by Dakota Gray
I drag my attention to the corner where work waits for me. I can push her to the back of my mind. I'll see her again, and I know when.
*****
After an hour of being asked a million stupid questions by the client, I have a check in my pocket that proves I'm a sole proprietor. The IRS is going to love me this year.
Robyn is trailing beside me as we make our way to the weight room. It's late afternoon, and that means Tarek's break is coming up. He's shaking hands with clients, and because I've known him for a long ass time, I can spot the strain in his smile as he answers questions.
And then he sees Robyn. His shoulders go up an inch. His mouth tightens. The skin around his eyes seems to pull taut as he glares at her. He's talked to Duke. I have no doubt of that.
Men gossip like women. They just use less words when they do.
“You know he's still fucking Robyn.”
“He is? Dumb fuck.”
I'm sure that's how the conversation went.
I don't reach for her hand—a small signal for my friend to back off. She can hold her own. Fuck, she can probably bite off Tarek's head and he'll thank her for it.
The last of his trainees leave and he approaches us. He offers her a hand and a smile. “Robyn.”
“Tarek.” She gives him the smile and he blinks for two seconds.
Something like vindication fills me. It's not just me. That smile of hers makes everyone dumb, and because I know she's about to fuck up Tarek's world, too, I stand back to enjoy it.
And try not to laugh.
“Duke,” she says, “I've heard about. You, not so much. It's good to meet you.”
His chin lowers, and she's treading on thin ice. “What do you think you know about Duke?”
“I think he can eat my attorney for breakfast. I respect that. I'd love to pick his brain.”
Tarek frowns, unsure how to take the compliment on his friend's behalf, and she's pulling at the tips of her fingers—nerves. I'm about to jump in and save them both from this conversation when Tarek asks, “And him?”
The him is me. I'm curious about her answer. She's in over her head with me, but not yet drowning. She bites her bottom lip and throws a glance my way. Heat in her gaze, a softening in her stance. What she feels for me is real in that moment. Once again, I'm holding my breath like I don't need air. She's stolen it just by existing.
“That answer is complicated,” she finally says.
“Could be simple,” I counter.
Tarek puts his fat mouth back in our exchange. “And how would you make it simple?”
At that I'm back on his side again. “Yeah, Robyn?”
She laughs. “Nothing is simple with you. Does that answer your question, Nathan?”
Nope.
She turns her attention back to Tarek. “I like your friend when he's being a person.”
Tarek laughs. “Everyone feels that way.”
I'm over this conversation. “Okay. You've met him. Let's go.”
“See,” she says. “Complicated.” She puts her hands on her hips and glides into my space. “And I thought we were staying so I could watch you sweat? You won't dance for me, so I have to ogle you in any way I can.”
“Was that our deal?” Take note: I'm not telling her no.
Another step and she's pressed against me. “You can always just dance for me.” Tongue. Lip.
I wrap my hand around her waist, and with the other I'm giving Tarek a peace-out sign. “Catch you later.”
His face scrunches up as though he's confused or can't believe what he's seeing. After a head shake he mouths to me, Be careful.
Be careful around her, with her? With Tarek he probably means the latter. He's never approved of the way I've treated lovers. More than once he's told me I get them hooked like addicts and then drop them. That's another reason I don't want him and Robyn talking to each other. That's a stark truth conversation waiting to happen.
So I nod at him, and I clasp Robyn's hand to lead her back out to my car. It's mid-afternoon. The sun has decided to beat back the cool air. My beat-up Jeep looks out of place alongside the Mercedes Benzes, Escalades and the occasional Prius, but on a sunny California day like today, I'd always choose my ride.
I open the car door for her and go to work taking off the roof. When I climb in beside her, she has her head tilted up to the sun, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. The way she sighs makes me think she hasn't done that in a while—close her eyes and enjoy the heat of the sun on her face.
My stomach and heart squeeze. Her job can't be the reason she feels the need to bask in the simplistic moment. Unlike Duke, she takes time off.
