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When I’m least expecting it, he gives his first order.
“Touch your tits,” he says in a cold, commanding voice.
It’s like leather. Smooth but firm and tight, possessing a dark, authoritative feel.
He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
And, for an inexplicable reason, as I let my hips sway and my hands rise up to cup my breasts, I’m obeying without question.
He leans back in his seat, places his cigar back in his mouth. Another large cloud of smoke puffs out from the end of the cigar, but before it clouds around him, I’m treated to my first real glance of him.
His hair is dark, a little long but neatly smoothed away from his face. His beard is also neat and trimmed, jawline as square and strong as I’d imagined when up on the stage. He has a large, masculine nose that centers his face, but it’s his eyes that send another shock jolting down my spine.
They’re the color of electricity. A burst of lightning contained in his gaze.
Damn, he’s hot as fuck. Which means I’m in trouble as fuck.
I manage to keep up my performance, still seductive, biting on my bottom lip. He shifts again in his seat, almost as if about to sit up straighter. There’s a charge sparking to life, kindling in the air between us. I can feel it, and I think he can too.
My gaze drops to his lap. It could be the shadows and low blue lighting, but if I don’t know any better, there’s a bulge in his pants. I’m turning him on.
That only encourages me more as I glide closer, ready to climb on him for a proper lap dance. His phone goes off, disrupting the sexy, sensuous vibe in the room. He snaps out of his watchful trance, pulling a phone from the inside of his suit jacket.
I pretend nothing has changed and gyrate some more.
He reads something on the screen. His thick fingers fire off several messages in reply. Then he’s standing up, rising to full, impressive height. He has to be six-four, six-five.
I’m not sure what to do, so I keep moving, keep my gaze on him.
He pushes a stack into my hand. “We’re not done here.”
Finally, I stop dancing. I catch a whiff of his scent through the cigar smoke, a powerful musky blend of leather and cognac. It’s affecting enough to disorient me and make me foggy-brained. Is this really happening right now?
“Thirty minutes,” he says, his dark voice bringing goosebumps to my skin. “Wait near the back entrance.”
He’s gone within the next second. The door swings shut, and I’m alone, half-naked with a wad of cash in my hands. What the hell just happened?
As I blink out of surprise, I glance down and my jaw drops. There’sat leasta grand in this stack. If not more.
His last words play back in my ear.
We’re not done here. Thirty minutes. Wait near the back entrance.
Does he want to continue our time together? Finish what we’ve started? But why near the back entrance of the club?
“I’m notleavingwith him,” I say under my breath. “He could be some psycho serial killer for all I know.”
But I can’t take my eyes off the wad of cash. The roll of bills is so wide I can barely close my hand around it. He’s paid me well over a grand just for a five-minute dance.High rollerdoesn’t begin to describe him.
Mr. Rich Motherfucker is willing to spend and he wants to see me again.
I’d be a dumb fool not to go along with it.Right?
