Wicked Firsts

by Naughton, Elisabeth

  “Joining us?” he asked Cantos, fully circling Zoe’s body and pulling her against him. She melted easily into the fit, and Taft kissed her temple. “She’s a fantastic performer.”

  Taft hoped. He didn’t doubt, exactly. She’d come through with everything she’d claimed so far. But he’d seen more than a few good law enforcement professionals freeze up at the most inopportune time. Earlier in his career, he’d done it himself. And pole dancing wasn’t exactly a natural talent.

  Cantos’s narrowed gaze strayed back to Zoe. “Have you worked in the clubs, señorita?”

  Zoe laughed softly. “No. I just took classes for fun. A sexy surprise for Walker.” She lifted her arm and circled his neck. Taft was instantly transported back to her dining room table. To the feel of her bare, wet sex burning his fingers. “But I did have a professional stripper as a teacher.”

  God help him.

  Taft released her, took her hand, and tugged her toward the door. “Come on, baby. Your fans await.”

  She gave the men a finger wave and fell into step beside Taft.

  He lowered his head close to hers. “It’s packed in here. Are you good with that?”

  “Walker, do you know…? That guy… That’s…that’s…him.” She was so excited, so nervous, she could barely get the words out.

  He pried his hand from her death grip and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Yes, Brooks, I know. Is he coming in?”

  “I…” She heaved a breath and looked straight ahead again. “Don’t know. He was quiet. One of those people who sees everything but doesn’t say a lot. He’s a little…different.”

  “Don’t worry about him or anything out here. I’ve got it all covered. Plenty of agents and backup. Just focus on being your sexy self. Can you do that with this crowd?”

  They passed through the store to the room where she’d installed the portable stripper’s pole and Taft had set up chairs. She stopped suddenly, and Taft looked down. Her gaze scanned the room, which was already standing-room only.

  “Holy shit,” she murmured. Then pulled in a breath so deep it raised her shoulders. She lifted her gaze and beamed a smile he hadn’t expected. It hit his solar plexus like a fist of knuckles. She laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. “This would be a bad time to tell you I took classes for fitness at an all-girl gym with six students…wouldn’t it?”

  He lowered his lids halfway in warning. “I never thought you’d been a stripper, Brooks, but I didn’t expect this many people to show either.”

  “You never fail to underestimate me.” She patted his cheek. “Keep the lights off the crowd and the music loud.” Her grin turned sultry. Her hand slid down his neck, his chest, his abdomen. “I’ll think about you…about this morning…and everything will be fine.”

  She started past him. Without moving, he pulled her back and cleared his throat so he could speak, but surveyed the audience with his gaze.

  “You know where the weapons are?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know where the agents are?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ve got plan B and C memorized?”

  “Yep.”

  He finally gazed down at her, recalling the way she’d rolled her uniform jacket off her shoulders in the café that first morning. “Fitness, huh?”

  She grinned. “Yep.”

  Movement behind her brought his gaze up. Cantos and his entire crowd sauntered in.

  “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

  His mouth kicked up in a smile. “They’re here. Every damn one. Well done, sugar.”

  She gave him one of those grins that showed nearly every tooth. One that would have undoubtedly been accompanied with a squeal of excitement had they been in a different setting.

  Taft laughed. “God, you are freaking adorable.”

  That’s when he saw the flicker of a shadow in her eyes, the oh-shit-can-I-really-do-this doubt cross her mind.

  Taft leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. “You impress the hell out of me, Brooks. Get up there and dance for me.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers for a soft kiss. When he released her and lifted his gaze toward the light switches, she gripped the front of his shirt with a fist, slid her other hand behind his head, and pulled his mouth back. And this kiss was 100 percent Zoe—the Zoe he’d tasted this morning.

  His groin flooded with heat at the memory, and his heart swelled with the hope of feeling that Zoe again too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TAFT GROANED, rolled his tongue over hers, then pulled away before he lost focus. Or she did.

  He scraped a hand through her hair and fisted it, a little too tight. “Head on straight?”

