiled, thinking it could have been worse. “I live in Hammersmith. Is that going to be okay? I guess I should have asked that before I got in.”

  “It’s fine. Almost on my way home.” Dan started the car and indicated out of the parking space, the car making a smooth whooshing noise, then he fiddled with the stereo until he found a radio station he liked playing mellow sounding Jazz. “Give me your postcode so I can put it in the sat nav.”

  When he had tapped it all in I rested back in the seat and closed my eyes, the bone deep tiredness I felt finally crashing over me as hard as a breaking wave during a storm. I must have dozed off – stupid of me – but when I came around we were turning into my road.

  “It’s just here,” I said, waving to a place he could pull into, not quite outside my front door but close enough. When Dan stopped the car he turned to me, looking like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. I waited, knowing from experience that sometimes people just need time and space to build up to verbalising the things they want to say.

  “You don’t have to answer if this is too personal…I just…I wanted to know what it was like…the first time you were with someone new.”

  I lowered my gaze to my knees and fiddled with the straps on my bag. Honesty was something I felt really strongly about but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t tempted to tell him what he wanted to hear. That it was fine, good even. That he would be that man again, the one who could let go and lose himself in pleasure without remembering what used to be, but that wouldn’t be fair or right, so I told him the truth.

  “It’s been three years and I haven’t been able to go there. It feels like such a huge step, like it would close the door to that part of my life. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s just…no one has understood enough for me feel like I could.”

  Dan was quiet, looking out of the window. “Sandy,” he whispered.

  It no longer felt right that he didn’t know my real name because he knew so much of my hurt. “Sandy’s my work name. My real name’s Andrea.”

  “Andrea,” Dan said, rolling the sound off his tongue. “That’s nicer…it suits you more. Look, you can tell me to get lost…but I really want to hold your hand.”

  I really wanted to hold his too. It had been so long since I had experienced such simple affection and the fact that he seemed to want that too, made me yearn for it even more. When I reached over and slid my fingers into his palm, the sensation made me shiver and when he squeezed my fingers and sighed I had to close my eyes.

  “I miss this the most,” he said, making me turn in my seat to look at him. The streetlights cast his profile in amber light, straight nose, full eyebrows and those lips. His expression was more relaxed than I had seen before.

  “I know,” I said, breathing deep. “It’s like�
�since he went…I’ve been made of something cold and brittle, something not worthy of touch. Maybe, worthy’s the wrong word…it’s just, that the things that used to be part of my everyday life, that affection was all gone with him.”

  “Jodi had cervical cancer and it ate her from the inside out until there was nothing left. In the end I was relieved that she went. I couldn’t bear to watch her suffer anymore. I couldn’t bear the smell of dying in our house. And I missed touching her so much but she couldn’t…she hurt everywhere.”

  I didn’t have anything to say that wouldn’t sound like a cliché so instead I held onto him tightly and listened to the sounds of our breathing. Life had taken us both and squeezed out all the joy and I wasn’t sure if people ever really recovered from that. I knew one thing though, that counting on there being a tomorrow was a dangerous business. Paul had plans before he died, lists of things he wanted to do, books he wanted to read and places we were going to travel to. He hated his job but didn’t find something that better suited him. Everything was put off until another day, until there just weren’t any more days.

  I’d been waiting for a long time to feel right about another man and to be sure about taking that step away from my husband and our life together. In a way I’d been doing the same thing that Paul had been doing, putting off living my life until a later that might never come. For whatever reason, Dan had picked tonight to try to move forward and had been given me as his dancer. The stars had aligned and I didn’t want to waste another day.

  My throat felt desert dry so I cleared it before asking him if he wanted to come inside. I couldn’t look at him when I said it because I didn’t want to see hesitancy or rejection in his expression. All I wanted was a straight yes or a no. I could deal with it either way.

  “Yes,” he said, cupping my hand in both of his and holding it like a gift.

  “Okay then,” I said, and opened the car door.

  ***