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CHAPTER SIXTY
*Lace*
Crow wraps his arm around my shoulders and gives me the best hug, thanking me once more for helping out with the memorial event last weekend. Damn, it is really good seeing him in here. Brings me back. He slips me a fifty, just for old times’ sake, then makes his way toward a watching and waiting Coyote, even though their dislike for each other goes way back to middle school or something crazy.
Crow extends a tattooed hand, teeth flicking his labret piercing. The two men shake. Hearing the end of the song that indicates my turn is up on one of the smaller stages, I slip by them, running my hand down their arms in passing. Coty keeps up the basic conversation with Crow, but his eyes follow me until I am out of the swivel range of his sightline before turning full attention back on Crow.
I make my way onto the small stage and start my dance with a few extra-slow body rolls against the pole. The two men keep their interaction short. Crow leaves, having accomplished his task, and is likely ready to lie low for the rest of the week. Bike rallies give the street racers a bit of a break for a while, after all. The underground street balance tilts, as it tends to do depending on the season and according to the agreements or terms Stoney and Crow came to a few years ago. More “need-to-know” stuff. Whatever the terms, things are usually pretty peaceful.
As soon as Crow is out of sight, my number one fan turns around and heads straight for my stage. He plops down into the only empty chair, intentionally bumping into a couple other guys wearing false cuts beside him. Despite their watchful attendance, this dance will have to be mostly for Coty. After all, he very well may act out if not.
Keeping on my outfit, I go ahead and take care of the two men he antagonized. I bend and twist into a squat, knees together, twisting on the spikes of my heels then parting my legs just enough to give them a peek. Refraining from stealing a glance at Coty is hard as hell. My heart rate admittedly increases a notch or two in anticipation of a bar fight… or worse.
When the older one of the two out of town bikers reaches forward with bills in hand and tucks them neatly in the waistband of my skirt, I almost pass out from both holding my breath and going dizzy from relief when Coty stays in his seat.
Mouthing, “Thank you,” to the customers, I slowly drag my hands up and over my legs and knees, standing with the motion. Stepping back toward the pole, only then do I allow myself a peek at Coty. His head is angled sideways, an animalistic gaze silently killing those men. Their focus is still on me.
By the time my hands are gripping the pole again, I am ready to invest in giving Coty the rest of the dance. My heart pitter-patters with both pride and excitement. He never sits at the stage while I am close and personal with a stranger.
Losing patience with my lack of clothes removal, their eyes float toward Coty. Only then do they realize who their neighbor is, attention catching on the various bright white Hell for Leather patches on his jacket. Just like that, they stand and walk away from the stage.
My heart calms even more. Coty finally gives me his undivided attention. I hook my knee and dip into a half turn, swapping legs and swooping my hair over a shoulder mid-motion, eyes locked on his. He rests back in his seat, relaxing for the first time probably since he got here. Arms loose over the thin armrests, his tongue dampens his lips. Grip tight, I work into an advanced pole trick, kicking my legs up, over my head, and into a wide split before wrapping them around the pole and letting my hair drag lightly against the floor. I flip once more, bringing my head upright, and slowly ease down until my platforms meet the stage again.
Keeping pace with the smooth, twangy rhythm, one slow move at a time, I get closer to Coty, shedding my top first before easing down to my hands and knees and prowling forward until we’re nearly nose to nose. His hand lifts, fingers coming within a hairbreadth from my face. I shake my head and give him a playful side smile. “No touching. House rules.”
He swaps his raised hand for a raised brow, hand moving to cup his mouth and jaw before dropping to the armrest again. I work my way back up again and inch out of my skirt, kicking it to the side. I then sit-spin back down and position myself on the edge of the stage, knees bent and legs swinging off almost like a straddle. I run my hands up my thighs, hips, torso, and around to my back, fingers seeking out the clasp to my bra. Hair in the way, I sling my head to the side, expertly flicking the long strands over my shoulder.
Then I unclasp and wiggle so the straps loosen and pop over my shoulders and down my arms. Coty lifts his hand again, but I cover myself modestly. “Move your hand, little siren,” he warns.
“But—” The motion of him leaning forward cuts me short. My hand drops to my lap in obedience. He brings a hooked finger between my breasts, curls it around the center piece between the cups, and slowly pulls the material away from my body. I lift my arms so he can remove it completely. Coty leans forward deeper, closer, tossing the piece toward my discarded skirt, and says, “I can follow rules.”
He never touched me. In fact, he was extra careful not to. “Kinda like how I’m gonna follow the rules and not fucking kill Chaz for recording your betrayal this morning.” My breath hitches, brushing against his lips as they curl to the side. I knew Chaz was up to something when he told me to smile for the camera, but I could only guess. Call me crazy, but oh my stars does this result make my pussy throb.
Taking advantage of his closeness, I lean back on my elbows and lift my legs, spread-eagle in a high V on either side of his body. His head now hovers above my center. But in order for me to move again, to bend my knees, he has to move first. Without touching me. “Guess following the rules is a talent we both have then, hm?” I whisper, batting my eyelashes slowly. After all, servicing his club brothers is now decree.
His eyes trail down slowly from mine, between my breasts, to my belly button and farther until completely downcast, focus on the only remaining thin patch of material covering me. He dips his head down until his nose is less than an inch from my clit, and inhales. The exhale fans over my dampness, cooling my heated body.
With a growl, he leans back again. I straighten one of my legs upright and drop the other one in a half arc, bending it at the knee. Then I switch, stealing a peek at him through the gap between my legs with the swap.
Since resting back, his hands have clenched tighter and tighter against those poor armrests, and I swear his chest stopped moving at some point too.
The song begins to fade, and I move into a more conversational position, balancing on the spikes of my heels again and twisting to the side slightly. I drag my finger down my flank, slip it under my g-string, and waggle my eyebrows at him.
He lets out a massive breath, his hands unclench from the arm rests, and he fumbles to dig into the interior pocket of his jacket. Wallet removed, he meets my gaze again. But instead of taking out some cash, he maneuvers the entire wallet under the strap, closer than usual to my center so the thick item is secure, and he does it all without any skin on skin contact. Until his hand leaves the wallet, and he steals one, gentle, swipe.
Fighting against the shiver that chases his touch, I bounce up to a stand, collect my clothes, and make my way off the stage to go change.
As I hustle past him, he pulls me to a firm stop. “Before the end of your shift…” he says, words trailing with his finger along the hickey he marked me with last night. “I want to know what Burke had to say to you that was so damn important he made a special visit here just to say it.”