  Zoe closed her eyes a second. When she opened them, her gaze was clear. Sharp. She gave Taft one nod, and he let her go. Then he located the agents scattered near opposite exits before shutting off the lights.

  Zoe took the platform they’d created earlier, with a smile that seemed to have its own light source. She stretched one arm high on the pole and leaned her body toward the metal as she introduced herself and explained pole dancing with the charisma of an inspirational speaker. She accompanied her talk with a sexy stroll around the pole, never taking her hand off the brass bar, all the time caressing the shiny surface.

  Just the look on her face, the way she moved, the click…click…click of her boots on the platform made Taft hot. And he wasn’t the only one. When he checked on Cantos’s gang, he found them riveted.

  When she faced the pole and reached high, placing both hands on the metal—the signal for Taft to start the music—her body curved lazily.

  The store’s speaker system poured out a soft female voice with electronic enhancement announcing, “It’s Britney bitch…”

  A deep, sexy bass immediately followed, filling the room with a thick pulse. The effect jolted awareness through Taft’s body, leaving a sizzling trail of sensation from his neck to his groin.

  Zoe began her dance the same way, soft, sexy, and hot. She lifted her body in a straight line to the top third of the brass with what looked like absolutely no effort, hooked one bent knee on the pole in a smooth, elegant move, and hugged the bar close as she spun easily, once, twice, three times. Then came out of the last spin and let go, slowly arching backward, one arm extended overhead, eyes closed.

  Taft’s heart thudded quick and hard. She definitely knew what she was doing, and he didn’t want to pull his gaze from the sheer elegance of her body, but had to.

  Swallowing to wet his dry throat, he scanned the room before studying Cantos and crew, hovering at the back of the crowd. As if Cantos felt Taft’s gaze, he glanced sideways until their eyes met, then tipped his head, silently calling Taft over.

  Taft didn’t immediately respond. He refocused on Zoe just as her feet touched the floor again. With her back to the pole now, arms overhead, she caressed her hands down the brass the way every man in this place wished she was stroking their cock—Taft included. She pulled the clip from her hair, and as she continued toward the floor, it spilled everywhere.

  Cheers and applause rose from the audience. Cat calls. Whistles.

  With her back rigid against the pole, she inched toward the floor. Splayed her knees wider. Her skirt rode higher. And tiny black panties—so tiny they barely covered that perfect peach-fuzz pussy he wanted to taste—crept into view.

  The crowd went wild.

  Taft’s body joined in, and he swore under his breath.

  Zoe rose to her feet, every glorious inch of her body stretched back against the bar, the clingy turquoise outlining her curves and planes. With her back to the pole, her arms overhead, she lifted herself into another effortless spin, tilting her head and curving her spine around the bar. Her body bowed toward the audience, head back, eyes closed, and her hair cascaded in the air behind her.

  He could watch her for hours. She was mesmerizing.

  Which was why he had to stop watching her.

  Taft’s cock puls
ed beneath his jeans as he made his way through the audience. He checked the position of agents, evaluated the crowd and gritted his teeth when they cheered or hooted for another of Zoe’s sinful moves.

  When he stopped, Taft left too much space between himself and Cantos for the man to talk to Taft without moving closer. The easier Taft made setup, the more suspicious he would look. Criminals were distrustful that way. But it wasn’t Cantos who approached Taft. It was Picasso.

  Cantos smoothly moved backward, allowing Picasso, who’d been standing closer to the stage, to step next to Taft. With another few quick shifts of the other Diablos, Taft found himself trapped amid the group. His blood cooled, and he envisioned a knife to the side and himself bleeding out on the floor, unable to utter a word before the lights came up.

  “She’s yours, amigo?” Picasso’s voice raised the protective hackles on Taft’s neck.

  Taft’s need to slam this man into a prison cage skyrocketed. “She is.”

  “Mmm,” he hummed in appreciation, his gaze never leaving Zoe. “Lucky, lucky man.”

  “I am.”

