by Emily Bishop
She was close, too close, and it was obvious she couldn’t handle it. Her nipples poked at the fabric of that spandex bra.
Most women couldn’t handle being this close to me. They either launched themselves across the space or quit talking entirely.
My dick rolled again, and I forced images of grandma panties to front of mind. It hadn’t been my intention to ogle her, but goddamn, that picture would be ingrained into my brain for the rest of my life.
“Who the hell am I?” she whispered, brushing glossy hair behind her ear, then pointed her index finger at me, tipped in a baby pink nail. “Who the hell are you? Like I said, mister, you’re not supposed to be in here, doors unlocked or not.”
“I’m a nightmare and a dream in a suit, princess,” I replied, cocking my head to one side, drinking her in from head to toe. “Can’t you tell?”
“I’m not a princess,” she grunted over the ongoing music—“Gorilla” by Bruno Mars was on now, the beat thumping its chest between us.
“Tell me your name, and I’ll stop calling you one.”
“What are we, fifteen? I’m Riley,” she said, and she actually stuck out her hand for a shake. Admirable. She hadn’t keeled over yet, she hadn’t entirely bored me out of my skull, and she hadn’t clammed up like someone had tightened screws into her jaws and jammed them shut.
I took her hand, dwarfed it in my massive palm, and drew her a step closer. She smelled of lavender and vanilla, and sweat. Sweet, fucking sweat. Goddamn. That was the smell of sex, if ever there was one. “Jax.”
“Jax?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Is that even a name?”
“Is teaching pole dancing even a profession?” I asked.
She whipped her hand out of my grip then turned and strode off, her heels thumping down on the boards as if she could pulverize them with her anger. She moved like a queen, not a princess, with measured sways of that ass, frustration aside.
“You’re a teacher here.” I said, loudly, as she cut off the music. My statement rang in the studio, up against the gray wall behind the array of poles, and the mirror at the far end.
“What of it?” Riley asked and grabbed a towel off a stack of chairs in the corner.
Christ, if I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up picturing her in one of those chairs, grinding on me, working herself back and forth, back and forth—Great job not picturing it. Business, jackass, business.
“I need to speak with the person in charge,” I said. “Now.”
“What for?”
“My business is private,” I replied. “Riley, I’m sure you can understand when I tell you it’s an urgent matter.” I wasn’t exactly the sugar-stick kinda guy, but I had enough charm at hand to woo any woman and wheedle any business owner out of their investments.
“Urgent?” Riley spun, those hazel-flecked eyes wide with mock surprise. She toweled her neck and her hair, then her stomach and her collarbones. She did it without breaking eye contact. Did this woman realize how fucking sexy she was? Probably.
She wasn’t in her twenties, or maybe she was, either way, this Riley chick wasn’t a girl—she was a woman. All fucking woman. Or she’d never have tempted me in the first place.
She bent and dragged the towel up one leg to the inside of her thigh, snapped her focus onto me again, eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow, unfortunately.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she said. “This dance studio closes at nine p.m. and it’s—” Riley cut off and checked the clock on the wall at the far end of the room. “It’s fifteen minutes past. Sorry.” She shrugged.
I crossed the distance between us, fast and purposeful, partly drawn by her and partly pushed by, well, whatever the fuck about her didn’t make me yawn. I halted in front of her, mere inches between us, and looked down my nose, only slightly crooked from where it’d been broken. “I didn’t come here to mince words with teachers, understand? I’m a businessman, and time is money. Either give me the owner’s number or—” I broke off, glanced to the left, then frowned.
Up against the corner, packed tight as if to avoid notice, was a pile of pillows and a duvet.
Riley snapped her fingers at me. “Hey! Hey, dude, you don’t get to make demands in here. This place is closed, and you have to leave before I call the cops.”
“Call the cops?” I switched my gaze back to her face. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Christ, I enjoyed the challenge in her expression. The strength. “No, Riley, you wouldn’t.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you’re illegally squatting in this building, and if you called them, you’d be removed.” I grinned.
