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Soft, sexual music surrounds us, guiding my movements as I mask my inexplicable nerves with the familiar movements that appeal to men. And for the first time, I find myself wondering if I entice this tall, handsome stranger as much as he does me.
I bite my lip at the thought, approaching him slowly as I get closer than I typically might.
“You know my name?” he asks, his voice deep and almost rasping in the sexiest way. But what I note most is the distinct Russian accent that matches his name. He’s a transplant just like I am. Only he traveled much farther to get here.
The similarity puts me slightly more at ease, though I can’t say why. Perhaps it’s a relief to know we have one small thing in common besides the heaviness of grief. But he’s not here to get to know me or see how similar we are. He’s here to address a far more basic desire.
I smile alluringly, releasing my lower lip as I climb up onto the red vinyl bench, placing one knee on either side of his thighs. Heart thudding in my chest, I feel electric arousal as I straddle him, though our legs only lightly touch.
“We make a point of knowing all our high-paying customers’ names,” I assure him, though I’m sure his will vanish from my mind within a week or so, just like the rest of them do.
Heat radiates at the peak of my thighs as his eyes burn intensely into my soul. And though the sadness remains predominant, I can see a new light in his gaze, a hunger that raises goosebumps along my arms and tightens my nipples inside their low-cut white-lace cups.
His arms tense, but he doesn’t move them, and my breath catches as I feel the desire to touch me radiating from him. His lips part, releasing a soft caress of warm air across my chest, and I find myself desperately wishing he might break the club’s rule.
Just this once, I want him to shatter the invisible barrier separating us.
Daring to push things farther than I ought to, I settle onto his lap, rolling my hips in time to the music as I lightly grind against him. I let my arms fall gently over his impressive shoulders to grip the back of the seat.
I can feel the iron proof of his excitement pressing adamantly against the seam of his black slacks, and I gasp as a wave of arousal washes through me. I should stop, shift my position, do something to alleviate the mounting pleasure building deep in my core.
But I can’t seem to control my body anymore. Instead, I lean into his chest, shivering slightly as my breasts graze across his shirt’s fine silk. He smells intensely masculine—the combined scents of leather, sandalwood, and a hint of motor oil that makes me think he does something physical with his hands—for work or pleasure, I can’t even guess.
“Where are you from?” he rasps, his voice hoarse, and I sense that he’s as lost in my dance as I am, using conversation as an attempt to maintain control of the situation.
Somehow, I find his discipline—his ability to resist touching me when I’m so far past the acceptable limit—that much sexier.Who is this man, and why am I so insanely attracted to him?
“Not here,” I breathe.
Though I’m dying to know more about him, I know better than to give out personal details of my life. We have stage names for a reason. Stalkers can be both dangerous and insanely difficult to get rid of. Howie made it clear when I took the job that we aren’t supposed to give out any information, innocuous as it might seem, that would help someone find us. And for all I know, the fact that I’m from Austin, Texas, could be all this dangerously enticing Mr. Federov needs to hunt me down.
“Have you been in the city long?” he presses, his tone growing more conversational, and a spike of anxiety lances through me as I wonder if I misread his tactic and he’s actually lost interest in the dance.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond, doing my best to control the emotions wreaking havoc inside me.
“Then how come I’ve never seen you here before?”
I release a soft laugh, though I know his inquisition is anything but funny. I’ve just never met a man who seems more interested in me than the service I’m here to provide. His probing conversational technique is challenging my ability to follow Howie’s strict rules that keep us safe. “You are full of questions, aren’t you Mr. Federov?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light, teasing.
“I want to get to know you,” he murmurs, and the confession sends a tingle racing up my spine. The statement sounds genuine enough that it makes my heart flutter.
“You didn’t pay to get to know me,” I reason, changing my position to face away from him so I can clear my head. His appealing cologne is making it too hard to think, and I need to keep my head on straight. This is a job, a paid lap dance, and if I’m not careful, I might do something I regret.
Because having my face so close to his was making it almost impossible to resist kissing him.
Reclaiming control of the dance, I gently grind back against his lap. But the feel of his cock twitching inside his slacks only intensifies my excitement. I’m playing with fire, and I know it.
And though I shouldn’t, I take his impressively large hands and guide them slowly up my body. Starting at my hips, I let him feel the curve of my waist, the sides of my ribcage, then I dare to slide them higher until his callused palms cup my lace-clad breasts.
“What if I did?” he asks, the ragged sound of my voice making me throb with desire. “What if I paid you to spend the night with me?”
His offer freezes me in place, and my fingers tighten instinctually around his hands as horror grips me. This is what I get for taking things too far, for letting my own attraction drive the dance. I crossed the line, the one Howie put in place for this very reason, and now I’m furious with myself—and this gorgeous stranger—for having taken that last step into a world where I promised myself I would never go.
I’m aware that some of the girls take side offers from their clients. They’ll give a blowjob in a guy’s car for an extra hundred, spend the night for an extra five. But it’s strictly against the rules, and I would never stoop so low as to sell my body. And yet here he is, offering me money for a night of sex.
I shove his hands away, jerking to a stand as I spin to face him, my disgust overcoming my guilt at having blurred the line and brought us to this point. “I’m not a whore,” I say adamantly, the hurt dripping from my tone. Though I can hardly see how he’s supposed to think otherwise when I was putting his hands all over me just moments ago.
His face registers mild surprise, though he doesn’t argue or defend himself. Instead, he observes me with a casual calm that completely contrasts with my emotional response.
