by L. Steele
"Yeah." Isla sits up. "We need to teach him a lesson. You’re beautiful...gorgeous. You're exactly the kind of challenge he needs."
"Bet he knows it too." Summer looks me up and down. "Maybe that’s why he did an about-turn? He knew if he took you on, he risked getting involved."
I shake my head. "You should have seen him, when I walked in on him. He was…"
"Angry?"
"Turned on?"
"Ready to throw you down and shag you?"
I circle the rim of my glass with my forefinger, "Distracted."
"What?" Amelie frowns.
"He was busy," I reply.
"All an act." She huffs.
Summer raises an eyebrow, then nods. “I think I’m familiar with that act. He didn’t want you to see how much you affect him." Her lips curve, "Trust me. I saw the way he was eating you up with his eyes at my wedding."
"Perhaps he was interested, but he sure as hell disguised it well," I mutter.
"Only one way to find out." Amelie taps her finger to her cheek.
I glance at her warily. "Why do I have the feeling you are the last one I should be taking advice from?"
"Aww… Come on, V," she pouts, "you don’t mean that."
I draw in a breath, "I guess not. After all, I get by with a little help from my friends."
"Did you quote The Beatles?" Summer chuckles.
I redden, "Old habit."
"It’s delightful. You’re delightful. In fact," she scowls, "you are not what I expected."
"Oh?" I meet her gaze, "What did you think I was?"
"Cold," Isla interjects.
"Hard," Amelie adds.
Summer wriggles around and makes herself comfortable, "You know… You turned up unannounced at my wedding as my father’s wife, someone I never knew existed. And you were perfectly turned out, designer clothes and all."
"I prefer to be well-dressed. What’s wrong with that?" I scowl.
"Not a thing." Summer looks me up and down. "Bet, that’s what turns Saint on. Bet he wants to mess you up."
I flush, "Maybe." I glance between them, "What are you guys thinking?"
"I think," Amelie sits up on her knees, "you’re going about this all wrong."
"I am?"
"You went in and asked him outright. Guys don’t respond well to that."
"And what do you know about that?" Isla teases. "You, who haven’t had a steady boyfriend in forever."
Amelie doesn’t miss a beat, "I am not the one in question here… Also, I’ve observed human behavior up close."
"You're a pastry chef," Isla snorts.
"Exactly." Amelie's lips curve. "I've seen humans naked and vulnerable. Not literally," she hastens to add, "but you ever observe people enjoying their dessert? They let their guards down, and tune in to their baser instincts. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he eats his pudding."
Isla makes a gagging sound. "PJ. PJ," she singsongs.
"PJ?" I frown.
"Poor joke," she clarifies.
Amelie reddens. "Uh, that's not what I mean."
Summer chuckles. "Sure, you did."
"Okay so it came out all wrong, but you get me, right?" Amelie waves a hand in the air.
I take in her scarlet features. A smile trembles on my lips.
"Anyway, don’t mock it until you try it." Amelie turns to me, "As I was saying..."
"Yes?"
"I think you should make Saint jealous." Her eyes gleam, "Very jealous."
9
I am an odd number. Take away a letter and I become even. What number am I?
Answer: Seven
* * *
Saint
* * *
The music reverberates from the walls of the nightclub. The blonde leans in and shoves her ample bosom into my face.
I glance down her neckline, yawn.
She grabs a cushion from the next chair, slaps it to the floor between my legs, then drops to her knees. She lowers the zipper on my pants and my dick springs free.
I shove a hand into the pocket of my slacks. I could do with a fucking cigarette about now.
She bends and takes me into her mouth.
The blood thuds at my temples; my balls shrivel. Hell, I don’t want her. I grip her hair, she moans—the sound too exaggerated, too theatrical... Nothing like the soft breathy cries, the whines, the keening groans from Gigi. Why am I thinking of her again?
I yank the blonde’s head back. She glances up, a frown between her eyebrows.
"Leave."
She scowls.
Guess I owe her an explanation? Not. "It’s not you…" I crack my neck, "it’s me."