“It’s a commercial building,” Riley replied, reflecting my shit-eating grin right back at me. “It’s not illegal to squat in a commercial building.”
“But it must bite, right? It must suck to have to sleep here every night and clean up before the classes come in, in the morning. How long’s it been since you showered?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, you look like you could use a hot, soapy shower. Water trickling down your skin, your spine.”
She bit her lip. Apparently, I’d hit a nerve there. There was nothing women loved more than warmth, cleanliness, and beauty—unless it was to sacrifice all of that to be a dirty girl for the right man.
“I—this is all beside the point. Dude, uh, Jax, you have to go.”
“All right,” I said and made my decision.
I’d come here to buy this studio as part of my conquest across Miami. I’d own every bit of land I could get my hands on, turn studios like this into another strip club or restaurant, but I’d have to set aside that goal for tonight.
This woman wasn’t safe here.
“OK, so why aren’t you leaving?” she asked and folded her arms across those ample breasts.
“Call me old school, but I’d be loath to leave a damsel in distress behind.”
Riley lifted one shoulder and glanced around, past me, then behind herself at the chair and the stereo. “Good thing there aren’t any of those around.”
“Let’s get this clear and fast. I’m not leaving unless you come with me, and honey, you can call the damn cops, call the army if you want, all I’ll do is call my buddies higher up the line and have the cavalry turn around and meander back the way they came.” I scissored my fingers in a walking motion in mid-air.
“Come with you?” Riley’s jaw dropped. “Maybe you got the wrong idea, Jax, but I don’t provide those kinds of services.”
I smirked. “Cute. I’m not interested in your body,” I said and told the biggest lie ever uttered. So big, it should’ve shattered the fucking crust and mantle of the earth and plunged through to the core. “I’m interested in you staying safe. I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“I don’t need a man to keep me safe.”
“Only to open your pickle jars?”
She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing—nostrils flared and all that. “Was that a euphemism?”
“If you want it to be,” I said. “Seriously, Riley, you’re not staying here. If I could walk into this place, then anyone else can, and, shit, that’s a recipe for disaster.”
“I get the feeling you know a lot about disaster.”
I brushed my fingers through my hair. “You have no idea,” I replied, chuckling. “Let me get you a hotel room. I’ll pay for it and you can stay for as long as you like.”
“No, thank you,” she said, instantly. “I can’t accept that kind of gesture from someone I don’t know.”
“Then—shit, OK, listen, I’ve got plenty of room. I have an apartment I hardly ever sleep in, duty calls and all that, and you need to rest your head for the night, maybe condition your hair or whatever it is women do when they’re not twirling around poles or driving men insane.”
“Mutually exclusive?”
“You said it first.” I pointed at her.
> She finally laughed, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The mirth tinkled from her. It lit up fucking sparks in the space between us. Hello, what the hell’s that about?
This chick was danger packaged in spandex, and man, did I want a piece. But not tonight. Tonight, she’d sleep, have a safe place to stay, and I’d plan a meeting for tomorrow—this studio would be mine. Nothing would stand in my path to domination, not even a tight-bodied pole dancer with an attitude.
I walked to the door and halted in it, looked back over one suited shoulder. “I’m not getting any younger.” Or less turned on.
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Also by Emily Bishop
Ruthless Daddy
Due Date
Her Baby Daddy
Redemption
Bad Duke
Taming Cupid
Protecting Rayne
Cuffing Her
Famous
Saving Scarlet
Untouchable
Wet Dreams
Bachelor’s Secret
Mr. Anything
Mr. Everything
A Note from Emily...
I’m stubborn. I know this. My family knows this. My husband really knows this. You tell me not to do something and I’m going to do it. Better than anyone else in the world. (According to me at least!)
I’m also sassy. I have the perfect comeback for almost anything. I’m not one of those people who thinks about the perfect thing to say while in the shower two hours later. A thought pops into my head and it comes out of my mouth. Ask my husband if you don’t believe me.
I love writing naughty, sexy, over the top bad boys and the women who tame them. Everyone deserves a little extra romance in their life and I’m here to give it to them.
Love, Em
Let’s get to know each other!
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