Questions race through my mind but I'm not willing to ask them and break this moment for her. I had plans to take her home and give her a private show, but I start the car with a different destination in mind.
~CHAPTER ELEVEN~
She glances up at the sign above the club. “Cat Daddies?”
“What kind of name did you expect for a male-only strip club?” I bang on the door harder than the police. The parking lot is practically empty since it's shy of four, but Lance's car is out front. Takes the man about two minutes to open the door and growl at me that the place is closed.
That's until he sees it's me. A smile whips out. His once-black strands are now silver. Even his beard has gone white. Too many years in the California sun and not enough protection has deepened the grooves on his face. The denim and dress shirt are complimented by the rugged work boots.
He's the king of Cat Daddies and knows it. I have a begrudging respect for the man. He tests that every chance he gets.
He whoops at the sight of me. “Son of a bitch.”
Testing me right out of the gate. I scowl at him. “I told you about saying that to me.”
“For fuck sake.” He spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. “It's been years. Please tell me you're coming back.” Then he notices Robyn behind me. “Fuck. You always did—”
My spine goes ramrod straight. “If you want to keep your mouth, you'll swallow that.”
Lance remembers his manners and offers his hand to Robyn. She's laughing at the whole exchange.
My old boss says, “Nice to meet you.”
I karate chop Lance's hand before he gets any ideas. “I need your stage for a bit.”
“Shit, any time. You're the reason I can afford this place.” Lance pushes the door open for us to come inside.
I pull Robyn in front of me. I don't want to have to kill him if he leers at her ass. “I'll be sure to turn everything off once I'm done.”
He sighs, knowing that's the signal to get gone. Robyn's chuckling as I push her deeper into the darkness. One long hallway, a shorter one, and finally we're in the main bar/room.
Nothing's changed. A row of lights are set low but they highlight a long stage. The hardwood floors gleam, but that's only because Lance's wife, Sherri, takes pride in keeping the place clean. They used to have a shithole they inherited from a friend. Then I came along and changed everything for them.
The chairs are propped upside down on the tables. In a few hours the place will be loud and brimming with women hoping to see a fantasy.
I glance at Robyn. She's been watching me the entire time. She asks, “Do you miss it?”
I shake my head without having to think hard about the answer. “Too many over-inflated egos, too many woman copping feels, fucked up sleep schedules. Even while I did it, I preferred the army. Shit pay, though, so I sucked it up and stripped. My mama needed the money after my dad died.”
I don't wait to see her reaction to that last tidbit. I weave our way to the front near the stage. I grab a chair from a table and set it at the end of the stage. “Sit.”
“I didn't bring my purse—no singles.”
I wag my finger at her. “I won't do it if you plan to mock me and my...art.”
I know I'm testing her willpower with that last word, but she behaves by settling into the leather cushion. I make my way over
to the DJ booth and scan through the list of songs. They have the top current songs. I scroll to the old standbys, make a face, and finally choose D'Angelo's Untitled. It's a slow, sexy ballad one can play on repeat while having sex. That song is why I own my condo.
I check under the mixing table and find the extra sets of clean pants left there in case of emergencies. If I'm doing this for Robyn, I'm going to do it right. Once I'm ready I hit play on the song.
She's sitting with her hands up at her mouth, clasped together as though in prayer. From the crinkle around her eyes, I know she's fighting a laugh. I strike the first pose with my legs spread in a fighter stance. I do a hip roll and slowly unbutton my geek shirt. I'm rusty but it doesn't take long to get the dress shirt undone.
I look her right in the eye and I flip the back of my shirt like Michael Jackson. She leans forward and her shoulders are shaking. Her eyes are so bright. She's laughed a lot since I've met her, but this is the first time I've seen joy on her face.
I point to her, grinding the air and lip sync the lyrics of the song.
