by Liz Crowe
“Really,” he said, not moving as the other woman’s hand reached the point where his jeans were strained by his erection. “Seems a bit unfair.”
“You are fucking adorable,” the woman still looming over him said. “How old are you anyway? I didn’t know they went for fake IDs at the door of this place.” Her lips found his earlobe. Then her teeth, which made him shiver and clench his jaw against the need to either shove her and handsy-chick off him or throw the talkative one on the table and fuck her silly in front of an audience.
Wouldn’t be the first time, after all.
That memory, of a life he’d led briefly in sheer desperation, made his body soften ever so slightly in shame. He looked away from her tits and focused on the ceiling above them.
“Well?”
“Well, what? Well, will I pay yet more money to disappear behind the curtain with you so you can do whatever it is I can afford, or, well, how did I get in here in the first place?” He leveled his gaze at her, giving her his best I-don’t-give-a-damn expression.
“Both,” she said, with a grin before standing up, taking his hand, turning away from him but putting his palm on her shoulder so he’d follow her. “But later. I want to get a closer look at you first.”
Noah’s eyes were drawn to her ass, which was barely covered in a pair of black shorts, her legs, which were long and lean, and the sky-high black heels she wore as if they were a pair of sneakers. He made it as far as the curtain, saw the grinning bouncer with his hand out, then stopped. His date or whatever she was turned around, annoyance clear in her eyes. But he took her hand, yanked her close, put his lips to her ear and whispered, “I’m twenty-nine but look ten years younger. It’s a blessing and a curse.” She tried to pull away and grab his hand again, but he held on tight, one hand in the small of her back, the other copping a feel of her breast. She sighed and leaned into him, giving new life to his softening erection. “I thank you kindly for your interest, but I can’t afford any more direct attention, if you know what I mean. I’m just a poor working man. I don’t have spare dough for this.” He caught her earlobe in his teeth, giving her the same hard bite she’d given him.
Her nipple hardened under his thumb.
He smelled her lust curling around them, beckoning him further.
Well, at least I know I’ve still got it. Thought I might have lost my edge.
He took her hand again, kissed it like some kind of a gallant knight, shifted his dick with a wince and a wink then turned away and headed for the doors. This was not what he wanted. Not anymore.
He wanted his Yoga Lady. And, by God, he was going back out there to find her.
Chapter Eight
The full force of the heat and ear-shattering music hit him hard, but he moved past the DJ booth and plunged into the crowd. He felt strong and powerful, dancing with first one, then another, then another stranger while he kept his eyes peeled for his target. One thing Noah knew how to do was dance. He’d made plenty of money doing it both on stage and off for a several years when he’d dropped out of college, only a semester shy of his degree. But he’d avoided it the last few, hoping that by coming home to Grand Rapids and dealing directly with his father’s failing business he could forget all the glorious, horrible, wonderful ignominy of those lost years.
He’d dealt with it all right. The utter failure of it had ruined his parents’ marriage, sending his mother fleeing to Florida and his father to a too-early grave, which had left Noah with little choice but to take the odd construction or landscaping job for the past two years. He sought to be inspired by something—anything—again.
He’d yet to find it, at least on the employment front. He’d been living small off his savings from his dancer-escort days, banking the most he could of whatever he got paid for odd jobs that kept him outdoors as much as he could manage. In the interim, he’d gotten hooked on craft beer—something super easy to do in this town swimming in the stuff, with nationally and internationally famous breweries bracketing all the smaller pubs and tasting rooms scattered east to west.
As he ground against one very hot woman while looking over her shoulder the whole time for another, he realized he had found yet another layer to the rock bottom of his life. His dance partner ran her fingers around the back of his neck and into his hair, rubbing her tits against his chest and letting him shove his thigh between hers. The music was an endless loop of thumping, erotic noise. Noah tried to enjoy what he was doing—the sensation of the woman’s hips under his hands, the unmistakable heat of her pussy on his leg, the soft press of her body along his. But his mind wouldn’t connect with it somehow. It wouldn’t let go of his seemingly new and urgent prime directive—find Yoga Lady. Find her now. Dance, drink, flirt but get her away from here so I can really get to know her.
Ridiculous.
She was probably happily married and out with her girlfriend who was fighting with her husband so they were determined to live a little—to do their own flirting and grinding and drinking then leave. She would have little to no interest in him. A wanna-be but never-have-been landscape architect, destined to run his father’s successful business that had gone completely bankrupt thanks to a string of shitty life choices. A not-so-failed male stripper and escort. A construction grunt. The faceless guy who mows the lawn and mulches the flower beds.
