I was going to fucking kill her. Drag her off the stage and into the alley and murder Little Miss Candie Fucking Couture with a Dirty Secret. But first, I was going to kill every son of a bitch in this room who dared to look at her. Starting with that greasy, gold-toothed dipshit in the corner who was grabbing his junk through his track pants. He’d be first.
When I overheard… okay, fine. When I eavesdropped on her call on the roof, I thought I was hallucinating. My wholesome, untouchable admin wasn’t really planning to take off her fucking clothes in front of a crowd of perverted strangers for money.
Yet here I was, sitting in a black vinyl booth with a table tent advertising two for one splits of champagne to share with your “favorite dancer.” And there she was. On the stage in shorts so short I didn’t think they qualified as clothing in front of at least a hundred and fifty assholes—myself included. She was squinting into the lights as a bunch of soon-to-be dead men—and women—whistled and catcalled.
If I were feeling more charitable, I’d say I couldn’t blame them. She looked unbelievably tempting.
But she also looked terrified.
I’d had enough. I started to slide out of the booth with the intent of getting her off that stage. She didn’t belong there, and it was beyond fucking time that she came clean about everything.
But the music was starting, and the crowd was leaning closer. When she wrapped a hand around that brass pole, I forgot what I was doing and dropped back down into the booth.
The song was slow, dirty, tortured. I liked it. It reminded me of me.
She hooked a leg around the pole and spun, dropping lower and lower circling toward the stage. Her hair whipped out behind her, and when she stood again, it covered one smoky eye. My fingers itched to push it back, to hook it behind her ear, and drag her in for a kiss.
I wanted to scan the audience—and I used that term loosely—for any threats, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the stubborn, desperate, delicious woman on the stage. I hoped to God security was up to the challenge tonight. Because if anyone laid a hand on her, one single finger on her, I was going to lose my shit.
She moved her body as if a lover was touching it, her own hands slipping over those tempting breasts, coasting over her smooth stomach, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts.
I held my breath along with the rest of the assholes in the crowd. And then she was peeling the shorts down her legs and kicking them off, revealing a plain black thong.
I’d buy her a thousand thongs if she were mine. I’d drown her in lingerie and dresses and diamonds and fucking yoga pants. Anything she wanted, I would give her.
Her hips gyrated in a movement so unholy my cock flexed in my pants. I realized I’d been hard for her since the second she walked out onto stage. I hated the hold she had on me.
The only thing that had kept her safe from me was the fact that my mother signed her paychecks.
That and the fact that she was clean, fresh, sweet. Not only was that not my type, the last shred of human decency in me didn’t want to taint that, destroy that. I wasn’t a complete monster. But the woman sliding down that goddamn pole, the goddess slithering across the stage like pure temptation was not squeaky clean. She was deliciously dirty.
And I wanted to sink my teeth into her.
I wanted to get my hands on her and not let go.
My chest was tight. I couldn’t breathe. Not while I watched her dance. Her eyes were closed like it didn’t matter that there was an entire room full of men hard for her. Like she didn’t care. Like she was untouchable.
It was raining money on stage. But I didn’t want her to touch it. I wanted her to take from me and me alone.
She reached for the knot in her shirt. I felt the tension in the crowd rise as my dick turned to concrete.
“Don’t fucking do it, Ally.”
I wanted to see her breasts more than I wanted anything in this entire world. But not as one in a crowd. I wanted to be the only one. Panic clawed its way up my throat as her fingers toyed with the knot.
Every man in the room was holding his breath waiting for it. I held my breath and prayed for her to stop. The song was winding down. It was now or never. I picked up my drink, gripping the beer bottle like a weapon.
“Not like this,” I whispered. “Please.”
As if she’d heard me, as if the angel of strip clubs had passed my message along, Ally’s fingers danced away from the knot. There was a collective groan from the crowd that seemed to crack the little bubble she’d built around her. As though remembering there was a job to do, she grabbed the material over one breast and yanked it to the side.
“Fuck.”
The blue pasty glittered under the stage lights, and the crowd went wild.
Cash littered the stage as she took another spin around the pole, arching her back and sliding lower and lower, one breast peeking out of her shirt.
She was going to pay for this. Tonight.
I flagged down a server with a hundred dollar bill.
“Need something, handsome?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without taking my eyes off the girl on stage. “Her.”