The button-up shirt gets discarded and I play with my undershirt. It's a tease. A flash of ab, a flex of my pecs one at a time. She drops her hands to the seat of the chair. Her expression is familiar—she's enraptured by the dancing, but she's not a faceless woman in a dark, packed club. She's mine, for now, and I—if this is all I had to do to get her to open up for me and forget everything, I should have done this from day one.
I sing to her, “Won't you come closer.”
Since this is her fantasy, I go to Robyn. I perch on her lap, my forearms and hands hanging over her shoulders. The key is always to make eye contact, look like you mean it. This is Robyn. It's easy to hold her stare as I grind into her until lust replaces the joy, and since this isn't a gig, I can lick into her mouth when she parts her lips. But the song is still playing, and I'm not done yet. I drag my mouth over her chin, neck then her ear.
I whisper, “Help me with my shirt.”
Her hands ride up my back, leaving a trail of heat. Halfway done, I move out of reaching distance to do my moves. Every motion of my hips are to remind her what it's like when I'm deep inside her. I glance down, let my hand follow my gaze. I slide my fingers into the pants then my underwear. I look up with a cocky smile and give my dick a stroke.
Her hands fly up to her mouth, the shock clear on her face. For the first time I can laugh at her. Her reaction tells me everything I need to know. “You wanted the show, Robyn. I'm more surprised you've never seen a stripper dance before.”
“No,” she sounds scandalized. Robyn. “I don't think I could hate you more than I do in this moment.”
The dance isn't over yet. This is the start of the good part. I drop to my knees, let my head fall back as though the way I'm touching myself is too much. Too good. I lean forward to brace myself with one hand and pretend like she's beneath me. I free up my other hand, get really into it. She cusses at me.
We're at the bridge of the song. D'Angelo is groaning on the track. It's the beginning of a climax set to music. I crawl to her, doing my best to embody a predator who has caught her scent. And I have.
I'm kneeling at her feet now. The bass and his voice strum through the speakers. I throw her skirt back. What I find breaks me out of character and I laugh. She's wearing panties. Not a thong, but that-time-of month-granny panties.
I shake my head and she laughs too before saying, “You told me to wear some.”
“I'll make do.” I rest my hands on her knees and spread her legs. Damp in the middle. D'Angelo is screaming “yeah,” over and over again. I know the feeling. I press my mouth to the wet warmth and suck her through the material.
Her fingers spear through the strands of my hair. Lance is nothing but a creature of habit. The cameras won't be on this early. I could make her come before we head back to my house or I drop her off.
I won't. Lance is a nosy bastard. Someone could come in early for prep. And...I want Robyn to myself. I slid my tongue up, then down, teasing us both, and then I drop her skirt back down.
Her gaze is hazy as I go back into my moves. I'm on my feet. I motion for her to give me her hand. She laughs when I stick it down my pants and dry hump the back of her hand. The song is almost over and I give her what she wants. I rip off the pants.
She's reduced to giggles. I fucking love it. Sweat has broken out on my brow as the song loops.
“I can see the appeal.” Her nipples are pressing against her dress. “But did you do all the stuff with everyone?”
“Not the licking or the kissing.”
Tongue. Lip. My cock is going to crawl out of my boxers.
“Well, then,” she purrs, “I think you've earned a reward.”
She shifts in the chair, her gaze on mine. Breath. Gone. I know that gleam in her eye. Her hands go under her skirt. She slides out of her panties. I don't know why I'm standing there like a jackass. Robyn is adventurous, the bigger tease of us two, and I'm sixty percent sure she's been sent from the pits of hell to torment me.
She rises from the chair while I'm still dumbstruck at her brazenness. Why that side of her keeps knocking me off guard, I don't know. She holds her panties up with one finger and I fixate on the slight swing as she struts to me.
She waves them under my nose. “Since you won't accept money from me.”
Her scent assails me, and I want to drop to my fucking knees. I snatch them before she changes her mind about giving them to me. “You're going home with me.”
She shakes her head. “Work tomorrow.”
