by Cass Kincaid
I don't know this woman from a hole in the ground, and I don't know why she's here. But, for the first time since I took this gig as a male dancer in Vegas, I do something I've never done during a show before.
I stop dancing completely.
Little Miss Jet Black Hair is hesitant, and she's pushing me away, but her eyes say something completely different. And it's that something that holds me in place, making me want to know her, and want to know what it's like to have her. It's that fire in her eyes that makes me see her differently, even differently from how I saw her only a minute ago. That ignited flame brings out just how naturally beautiful the woman is, and seeing as this is Vegas and everyone around here bets on everything, I'd have to say that I would bet everything I have that she doesn't even realize it.
It's also that natural beauty, innocence, and withheld lust in her eyes that makes me guide her back down onto her chair. Suddenly, the show is entirely different. Suddenly I'm not dancing for a room of two-hundred people; I'm dancing for her. I ignore her friends, who have moved their chairs back out of the way, and I ignore the gasps and whistles that assault my ears as I spread Little Miss Jet Black Hair’s knees apart, moving suggestively between them, and begin to roll my hips forward in time with the music.
I tip her chair back, suspending her only on the back legs of it, much to her surprise. The tiny gasp that the movement elicits from within her throat only urges me to go on, to go farther. One arm is behind her shoulder holding the chair in place, my other hand slid around to her back, holding her there the same way.
“I'm Derek,” I whisper seductively against her ear, unable to stop myself from letting my tongue jet out and flick her earlobe.
The gasp that falls from her lips then brings a mischievous grin to my own. I tip her chair forward again, letting gravity help to toss her forward, toward me again. This time, I put my hand on her shoulders and press her back into the chair, straddling her as I roll my hips forward to the beat of the music that's our only company in this moment. She's embarrassed, and the soft crimson that heats up her cheeks does little to discourage me from reaching for her hands and guiding them down my hard abdomen, letting them caress and move over each chiseled contour of my chest and abs...right down to the waistband of my jeans. The buckle of my belt is already undone, but that's not what's got my attention right now. I'd love nothing more than to have her fingers on the other side of those jeans and the G-string I'm still wearing, circling the shaft of my cock.
That's what has my attention. I've done this show a million times, and not once have I not been able to make it through every gyration and hip roll and seductive and lewd movement without wanting to fuck any of the women I've grinded my cock against for the sake of an hour's entertainment.
It's supposed to be all fun and games, nothing more than getting felt up and mauled by a room full of women with only the intention of escaping from the mundane everyday lives that Las Vegas allows them to disappear from.
Hell, escaping is the only reason most of us guys do this show in the first place.
So, why in the hell am I standing here, letting the music pound incessantly around me, staring blankly into the eyes of a woman I've never met, but suddenly am willing to do anything to know?
3
Josie
One minute I'm watching these ridiculously muscled, ridiculously gorgeous men in skin-tight white t-shirts and jeans as they dance and shake and dry hump their way around the stage and into the crowd, oozing with more feverish sexuality and unbelievable physical skill than any man—let alone a group of them—should ever be allowed to humanly possess.
The next, one of those men is suddenly shirtless, with those perfectly fitting jeans unbuckled, and he's got me pinned under every rock hard, chiseled muscle of his body.
I could feel everything. Every taut muscle that bunched and clenched with the exertion of his rhythmic movements. Every hot, damp breath against my ear and the flushed skin of my face. And the very evident hardness that he rocked toward me in time to the beat of the dance music that blasted from the speakers on all sides of me.
Good God, was that really what was supposed to happen at these kinds of shows?
I could hear Beth and our other friends gasping and laughing and cheering this dancer on, but their voices had suddenly seemed so far away. The distance of what I could hear only seemed to become blatantly obvious the moment that what I could see and feel went into overdrive.
Derek.
That was his name.
And until he'd whispered it into my ear with such seductive playfulness, I wasn't sure I'd ever really known what it was like to hear a voice I'd never heard before, but had unconsciously yearned to hear without ever realizing that the yearning even existed.
And if his lewd physical gestures and sexy voice weren't enough, he had to lock eyes with me. It was like everything around me just stopped. For a split-second, at least. I didn't understand then what was going on, and I sure as hell don't understand now, but something happened. He looked at me in a way that no other man has ever looked at me before. It was like he wasn't looking at me, but into me. And while I was mortified by him shoving his bare abs and barely contained cock into my face at eye level, I was just as humiliated by the way he stopped moving completely, staring at me like I was something he'd never seen before.
Because he was something I'd never seen before. Or experienced.
Now, as I make my way out into the hallway of the resort I'm staying at, I feel even more embarrassed and childish than I had last night. In the bright light of the day, my reaction to Sexy-Dance Derek—as Beth had dubbed him after the show—and his far too fit physique was irrational, and downright silly. He was a half-naked dancer—a stripper, if you wanted to be truthful about the matter, and he'd honed in on my obvious disquiet about being there, using my uncertainty as to how to react as a prop for his sexy, over-the-top show. He'd used me, and the mischievous little grin he wore while he did it had indicated just how much he was enjoying it.