Her lips turn down, then she stiffens, springs up. "You’re a jerk, you know that?" She pivots, then flounces off toward the exit.
"What happened?" A male voice snickers. "No lead in the old pencil?"
"Shut the fuck up, Weston." I glance over to where he’s sprawled on a settee—a woman between his legs. Her head bobs as she blows him.
Not a muscle moves in his face. His features are deadpan. He’s not enjoying that so much as tolerating it. Yeah, when you hop from one blow job to the next, it happens. Things leave you bored. Flashing eyes, moist lips, the scent of her arousal in the air. My cock is instantly erect. The hell? Just thinking of her seems to have the most bizarre effect on my libido. Unacceptable. No-one, not even one of the Seven, are allowed to get close. So why is it that I can’t get the images of our encounter out of my head? "Clearly, I don’t like her."
No fucking riddle there to solve.
"Who are you talking to?" Weston peers past me.
The fuck? Did I say that aloud? I scowl, "None of your bloody business."
"The man doth protest too much."
"Focus on your own asinine problems."
"Of which, I’ll have you know, I have none." He taps the head of the woman whose face is stuck to his groin. She obediently increases her pace, raising and lowering her head at double the speed. He glances at the one on his right and she thrusts out her chest, squeezes her breasts, moaning in what is clearly fake desire. He frowns, "Less noise, more action." The woman subsides, her entire body gyrating with the effort of her ministrations on herself.
"I don’t know, from where I am, you seem…"
"Occupied?" He smirks.
"Stupefied."
"At least I am getting some satisfaction… You, however…" he looks me up and down, "...are a sorry state of affairs."
I tense. "Fuck off, douchebag."
"Oh, I intend to." He widens his stance. The blonde between his knees peers up, he frowns, and she goes back to the services she’s providing him.
"So, it’s come down to this, huh? Just two of the Seven trading insults." I tuck myself back in, then jump to my feet, begin to pace.
"Well, Sinner’s too infatuated with his new wife, Edward’s out… Priest and all that, Damian’s off doing whatever it is that rock stars do, Arpad’s island-hopping in the Baltics, and Baron…"
"Fucking Baron." I drum my fingers on my chest, "Bet he’s laughing at us from whichever corner of the world he is in."
"Of all the Seven of us, he took the incident the worst."
I stiffen.
"Not that it hasn’t affected all of us in different ways. It’s a bit much for twelve-year-old boys to have been subjected to what we were—"
"Stop." I grimace.
Weston’s shoulders tense. Then he grips the hair of the woman in between his thigh. He tugs and she moans. He yanks her head back and forth, using her mouth to get himself off. His mouth firms, then he pulls her off of him. He snaps his fingers and all three women in the room rise to their feet. Turning, they fade toward the exit.
"Well trained." I smirk.
He grabs hold of a napkin from the side table, wipes himself then tucks himself inside of his pants.
"Bet they didn’t pose much of a challenge to you, hmm?" I ask.
"Is that what you are looking for?" He tosses the cloth a
side, then fixes himself and stands to his feet.
Is it? I raise my shoulders. "I’m cool, ol' chap. Easy come, easy go."
"That’s what Sinner used to say." He mutters, "Then look what happened to him…"
"Sinner’s a fucking fool, letting his emotions getting entangled with a woman. Not that I have anything against Summer."
He chuckles, "Of course, not." He rises to his feet.
"I am not going to make the same mistake." I crack my neck.
"You trying to convince me or yourself?" He asks.
"Neither." I shuffle my feet. "Mind you, of all us, Jace and Sinner are the happiest right now."
"No doubt ensconced with their women." He shudders.
"Tying themselves to one woman for the rest of their lives." A hot feeling stabs at my chest. Whoa. I’m not jealous. I’m not. Burying myself in the same pussy every night, waking up with the scent of her in my nostrils, her moans echoing in my ears, the thrum of her cunt vibrating at my fingertips… Nah. My groin hardens; blood drains to my cock. Clearly, I need a diversion. I did the right thing, turning her down. I am never going to give in to the temptation her body affords me. Nope.