  Taft smiled watching Zoe, as if he saw nothing else in the room. As if he didn’t know anyone else was around. Her speed had picked up, matching the beat of an extended version of Britney Spears’s “Gimme More.” Her trim belly tightened and released with each roll or swing of her hips. Her head tilted and circled, swaying her curtain of silky hair. Arms and hands rubbed that pole like a lover, keeping it between her thighs as she turned and bent.

  Another series of wide steps with those fuck-me spiked boots. Big, smooth hip checks. Her hand caressing a path down the side of her body from the curve of her breast to the top of her thigh.

  Taft was ready to chew through leather to get to her—for more of that wickedly hot sex they’d had this morning, but also to see more of what was underneath her exterior. He wanted to peel away those layers to see if she was all he thought she might be. Of course, if she was…Taft knew his life would change. Drastically. Which he found equally thrilling and terrifying.

  Zoe spun, put her back to the bar, and stretched her arms high. Slowly, she pulled her legs over her head with the precision of a gymnast and the refinement of a dancer, until she was upside down near the ceiling. Hugging the pole close, she opened her legs inch by inch, and inch by inch, her dress crept over her skin, exposing more and more until Zoe was doing the splits in the air and her dress was bunched around her hips.

  Holy Mary, mother of God.

  The crowd went wild. But Taft couldn’t act surprised or appreciative. He had to act like she did this in the living room every day.

  She brought her legs together and wound one around the pole. Arms stretched overhead toward the floor, she pulled her upper body away from the pole and started a slow downward spiral.

  Her dress mirrored the descent inching over her belly, her ribs… Taft’s gaze locked on the tattoo he’d seen hints of earlier as it appeared little by little, and the crowd’s applause faded into the background.

  Wrapping her side, continuing toward her back and shoulder, the elegant, ornate image of a birdcage decorated her skin. The door open. The cage empty. His mind filled with the memory of her girlie Z on the opposite arm and realized the curlicues weren’t just decoration, but…wings.

  When he focused his gaze again, Zoe’s dress had cleared her head and was sliding off her arms, her body covered in nothing but bra and panties.

  And holy hell, what…a…body.

  Taft had been nursing disappointment all day after their planned second and third rounds of sex that morning had gotten interrupted. Been admittedly moping with the realization those rounds may have to be cancelled completely if she wouldn’t relent on her coworker hang-up. Now, after seeing firsthand all he’d missed out on…his mood was growing seriously foul.

  Everyone in the crowd was on their feet now. The applause had become deafening, and mall security hovered at the store’s entrance.

  Zoe caught her dress in one hand, gripped the pole in the other, and brought her boot tips gently to the ground. She glided right into another series of turns and spins without even a second of pause and tossed her dress aside.

  Taft bit the inside of his lip to keep from growling aloud.

  “Do you have an…” Picasso drew out beside him when the applause died down, “open relationship?”

  “You mean do we fuck other people?” Taft turned his head and met Picasso’s eyes. “No.”

  Picasso’s mouth turned up at one edge. He nodded in understanding, and his gaze roamed back to Zoe. “Do you…share?”

  Taft had to process the words before he realized Picasso wasn’t asking the same question in a different way. He was asking if Taft would consider a threesome, and the thought of a threesome with another guy—this guy—made bile back up in Taft’s throat. But he did see opportunities opening up to get the man alone.

  He considered the offer as Zoe’s beautiful body and confident, sensual moves hypnotized and seduced him. “The offer would have to be…exceptional. I’ve kept Brooks all to myself. She’s…special.”

  “I can see that.” Picasso’s voice grated on Taft. “Which is why I’m interested.”

  He forced out a laugh. “You’re not the only man in the room, brother. I can guarantee you that.”

  “But,” he said, “I am the only man in the room who can afford her.”

  Taft’s spine turned to ice, one vertebra at a time. He didn’t react immediately but slowly turned narrowed eyes on Picasso. “Some things are to valuable to sell.”

  “You need money to run the store, no?” Picasso asked.