Fuck.
I bring her panties up to my nose. Her scent is potent, intoxicating. I don't care what they look like because that's all that matters. “Then when will I see you?”
“I'm off Saturday.”
Four days. Four, long fuckless days. I can push the issue or pretend like that's not a problem.
Her brows are up, and there's a promise of a smile. She knows and knowledge is power.
Then think, Nate.
There's more than one way to skin a cat. Or to tease a pussy in this case. I smile. “You have my phone number. Call me when you're free. But let's go. This place smells like baby oil.”
She narrows her eyes. “You're wearing that look.”
I know, but I'm playing innocent, non-perverted fucker. “Which one?”
She scoffs at me. “The one that says 'I'm more of a sexual deviant than you.'”
Well, fuck. I can't even pretend to be innocent. This is why I don't live in denial. “Because I am.”
She inhales, exhales. “What does that mean?”
I kiss her forehead as all the ideas wash over me. “Let's get you home.”
~CHAPTER TWELVE~
Work hijacked our plans so it's Monday by the time we can meet. The redhead isn't there but Robyn is. Should be the best thing ever, right? I likely don't have to sit for a few hours as the redhead tries to melt Robyn's brain with gossip. I know way too much about that woman's sex life, and all their respective friends' relationships.
But back to why my stomach is somewhere near my feet and I want to jump in front of a bus. Robyn's hand is propped under her chin. Her shoulders are hunched. Every shadow she usually hides is right there in her gaze when she flicks her attention to me for half a second.
The black hoodie covers her hair, and she's swimming in the size of the thing. Her sweats are as mopey and big. Her feet look dainty in the white running shoes. I manage to drag myself to the counter and order her sweet grass.
I get a small smile out of her when I take a long sip of her drink before I hand it over. We won't be talking about the dirty phone calls I made to her late at night to hold us over the past few days. Or the dirty pictures I sent her that solidifies the fact I'm a pervert. Or the sex toys I had Amazon's drone drop on her doorstep.
Nope.
She might as well be wearing a sign that sex is a no-go.
“How was work?” I ask.
Her brows go up and then
slash down in confusion. “Busy. I pulled a couple ten hour days.”
That means she's a salaried employee. Her I-can-do-whatever-the-fuck lifestyle makes less sense. Most places makes a person a salaried employee to work them to the bone. “How many paralegals are at your job?”
“A lot, but I oversee at least two others, and we all share a secretary. I—” She glances at me and shakes her head. “You're asking me this to be nice.”
I was, but she also makes any conversation engaging. “Is the redhead coming?”
“Not today.”
“Let's go.”
She blushes. “I can't.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I know.”
She purses her lips. “And you still want me to come to your house?”
It's been six goddamn days since I could touch her, see the way one of my jokes lights up her eyes—Did I mention touch her? The thought of saying those words out loud forces sweat to break along my brow.
“Yup...I—”
I can't.
Try again, Nate. “I— have to make sure you're taking care of Babygirl.”
She laughs. “Of course you'd give my vagina a nickname.”
I'm warm from her laugh so I add, “We've gotten to know each other. She has quirks that makes me smile.”
She presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose to hide her smile. It's in her eyes though.
I gesture toward the counter. “Do you want anything else?”
“Sleep is good.”
We don't talk about the fact she still came to meet me, knowing I could have turned her away. And I don't. Or that Robyn has come to see me even though it's not just sex, for her. I take her tea and lead the way to my car.
In no time we're spooned on my bed, my hand resting low on her stomach. She's still buried in her hoodie and sweats. Her feet are cold and curled under one of my legs to warm them. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and the curls are wild. I put my face in them. They smell sweet. I sigh, content, which kind of makes me want to kick her out of my bed. Yeah. I'm that kind of man. The threat of period blood doesn't make me squirm, but emotional connections make me sweat. I fight my way beneath the bulky sweatshirt and top so some part of us is skin to skin.
