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Iblink.“What?”
“So, show me,” he repeats, expressionless.
A chill drifts through me.Despite the planes of his face being completely devoid of humor, he can’t be serious. He wants me to strip for him?
Another game. Just like the one where he boxed me into the phone booth with his eclipse-like silhouette and silk-clad threats, this game is designed to make me squirm. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I straighten my spine and pin him with my best look of indifference.
“You’re eating.”
He inches down the window and frisbees the burger into the night.
I swallow. “Here?” He nods. “There’s no room.”
Wordlessly, he reaches down beside his seat and it whirs all the way back, creating a large space between his knees and the steering wheel. Large enough for me to shake my ass in. I let out a ragged breath, butterflies erupting in my stomach. Fuck, I wish made men drove Smart Cars or Mini Coopers.
“It’ll cost you.”
Again, he does nothing but stare at me. His hand slides in the pocket of his door, and then a brick of notes falls among my French fries with a dull thud. I stare down at the wedge of hundred-dollar bills, bundled together by an elastic band. Christ, there’s at least a grand there, much more than I’ve ever dreamt of earning in a night, let alone for one dance.
But this wouldn’t be just any dance, for any man.
Grinding my jaw, I roll back my shoulders and meet his gaze. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
The heater whirs. Wham! croons something about last Christmas on the radio. I slide my sweaty palms over the back of Raphael’s jacket and try not to pass the fuck out.
The rain hammers against the glass heavier than ever, but I’m sure my heartbeat is louder. Each thump inside my rib cage ripples like a sonic boom through my nervous system and creates a pulse in my clit.
I’d rather carve my eyes out than lose a game to Raphael Visconti, so I guess I have no choice but to call his bluff.
“Fine.” My admission slides from my mouth and blooms in the air between us. The click of my seat belt releasing reminds me there’s no going back now, unless Raphael admits he was joking. But something about the tension cracking off his body tells me that’s not going to happen. “No touching.”
As I dump my food and his jacket on the back seat and rise, I catch sight of his large hands curling into fists on his thighs. “I know how lap dances work, Penelope.”
Of course he does. This isn’t going to be his first lap dance, but that doesn’t stop hot jealousy from braiding with the knots in my stomach. Doesn’t stop me from accidentally stomping on his toe as I slide into the gap in front of him, either.
He lets out a hiss, and I feel it crackle up the length of my spine. Even drunk on the idea of peeling my damp clothes off for Raphael in such close proximity, I have the good sense to face the windshield. If I had to watch his gaze roam my body up close, I’m not sure I’d survive it.
Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, I turn the dial of the radio up with the other. “Gotta have something to dance to,” I mutter. As music fills the air, Raphael lets out a breath of amusement. I know why; Driving Home for Christmas isn’t exactly a hit at strip clubs.
Knowing I can’t delay it any longer, I focus on the steam misting up the windshield, and I slowly lower my body until the backs of my thighs rest on Raphael’s lap. Denim crackles against expensive wool as I shift my ass forward, to his knees, and arch my back.
Despite my trembling hands, my top slides over my head like melted butter. The thighs underneath mine tense, and the soft hiss that comes from Raphael’s direction makes my nipples tighten beneath my bra.
Spurred on by the heat of an impatient gaze on my back, I lift my ass off Raphael’s lap in a slow, sensual roll. Any reservation I had about looking at him gets swept away by a heady cocktail of lust and adrenaline, and suddenly, I need to see the expression cut onto his face.
I peer over my shoulder and when my gaze clashes with his, I forget to take my next breath. His jaw is tight and his body is rigid, like he doesn’t trust himself to move a muscle. The danger dancing in his eyes both thrills me and scares me at the same time; not a single trace of gentlemanly disposition exists within those irises. Not anymore.
Drawing a steadying breath, I don’t take my eyes off him as I slide my damp jeans over the curve of my hip. His gaze tracks my movements, all the way down to my ankles, and then climbs up the back of my thighs, trailing the strip of my black thong.
I kick my sneakers and pants among the pedals and lower myself back to his lap. Now, the front of his thighs graze against my bare skin, and the feeling of warm, soft fabric brushing over my most sensitive areas makes my mouth water and my lower belly shiver.
Holding onto the steering wheel, I arch my back and roll my ass into the direction of Raphael’s groin. The guttural tone of his grunt sends a shock of pleasure up to my clit. It’s so animalistic, so ungentlemanly, that I’m desperate to hear it again. So, I slide back even further, until the tip of his swollen dick brushes between the cheeks of my ass.
Fuck. He’s hard. Really fucking hard. The realization sends an electric thrill through my core and a warm, wet heat into the gusset of my panties. I’m going out of my mind. Heart picking up pace, I slide back and forward again, sliding higher up Raphael’s erection with every roll of my hip. I could drown in the sound of his ragged breathing; curl up against the hardness of his muscles.
A rough finger slides beneath my thong. The snap and sting of elastic meeting skin elicit a moan of my own.
