Heated
Page 33
Good advice, and though it had taken some time—as in, the entire length of The Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself”—I’d finally managed to kick it up.
I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn’t deny that I was getting into it.
I remembered the heat I’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when I’d stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he’d fought for control.
I drew on the memory of how much he’d wanted me—of how much I’d wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.
And I remembered the way he’d touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?
It had—oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn’t deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.
It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.
But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn’t have the same impact on me. I wasn’t dancing for them. It wasn’t these men who made me want to put on a show.
For that, I had to imagine Tyler.
Tyler, sitting in the dark.
Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.
He wasn’t really there—not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.
So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He’d gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn’t there to see any of it.
It frustrated me that I cared—that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.
I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who was tempted.
He was everything I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.
I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.
I’d spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I’d come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.
Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn’t tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.
I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.
I’d already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.
“Oh, yeah, baby!” an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.
Not bad for a day’s work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.
I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.
Time to step it up a notch.
The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement—and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.
He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.
He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.
He hadn’t even looked at me yet, but it didn’t matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He’s completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.
I continued to move with the music—continued my show for the men—but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.
She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.
As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.
I saw the heat in his eyes—and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.
And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a bitch to dance in.
I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.
And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.
I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn’t touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.
Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.
I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn’t deny that I was getting into it.
I remembered the heat I’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when I’d stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he’d fought for control.
I drew on the memory of how much he’d wanted me—of how much I’d wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.
And I remembered the way he’d touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?
It had—oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn’t deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.
It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.
But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn’t have the same impact on me. I wasn’t dancing for them. It wasn’t these men who made me want to put on a show.
For that, I had to imagine Tyler.
Tyler, sitting in the dark.
Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.
He wasn’t really there—not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.
So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He’d gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn’t there to see any of it.
It frustrated me that I cared—that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.
I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who was tempted.
He was everything I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.
I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.
I’d spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I’d come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.
Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn’t tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.
I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.
I’d already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.
“Oh, yeah, baby!” an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.
Not bad for a day’s work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.
I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.
Time to step it up a notch.
The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement—and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.
He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.
He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.
He hadn’t even looked at me yet, but it didn’t matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He’s completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.
I continued to move with the music—continued my show for the men—but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.
She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.
As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.
I saw the heat in his eyes—and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.
And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a bitch to dance in.
I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.
And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.
I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn’t touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.
Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.
