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He sipped his whisky, letting it drive down the bile of memories as his gaze drifted back to the woman still making full use of the table. While he liked his patrons to enjoy themselves, this one’s impromptu dance wasn’t exactly the kind he encouraged. No denying she had curves, displayed as they were in tight white jeans and a sleeveless grey top that had a zipper down the front, opened to reveal some tantalising cleavage.
Still moving, the woman pushed her hands underneath her long mane of dark-blonde hair, lifting it away from her neck and letting it cascade back down over her shoulders. The way she shimmied, her body undulating in perfect time to the music, had his already alert cock throbbing against the fly of his suit pants. Shit, this was all he needed. A frigging hard-on courtesy of Ms Footloose up there.
She held her arms out to the side, gyrating in a way that reminded him of a belly dancer he’d once encountered during a pub crawl with his mates. He had very happy memories of that night, especially the one where he’d peeled away all seven layers of flimsy gauze—in private, of course—before he and said belly dancer had fucked the living hell out of each other.
He took a healthy slug of his drink as he continued to watch the current show, imagining sliding down the zipper of her top to reveal breasts perfect for his hands and mouth. Since he could see the faintest outline of nipple, he’d bet she wasn’t wearing a bra. He imagined feasting on her breasts, ruthlessly licking her nipples, then slowly stripping her out of those jeans. He wondered what kind of underwear she favoured. Those skimpy, lacy deals, perhaps? Or maybe she wore none at all.
He swallowed, his fingers curling tightly around the glass as his gaze zoomed in on her ass, looking for a distinct panty line. Shit, he had a full-blown throbbing erection now. And if he did then he’d bet nearly every other guy in the place did too.
Since he prided himself on running classy establishments, he knew the time had come to call a halt. With considerable reluctance, and hoping to hell his erection wasn’t visible to all and sundry, he tossed back the remainder of his drink, placed the glass on the table and stood. Instantly, one of his security men was at his side.
The man glanced over at the group of women. ‘You want me to deal with this, boss?’
Connor shook his head. It didn’t matter how many times he told Nigel not to call him ‘boss’, the man was old school, an ex-copper, and seemed to prefer formalities. ‘No.’ Connor let out a long exhale. ‘I’m heading home anyway, so I’ll sort it on my way out. Keep an eye on them, though, and if they attempt a replay or start to get rowdy call them a cab.’
Nigel tapped two fingers to his temple. ‘Consider it done.’
Connor walked across to the table, hoping that the raunchy dance hadn’t offended his other customers. From his brief glance around the club, most seemed to be taking the unexpected entertainment in a genial manner.
As he neared the table, the woman reached down and took off one shoe. It was one of those lethal, spiky heels that looked as if it should come with a health warning. Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing them at the end of a woman’s leg—sexy as hell, especially when they wore nothing else.
Encouraged by her friends, the woman started twirling around, wobbling precariously on the one remaining heel. She bent, obviously intent on removing the other shoe, but toppled and stumbled back against him.
As Connor reached out to catch her, something lanced across his neck. He inhaled sharply, his fingers reflexively digging into her waist as she fell to her knees, still holding the recalcitrant shoe.
‘Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.’
Caught in the startled green of her eyes, his hands tightened around her waist, holding her steady.
‘You’re bleeding. I’ve hurt you,’ she said.
He tore his gaze away from hers long enough to turn his head, the spike of her shoe dangerously close to his head. ‘It’s fine. Just get that thing away from me before you poke my bloody eye out.’
Using his shoulders as leverage, she swivelled around, then sat on the edge of the table and put her shoe back on. All the while she peered at his neck. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Connor touched his hand to the spot she was staring at, aware of the slight sting there. He wasn’t sure if that sensation was because of the wound itself, or the intensity of her study, but when he drew his fingers away they were streaked with blood.
She reached up. ‘You’re bleeding on your shirt collar.’
Connor stepped away from where she was about to touch his neck. ‘I’ve bled on worse things. Don’t worry about it.’
From the small bag she had strapped across her body, she pulled out a wad of tissue. ‘Here, press this hard to the wound. It will staunch the bleeding.’
He found himself doing as she said. It was those hypnotic green eyes. Or more likely the concern in them.
That unsettled him. Pulled up too many memories. He’d rather she poked his eye out with that insane heel than make him remember things he’d sworn to forget.
‘Thanks,’ Connor said. He turned from her, intending to head to his office at the back of the club, and almost bumped into Nigel.
‘Have you got a first-aid kit somewhere?’ she demanded of the burly bouncer, before turning back to Connor. ‘We should make sure the wound is clean and dress it properly. There’s no telling what germs are on the heel of my shoe—you might be infected by something nasty.’
‘I’m sure I’ll survive.’
‘There’s a kit in the office,’ Nigel said, tilting his head towards the door, and Connor could have sworn the man was battling a grin. ‘It’ll be fully stocked with everything you need.’
Connor narrowed his eyes, fully intending to remind Nigel of his duty of care towards his employer, especially the part about protecting him from pushy females. ‘Great. Then I’ll thank you both for your unwarranted concern and be on my way.’
He was almost at his office door, and trying not to think about those eyes, those curves, all that bloody hair, when he felt her behind him.