Shouts reach me from the theatre below. Turning, I prowl over to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the stage.
Weston joins me.
I gaze down at where a woman hangs in a graceful split from the pole in the center. The shouting dies down. She stays motionless, a long statue of grace. Her leg muscles are coiled, her calves seem to be carved out of stone. Surely, her ankles are too delicate to bear the weight of her body? Then the strains of a familiar song crash over the space. Is it The Beatles?
Who the fuck strip teases to a song by the bloody Beatles?
She arches her arm at a right angle to her body. A ripple runs through the crowd. I freeze.
Victoria does, and damn, does she give the song a whole new meaning.
She leans into the move, her hip jutting out…the silvery strip of nothing digging into the crease between her legs, stretching to outline what would be pink, juicy, pussy lips. A shimmer of lust crawls up my spine. The hair on the back of my nape rises. The music pumps up…
* * *
I stare as she twirls around once, then again. Bends one leg, thrusts out the other, then lets go, to stay poised on one arm for a second—the crowd gasps—then she wraps her am up and around her leg, thrusts out her breasts. Her nipples are outlined against the shimmery top…that hugs every curve of her body, baring her creamy shoulders. The arch of her neck, the sweat that beads that beautiful skin, clings to the regal arch of her brow, slides down her temples, across that soft curve of her cheek. She throws her head back, lips parted, spine arched in the simulation of the first throes of an orgasm.
The lyrics crescendo. She’s dancing to Come Together by The Beatles. Jesus H Christ. Come together, indeed.
Her eyelids snap open. Familiar green eyes, stare up at me. Her eyes. I glare. Under the harsh spotlights, her skin glows—white, transparent, so fragile. All mine. A growl rips from me.
"How dare she?"
10
Victoria
* * *
His pale, blue eyes glitter, and even from across the space that separates us, they resemble chips of ice. Hard. Mean. His nostrils flare. Is he angry?
His jaw tics; his shoulders seem to grow in size.
No, he's not angry; he's livid. I gulp and all of my nerve-endings seem to flare. His chest heaves and the shirt stretches across the planes, outlining every single ripped muscle. Omigod, no one should look that gorgeous, that lethal. My belly clenches.
I unfurl my body, coil my legs around the pole, twirl—once, twice, thrice—flatten out my body parallel to the floor in a flat line… Stay… Stay… My biceps flex, my triceps stretch, all of my muscles coil, then I lower my legs until I’m parallel again, this time to the pole, lower my legs, until my toes touch the pole. Let go of the pole, to drop down to a crouch, then spring up, arch my back, my neck, snap out my head, search the window above. It’s empty.
What the hell—?
My stomach bottoms out. My arms and legs tremble.
The lyrics of my preferred song to dance to thump against my breast bone. So close, I had been so close. I could have sworn I’d caught his attention… I should have known better.
Just because he is interested in me—Oh, I’d caught the flicker of curiosity in his gaze from the moment he’d laid eyes on me—so what? He met many men and women, a billionaire like him who has the freakin’ world at his feet. What does he know about being helpless, at the mercy of those who could change your life in an instant?
If I don’t manage to intrigue him, I'll never be able to break Nina free of the Mafia's clutches.
Goddam him. I grab the pole with my arms, pull myself in, then scissor my legs wide apart, in a 'V' swirl, once, twice… It's thanks to Nina that I'd taken classes in pole dancing. She'd enjoyed it and had nagged me until I'd gone along with her. She thought it would help me gain confidence in myself, and help me come out of my shell. And truth is, I'd found it liberating.
On the pole I can let go of all of my inhibitions, forget I am a nerd who doesn't fit in anywhere. I can let the music get to me, allow the lyrics to twist my insides, slam against my temples, my chest, between my legs. I twirl around the pole, faster, faster—the world spins, lights flash behind my eyes. I loosen my grip, my body flies through the air, muscles loose, shoulders coiled, and I land on a roll. The audience gasps, I spring up to my knees, lower my head. Sweat drips down my temples, from my chin, splatters onto the floor.
