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Instead, I’m so focused on not letting him know how he affects me that it’s hurting my performance.
“Shame.” He sinks back onto the couch, reclining. “All the money I paid to be in here, and you don’t have the slightest interest?”
“You paid for a dance.” I arch my back, still looking away from him as I slide my hands further up the pole, preparing to pull myself onto it. “Nothing more than that. If you want something specific for your entertainment, let me know. I am here toplease, after all.”
I leap up at that, hooking my leg around the pole as I arch against it, swinging towards him and holding myself there. I see the heat in his gaze as he watches me, the growing need, and it sends an unwanted flush through me as well.
“What if I want more than a dance?” His voice is low and husky, and as he shifts on the couch, I catch a glimpse of the ridge of his cock pressing against his fly, already hard for me.
Is it long? Thick? How would it feel–
The actual words hit me a second after he says them, and I stiffen, sliding down the pole and landing on my feet as I glare at him from the stage.
“I’m a dancer, not an escort.” The words come out as clipped as thenohad earlier, and I can feel the tension radiating through my body. “Some of the girls offer…extras, but I don’t. So maybe you should find one of them instead.”
“I’m here for you.” His voice is smooth, silky, and it sends a chill through me that chases away any last lingering heat of arousal.I’m here for you.
Those four words, strung together in that order, are some of the last I want to hear anyone say to me now.
“Or maybe you should tell me your name after all,” I snap, struggling to keep the rising fear out of my voice. “So I can tell Davik to make sure you don’t come in here again.”
The man sits up a little, leaning forward with that same smirk lingering on his lips. “It’s Mikhail,” he says smoothly. “But I’m telling you that for your own sake, not Davik’s. I’d love to hear you say it sometime.”
Mikhail.The name strikes a chord as if I’ve heard it somewhere before. But in all likelihood I have–it’s a common name. Nothing particularly remarkable about it. And I’m sure as hell not going to say it now.
“You paid for a dance,” I say smoothly. “One that you’re wasting, with all this back-and-forth. Now I can leave, and you can see if you want to go toe-to-toe with Igor for half your money back, or you can relax and enjoy what you paid for–andonlywhat you paid for.”
He looks far too pleased for a man who has just lost an argument. He leans back against the white couch again, his hands at his sides. I catch a glimpse again in the shifting lights of the ridge of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants, thicker than before.
“By all means,Athena,” he says smoothly, his voice still low and rough. “Dance for me.”
Natalia
Ileave the club at the end of my shift more unsettled than when I arrived.
Mikhail.I have a name, now, for the man with the icy eyes.
He behaved himself for the rest of the dance. In fact, his behavior had been more exemplary than a lot of men who pay for private time, as much as I hate to admit it. He hadn’t tried to touch me, not even when I came off the stage for the last part of the dance that was meant to be more up close and personal. He hadn’t tried to touch himself, either, not so much as a flick of the wrist or a furtive rub against the erection that I noticed had become more and more prominent as the hour went on.
He did look thick. And long.Huge,in fact, possibly bigger than any man I’ve been with so far. The thought had done nothing for my steadily growing arousal as I danced. It had been only by pure skill borne out of long practice that I managed to pull off the performance at all, hoping that he hadn’t noticed how much it had turned me on.
The flush on my skin could be chalked up to exertion. But every time I bent over, spreading my legs, I prayed that he couldn’t see how wet I was, my thong clinging to my pussy folds as I’d gone through the motions of my routine.
I was fuckingdrenched.And none of it made sense.
Now, walking back to my apartment with the familiar pit of dread in my stomach that comes from walking down shady streets with an envelope of cash tucked in my waistband, between my shirt and jeans and my skin, even that feeling can’t completely shake the lingering arousal.
He shouldn’t have turned me on at all. He was arrogant. Insulting. Over-confident. Entitled, even. The kind of man I encountered far too often in my previous life.
The kind of man who really shouldn’t have been at my sort of club at all, I remind myself.
Similarly to earlier in the evening, I walk as quickly as possible without making my hurry too obvious. The last thing I want is to attract attention–moreattention, anyway, than I usually attract walking this late at night–when I have what had turned out to be a decent night’s worth of tips on me. My first instinct about Mikhail had turned out to be right–he did seem to have money.
He tipped me a generous portion of it at the end of the night. That, combined with my other earnings from the week, will be enough to pay my bills that are due while possibly getting some groceries that don’t involve either peanut butter or cheap noodles. I should feel grateful, but all I really feel is annoyed and anxious.
The letter this morning had been bad enough. My apartment has never felt like a particularly safe haven, but that delivery madeit feel even less so. The thought of it sends a creeping sensation over my skin. I wonder if I’ll find anything strange waiting for me when I get back tonight–oranyone.
But no amount of unease can completely chase away the itchy, frustrated feeling that clings to me like an unwanted perfume. Not even Mikhail’s high-handed attitude was able to.