“Screw him,” I mumble under my breath as I shove the key card to my hotel room into the book bag I'm lugging toward the outdoor pool that is the central focal point, and the area the entire hotel is built around.
I've only been here two nights, and the palm trees and lounge chairs that are scattered around the fenced-in pool area have quickly become the one thing that I've enjoyed immensely since stepping off the plane in Las Vegas and making my way to the Bermuda Resort.
I’m the only one that booked all four nights at this place, while Beth and my other friends had chosen to book their stay at the Bellagio, wanting to be in the thick of the excitement, bright lights, and fun that the Las Vegas Strip was so well known for. I, on the other hand, chose the Bermuda because it isn't on the Strip, and therefore harbors a level of quiet and relaxation that no place on the Strip could ever match.
I meant it when I said that the bright lights and dark secrets of a city like Las Vegas aren't for me.
Therefore, I choose to hide out at the Bermuda for as long as I can each day, at least until Beth tracks me down with constant phone calls or, like last night before the Thunder And Lightning show, showing up and banging on my hotel door until I relent and let her in. I’d had every intention of attending that show last night anyway, but Beth, knowing me so well, knew that there might be a chance I would attempt to get out of it.
Now, after the whole Derek incident, I'm wishing I’d gone with my gut and stayed hidden within the depths of my Bermuda hotel room, ordering room service and cuddling into the oversized king bed with the copy of Michael Connelly's new book I brought with me.
I sigh, knowing I need to just let last night's events go. I need to stop letting it eat me up the way it is. And as I settle into one of the vacant lounge chairs beside the beautiful stone water fountain that's beside the pool, I can hear Beth's words echoing in my head just as vividly as they had last night on the way back from the dance show.
Like a good friend, she
’d accompanied me back to my hotel even though she wasn't staying here, knowing that I was upset. The difference between Beth knowing that I was angry and me knowing that I was angry, was that Beth believed I was angry for an inaccurate reason. She knows me and my timid demeanor, and immediately assumed I was pissed off because Sexy-Dance Derek had decided to publicly violate me for the sake of his stupid show.
And now that I think of it, I guess I am a little pissed off about that.
However, the real reason I'm as angry as I am is because I enjoyed it.
It genuinely pains me to admit it, but I loved every minute of having Derek's eyes on me, staring into me like he understood me the way no one else possibly could. I had immediately succumbed to the blissful heat of his fingers and the arousing promise of the hardness I found myself leaning toward in the hopes of him rubbing it up against me.
I had no qualms about going along with Beth's belief that I was pissed off at Derek for doing what he did, because it was much easier to agree with that than admit that I wasn't angry with him at all. It was me that I was angry at, and no one else. I shouldn't have wanted him, and I shouldn't have let him continue with his sexy little dance number.
But I did, and now I can't get it out of my head.
“Get over it,” I mumble again as I lower my book bag onto the concrete ground of the pool area, reaching up to pull the fitted tank top over my head that I'd wore on the way down from my room. I can't remember the last time I donned a bikini, but the lack of material and flashiness of the almost fluorescent design is a pretty clear indicator that the skimpy outfit is borrowed. I think I could have knocked Beth over with a feather when I confessed to her that I don't even own a bathing suit, let alone one that is two pieces and unarguably sexy.
I toss the shirt down onto the concrete beside my bag, pulling the book from it on the way back up. Then, I lower the sunglasses that had been perched on my head down over my eyes and stretch out on the lounge chair.
Immediately, the sun begins to beat down on me, and I know damn well that today—if I’m not interrupted for the next couple of hours—I’m destined for a pretty brutal sunburn. And the thing is, I don't care. Being from Ohio, I was raised in a place used to snow and cold in February, not the sunny, warm climate that Nevada boasts. Even if I burn to a crisp, the hours in the sun will be more than worth it.
I’ve just managed to clear my mind of the outside distractions, which include the fiesta-style music that plays quietly through the speakers that look like rocks placed sporadically around the pool area, and the prying eyes of only a handful of other people who occupy a few of the lounge chairs on the other side of the pool, when a loud splash catches my attention.
My first thought is that it has to be a kid, because no self-respecting adult would do a cannonball in the middle of a fancy pool area, especially when there are other adults in that pool area as well. But, when I raise my gaze from the words on the page to look beyond the book in front of me, my eyebrows arch high on my forehead at the sight of a grown man clad in only red board shorts hauling himself out of the pool, looking mighty satisfied with himself for having caused a ruckus.
I scoff, giving my head a slight shake at the audacity he has. Then again, this is Vegas. Anything goes here, isn't that the saying? I turn my attention back to my book, trying to pretend I didn't notice the sinewy muscles of his arms or the dark designs of the tattoos on his neck and arm that I can’t quite make out clearly.
Things are just starting to get good. I’m halfway through the story I’m reading, have a decent hunch as to who the killer is, and the suspense has built to a point where everything is about to fall into place for the main character to figure it out as well. That's when I feel the icy droplets of water rain down on me, splattering on the open pages of my book and dotting my bare skin and bikini with dark, wet spots.