* * *
The music rises to a crescendo, then switches off.
The cheering from the crowd smashes into me. I open my eyes, and notice the worn cowboy boots in my line of sight. The hair on the nape of my neck rises. I run my gaze up the tailor-made slacks that mold to powerful thighs and cup the bulge between the legs. I gulp. Snap my head back.
"Get up."
His lips move. I hear him above the hoots and whistles of the crowd.
I glide up to my feet, the audience cheers. "Victoria!"
"Victoria… Show your tits."
A snarl rolls up his chest. His biceps bulge. Anger strums off of him and my nerve endings spark. I’ve seen Saint laid back, bored, cruel intent writ in his every expression. But this…? Saint …. Livid, every muscle in his body taut, layer upon layer of muscle vibrating with surprised tension…? My thighs spasm and liquid heat curls in my belly.
"Victoria, take it all off…" Another scream from the audience rips between us.
He growls, takes a step forward, "Do it."
I blink.
"Take off your clothes."
"H…here?"
"Isn’t that why you’re here? To show off your assets? To cash in what you have for money? He shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls out his wallet. He holds up a credit card. The light flashes off of it, blinding me for a second. "This is what you want, right?"
I swallow, then tip up my chin. "Of course." A cold sensation stabs at my chest. My fingers and toes turn to ice. I fold all of my emotions into that tiny space deep inside. Raising one shoulder, I shrug off my scanty sparkly top, then shrug down the other side.
The fabric catches on my hard nipples, stays poised a second. One more breath and it will fall. Another hoot from the audience, "You’re blocking the view, you asshole."
I wince.
Saint holds up a hand and the audience quietens.
He moves in closer, closer, until his chest brushes my half naked torso. Goosebumps flare on my skin. He swoops out his arm. I wince. He digs his fingers into my hair, tugs. I arch my head, bare the column of my neck for his perusal.
A bead of sweat runs down my temple. He drops his head and licks it up. I shudder. All of my pores pop.
"That was a terrible song to strip to, by the way."
I blink. Of all the insignificant things to say… "Not a Beatles fan, huh?"
"Hate them."
"Oh, goody." I flutter my eyelashes. "I’ll make sure to strip to only them from now on."
His gaze narrows and his blue eyes lighten until they resemble water swirling under ice—deep, dangerous. He’s lethal…a man who’ll never let go once his interest is aroused. I gulp. My heart begins to race.
"Say that again…" His voice lowers to a hush.
"I’ll make sure to…"
His hand swoops out, then he tears off the strip of cloth from over my middle. I am instantly wet. Damn him, why do I find this hot? It isn’t. He wants to belt me, teach me a lesson for what I did. I’d dared to throw down the challenge and he had risen to it—I drop my gaze to where his arousal tents his crotch—in more ways than one.
"Do it." My voice trembles, and I... I hate that. I will not allow him to see how scared I am. Worried that my body will enjoy what he is going to do to me. Find that I want it, welcome it. Ask him to ravish me right here in front of everyone. "Lost your courage?" I tip up my chin and his features twist. He bends his knees, grabs me by my thighs, then pushes me down on the padded platform.
I stare up at him, raise my torso. He covers my body with his, plants his hips between my legs, his hardness stabbing at the hollow between my legs. His gaze bores into me. My heart begins to race, adrenaline lacing my blood. Fear claws in my gut. I raise my hand and my palm connects with his face. His head snaps back.
He straightens and my fingerprints are outlined on his cheek. Oh, dear! That’s not good, is it?
I gulp and he bares his teeth.
I raise my hand again and he catches it, then brings up my other arm. He yanks my palms up and above my head, shackles my wrists with his fingers. Then thrusts his hand between us. I hear the click of his belt buckle, the rustle of his zipper, then his dick nudges my entrance.
"You want this, don’t you? This is why you’ve been haunting me since I saw you. This is why you came to me for help. You’re a whore. Admit it. You want what only I can give you."
I nod.