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“Get… the fuck…offme,” Musclehead wheezes from the ground, flopping like a fish as he tries and fails to move the boot off his throat. “You’re a… a fuckingdeadman.”
My rescuer—Dante—ignores him, choosing instead to keep his attention entirely focused on me. “You done working now, princess?”
“Yeah,” I say, disbelief still filling my voice. I can’t believe he stayed.And thank fuck he did.
“That’s good,” Dante says, a lazy smile hovering over his lips. “I was hoping I’d catch you after you got off.”
“Did you… hear me, mother…fucker?”
The piece of shit under Dante’s boot sounds like he can’t get enough air, and I can’t find it in myself to feel sorry for him about that.
“Someone’s… about to… to fuckingdie… if you don’t… move… your fucking…foot.”
Dante finally looks down at him, cocking his head to the side like he’s examining a trapped bug.
The guy on the ground must not be as dumb as he looks, because even though Dante is still wearing that sexy little half smile, Musclehead’s eyes widen and he goes completely still, like prey who just realized he’s in the sights of a predator.
“You think someone should die here? That can be arranged,” Dante tells him in a tone so mild that it almost sounds friendly.
Almost. But it’s definitely not.
“What should we do with him?” Dante asks, shifting his attention back to me as the man he’s holding down makes a gurgling sound.
I blink, surprised he’s asking me. As satisfying as it is to hear the man who tried to assault me gasping for breath, I don’t really want things to escalate. Management at Club M is a lot more focused on keeping the clients happy than protecting the dancers, so if Musclehead decides to sue for getting his ass kicked outside the club, I’m sure I’ll end up paying for it somehow.
I don’t know what Dante sees on my face as those thoughts race through my head, but even though I haven’t actually given him an answer, he nods.
“All right.” He removes his boot from the shitbag’s throat, then casually slams it into the guy’s ribs again. “Go on then. It’s time for you to fuck off now.”
Musclehead scrambles away, clutching his throat with one hand and his ribs with the other as he bolts for the parking lot like his ass is on fire. Dante doesn’t even watch him go. Instead, he takes a couple of long strides toward me, closing up the distance between us until the spicy, smoky scent of whatever bodywash he uses tickles my nose.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I breathe, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. I’m five-foot-eight, nowhere near a tiny little thing, but he’s still got at least five or six inches on me.
“Good.” His voice is a rough burn as he hooks a finger through the O-ring in the choker I still have on and tugs me a little closer.
The action somehow seems to go straight to my clit, the leftover adrenaline in my system shifting to arousal as my pulse starts to race for an entirely new reason.
“Thank you for that.” I lick my lips, my hands landing on his hips as I nod in the direction where my attacker ran off.
“My pleasure,” he murmurs, giving me one of those hooded-eyed smiles again. His eyes are dark green, such a striking color that I almost wonder if it’s real.
Maybe it is, because this man isallcolor. I want to trace his tattoos with my fingertips, or bury my hands in his messy chocolate brown hair. He caught my eye when I saw him sitting at that table in the corner, but up close, he’s more than just sexy. He’s one of the most breathtaking men I’ve ever seen.
He chuckles like he can read my thoughts, and when his fingers caress my throat under the choker, goosebumps scatter over my skin.
Fuck good decisions. Life is too short, and I need to erase that awful encounter between me and Musclehead with something fun. Something just for me.
So I tip my head toward the staff door at the back of the club. “Come with me?”
“Nah, I’ll make sure you come first,” he says with a wink that makes my clit throb. It would sound like a cheesy line coming from anyone else, but from this man, it just sounds like a promise.
Heart pounding, I lead him back into the club, but I don’t take him to the dressing room. Tuesday nights might be slow, but there will still be a few girls wandering in and out of there until the club closes.
Besides, the dressing room isn’t where I’ve got a bottle of Crown Royal stashed, and the least I can do is offer him a drink for coming to my rescue.
Or at least… I can start with a drink.