  “We’re doing all right.”

  On stage, Zoe executed a series of spins, set her feet, and with one hand on the pole, one held up high, took a bow.

  Taft turned toward Vasquez, standing on his left. “Excuse me, dude. I need to get the lights.”

  Vasquez stepped back, but only enough for Taft to reach the switches.

  He flipped them on and found Zoe swamped by those adoring fans he’d only been joking about earlier. Her gaze swept the crowd until she found his and held.

  And in that moment, Taft settled for the first time since he’d kissed her before she’d gone up on stage. Then she smiled. And those uncomfortable sensations nudging his heart all day started twisting.

  “I am part of a large community,” Picasso said. “One comment from me and your business would thrive.”

  Taft returned his attention to Picasso. “We have contacts in just about every community—”

  “Not this one, amigo,” he said, grinning for the first time. “I guarantee it.”

  Picasso was a good-looking man in his late thirties, tall and fit with strong features. And he wore a gold wedding band.

  Taft lifted his shoulder and glanced toward the register where the agent cashiering had a line of customers already. Zoe’s show had gotten more than just Taft’s juices flowing. “Maybe we can talk about it later. It’s getting busy in here.”

  “One-time offer, amigo. I’m leaving town in a couple of days. I can understand how you might not want another man to touch her, and I really prefer to watch, so I’ll make you a couple of offers. Twenty thousand dollars to watch you and Brooks have sex for three hours. Ten thousand to have her to myself for three hours.”

  Taft’s jaw clenched. He turned back to Picasso slowly.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” Taft repeated, “to do nothing but watch us have sex?”

  Picasso licked his bottom lip. Gave Taft a curt nod. A strange sensation slithered down Taft’s spine.

  “That’s a hell of a lot of money for porn, my man. You can get it fucking free on the Internet.”

  “Not the kind I like. And not live.”

  “What exactly do you expect for that kind of cash?”

  “Anything I want. I say it, you two do it. And I’ll add another ten if she dances for me beforehand.”

  A body bumped Taft from the side. He immediately noted the si
ze, the weight, and lifted his arm to drape it around Zoe’s shoulders without having to look at her. She slid her arms around his waist and cuddled close, her body burning hot. She’d thrown the turquoise dress back on, and her sweet and musky scents mixed, rising to Taft’s nose on her heat and sparking an urgent craving low in his gut.

  “Glad you made it in,” she said to Picasso, an innocent, invigorated smile lighting her face. “Hope you enjoyed the demo.”

  “More than you know, señorita.” Picasso slid his hand over the arm Zoe had wound tight around Taft’s abdomen, his fingers stroking the Z high on her arm. “Beautiful tattoos. What does the Z stand for?”

  “My middle name, Zelda, which is also my grandmother’s name. We were very close, and I got the tattoo in her memory when she passed.”

  “Ah.” He lowered his fingers and drew her hand to his mouth. “Very nice.”

  Picasso turned her hand over and pressed his lips to Zoe’s wrist. The muscles of her jaw clenched. It was all Taft could do not to put a fist in the fucker’s jaw, but he squeezed Zoe’s upper arm in reassurance, and her shoulders uncoiled.

  But Taft was quickly realizing this water she’d swum into was deep, these sharks were great whites, and, in their eyes, Zoe looked like a plump sea lion.

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

  He grinned. “Only for the very special.”

  He let her hand go, and she dug her fingers into Taft’s belt as if afraid Picasso would try to take her hand again.

  The way she clung to him, the way her nails bit into his side, struck the match on an old, ugly burn in his gut. A lick of panic followed. Then Zoe pressed her head to his shoulder, and as quickly as it had come, the burn, the fear, the panic…vanished. The clench low in his abdomen released. Everything, just…gone.

  Taft waited, sure it would be back. This kind of clinginess always made him claustrophobic. Reminded him of how his mother had depended on him from the age of five for everything, from getting to the toilet to getting her social security check. He’d subsequently hated the way any women seemed to latch on if he dated or slept with them more than three or four times.