I let out a startled shriek, immediately pushing my sunglasses up on top of my head and standing so I can get a good look at the jerk who is ruining my moment of peace. “Come on!” I wave an exasperated hand at the man in the red board shorts, indicating my frustration. “What's the big idea of trying to—”
My words are cut off as the man pulls himself out of the pool once more, up onto the concrete ground before me, standing tall. Without the darkness of my sunglasses shielding my eyes and the distraction of my book, I take the man in completely for the first time. It’s not the neck tattoos or the designs that mar his arm, or even the small, dark, horseshoe-shaped birthmark just above his pelvic bone that I recognize immediately upon seeing him—those aren't the things that stop me in my tracks.
It’s his eyes.
Bright, clear...and very obviously recognizing me.
“Derek.”
4
Derek
I'd have recognized those eyes anywhere. And right now, they’re even wider and more startled than they'd been last night. Not only have I never run into a woman that I've danced for—or with, or against, or on; however, you want to spin it—after a show, but I've also never remembered or given a second thought to any of the women from a show either.
This one, though? I recognize her immediately. She’s even prettier than I remember, more alluring than I'd originally realized…
And she’s pissed.
At least, she was, until my name passed her lips. Now, it’s hard to determine what the look on her face really means, whether she wants to get closer to me or just drown me in the pool.
I’m not even sure I have it in me to play it off nonchalantly, but I try, despite the fact that the sight of her has rooted me in place. “You remembered my name,” I say with a sheepish grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” I pull my hands through my hair, letting the excess chlorinated water splash down onto the concrete behind me.
She stares a moment longer, evidently uncertain what to do next. Then, she gives me a curt nod. “Yeah, fancy that.”
She turns around and immediately stalks over to the other side of her lounge chair, plucking the bag from the ground and shoving her book and other belongings back into it.
Shit, she's leaving.
“Hey, wait.” There’s a desperation in my voice that I don't understand, but at least it’s enough to halt her movements and give me the chance I need. “I'm sorry,” I say. “For splashing you. And getting your book all wet.” Even from here, I can see the pages are wet and will need to be spread out to let the air dry them.
Little Miss Jet Black Hair snaps her gaze up to meet mine, and the fire in her eyes this time isn't the heat of desire I'd seen the night before. Her eyes now hold only one emotion—fury.
“Of all the things you could apologize for, that's what you choose?” She sounds incredulous, like what I’m saying doesn't make an ounce of sense.
I arch an eyebrow, surprised at the venom in her voice. “And what exactly is it that you want me to apologize for?”
She finishes tossing her things back into the bag and slings it up onto her shoulder, looking defiant. “Oh, I don't know, how about for completely humiliating me last night in front of my friends and a whole room full of absolute strangers, or for putting your hands on me when you had no right to manhandle me the way you did, or—”
“You're going to have to excuse me for not agreeing, seeing as you willingly went there knowing what you were getting into.” I’m trying to keep my voice down, especially since this black-haired beauty in front of me is doing anything but, and the handful of other people sprawled out around the perimeter of the pool are beginning to stare, even if they are trying to pretend they're not. If I’m not careful, her demands for an apology are going to sound like something they aren't, like I did something I didn’t, so I need to diffuse the situation. Fast.
I let out an exasperated breath. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot,” I say through slightly clenched teeth. “I never meant to offend you, really. I was just doing my job.”
“You were just…” She scoffs, shaking her head so hard that a few of the tied-up st
rands come loose, cascading down onto her bare shoulders. “Geez, you can't possibly believe that.”
“You're right, I don't.”
“Smartest thing you've said yet, Derek.” She spits my name out like a curse word, turning away from me to head back toward the gate that leads toward the hotel rooms.
I watch her leave, mesmerized by the sway of her hips. “Don't you want to know what I do believe?” My voice matches the edge in hers, and it's enough to stop her in her tracks. She doesn't turn around, though.
After a beat, I hear, “Enlighten me.”
Her tone emboldens me, and I pull my towel from the nearby lounge chair before closing the distance between us in a few wide steps. The pool water has dripped off my shorts enough by the time I speak that there's a small puddle beginning around my feet. “I believe,” I start, ducking my head down to force her to look at me. “That something happened last night. That, while it started out as me simply dancing to the beat of a really great fucking song, it quickly became something that neither of us quite know how to handle.”
She juts her chin out, narrowing her eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“I call bullshit.”
“You can call whatever you want, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with you. It also doesn't mean that I have to stand here and listen to the lies you’re telling yourself, and essentially trying to tell me.”
She sidesteps around me again, and this time I'm prepared to let her leave. But, in my own true fashion, I make sure that I'm going to have the last word.
“If you think I'm lying, then prove it.”
“Look, I just want to get through this weekend, then go back home to Ohio and pretend I never met you.” Her hand is on the gate latch, and despite her frigid words, I feel a wave of smug satisfaction when she stops again, turning to glare at me icily. She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I can't even imagine what you're going to suggest this time.”
