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Turns out I can dance.
And I like it.
Tell people you’re a dancer, and they get that amused gleam in their eye like it’s something dirty and seedy. That you’re somehow a lesser person because you dance for cash. But I flip that stigma the bird every time I go on stage because I enjoy it, and I’m proud of what I do out there.
Hell, why shouldn’t a woman be proud of her assets? And if those assets earn them a decent wage, tell me where the problem is because I’m not seeing it.
Tonight, I weave my magic around the pole to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”
I’m halfway through my song when I see him.
Ares.
Standing back from the seated area. Almost seven feet tall with arms as big as my thighs and the face of a god. He’s watching me just out of view of the light, lingering in the shadows, his eyes taking in every move I make.
My skin tingles knowing he is watching me.
Our eyes lock, and suddenly, every move is for him, and I feel myself getting more and more turned on with every beat that passes. I don’t ever make eye contact with the patrons, but I can’t look away.
And he doesn’t look away from me.
He doesn’t even blink.
Just sears that dark gaze onto my skin.
When the song ends, I leave the stage, but instead of heading back to the dressing room, I exit stage left and descend the steps to where the patrons nurse their drinks as they wait for the next performance.
Dove Cameron’s “Boyfriend” starts, and Layla, one of the other dancers, begins her routine as I make my way toward Ares. But before I get to him, a fat hand grabs me by the wrist, and I’m pulled onto the lap of one of the creepier regulars. His name is Boz, and he smells like stale liquor, body odor, and desperation.
“Where you going so quick, baby?”
His erection pokes into my thigh, and it makes me want to puke. “Let me go.”
“Oh, don’t be that way, baby. I just want to show you my appreciation for the dance.”
“With your hands?” I shove him in the chest. “I don’t think so—”
I don’t get to finish because strong arms rip me away. It’s Ares, and he’s mad as hell. He plants me on my feet before turning back to Mr. Grab-A-Lot. Lifting him by the collar, he drags Boz to his feet and pins him to the wall. His face is murderous. His bulging biceps are a huge distraction despite the seriousness of the situation.
He looks like he’s about to snap Boz like a twig.
“The lady said hands off.”
“What the fuck, man?” Boz shoves his arms up in surrender while I’m still in awe of Ares’ strength and those mesmerizing biceps.
“You touch her again, and I’ll cut both of them off.” Ares leans even closer. “And jerking it won’t be much fun after that.”
“Okay, okay…”
Ares drops him to his feet, and Boz takes off.
I have to crane my neck to meet Ares’ dark eyes. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“No?”
“No, I had it handled.”
“Didn’t look that way to me.”