He had recently lucked into something new. Something that would take him into the beer business, so at least he had it to look forward to. It didn’t pay much, but he’d still keep his landscaping jobs for ready cash. It could be a fresh start for him. A dare-he-think-it career in something he enjoyed. Even if he would never, ever enjoy anything as much as he did working outdoors—planting things, teaching people how to treat the things he’d planted, planning elaborate gardens, patios and other outdoor spaces.
But it was a no-go for him, other than being that guy—the one who mowed the lawn and mulched.
As he snapped back to himself, he smiled at the woman, who was leaning in to him, anticipating a kiss. “Thanks,” he said, and disentangled himself before slipping in between some of the undulating bodies by way of escape. Noah didn’t kiss. It was something drilled into him, and hard, by Drake, the guy who’d trained him as a dancer, then pimped him out on the side.
‘You catch things when you kiss. Things like clingy women. Women equate kissing with love and we are not in the business of love. Just the business of fantasy, and of sex, of course, should that be required.’
Noah had kissed a few of the women, of course. How could he not? And sure enough, each time but for one he’d had to be moved to another district because the woman in question would demand him every time, sometimes more than twice a week, which was not how Drake ran his show. His stable of men were not in the business of making connections. They swooped in, played the requested fantasy and swooped out, never to be seen or heard from again.
Noah had seen a lot of California—L.A. first, and San Diego, then San Fran, then NoCal. He’d danced and flirted and, at times, fucked his way into the history books, if those books were to record the relative popularity of a certain young man who looked younger than he was and had become a serious expert in all of the above. His name during those years had not been Noah. It had been something else. Something he no longer wished to recall.
He wove his way in and around the dancers, taking the odd moment to slide up to a woman in a sexy silver dress only to determine it wasn’t her. He copped plenty of feels and had his own junk stroked, squeezed and otherwise admired through his jeans as he went. But the longer he worked through the crowd, the more he believed he’d never find her, and if he did, she’d either laugh in his face or ignore him.
After what was probably about an hour but felt like three, he squeezed his way out and onto the perimeter again. He was barely winded and only the lightest sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He swiped at it and grabbed a water bottle off a passing tray, winking at the waitress when she protested. Leaning against another wall-height
bar ledge, he sucked back the hydration in two long gulps, then tossed the empty onto yet another passing tray.
The damn place had gotten even more crowded and annoying while he’d been on the hunt for Yoga Lady. Women and men, all attractive, all smiling, all holding bottles and glasses, moved around him. But he kept his gaze trained on the one corner of the dancers he could still see. Now he knew about the ‘private party’ option, he spotted the girls acting as bait, luring single guys out away from the dance floor and bar and around behind the DJ. He fought off the temptation to give it another go, as worked up and horny as he was from all the bumping and grinding.
But the thought of an anonymous fuck, even in the name of taking off his very sharp edge, didn’t really appeal. He was the king of the anonymous fuck, or he had been, and he wanted to leave it behind him. He wanted to find Yoga Lady. But it seemed as though that would have to remain in the realm of his own fevered fantasy. Not for lack of trying on his part. Besides, he had a long day of yard work tomorrow and Sunday, plus he was starting his new job on Monday—a salesman, or ‘brand ambassador’ as they called it in the biz, for one of the biggest, most successful Grand Rapids-based breweries. Could be fun, or at least more interesting than installing ceiling tiles outside a yoga studio.
After leaving a quick text for Jake letting him know he was headed home, thanking him for the invite and wishing his best for disease-free girls, he headed around the dance floor, his mind awash with frustration. Deciding to take a quick piss before stepping outside and calling for a ride share, he made a detour, which took him under the spiral steps up to the balcony where he’d begun this stupid night. A clump of people blocked him at first—one couple drunkenly arguing, another in a serious lip-lock and a third that seemed to be… Noah froze, taking in the vision of the third couple.
The woman was pressed back against the wall. The man loomed over her, one hand on the wall over her head, the other seemingly keeping her wrists held in place behind her. Her face was tilted up to his. When their lips met, Noah shivered and moved back, embarrassed but wanting to make sure it was her—his Yoga Lady—making out under the steps. The kiss was long but somewhat unsexy. Noah knew sexy when it came to kissing and this was not it. The guy dropped the hand he had propped on the wall and wrapped his long fingers around the back of her neck, which meant she was more or less held hostage by him.
Noah’s hackles rose the more he watched her manage to break her wrists free at one point and place them on the guy’s ample chest. But he kept kissing her and when she wrapped her arms around his neck, Noah felt utterly defeated. If Yoga Lady was stepping out on her no-doubt rich-as-fuck hubs, she was doing it up right. The guy was young, hot and eager, that much was clear.
He slumped back against the wall, pissed at himself for even coming this way now. A distinctly unhappy sound hit his ears, making him lurch forward again and take in the scene. This time, tall, hot ‘n eager had one hand up her short dress, heading north in a way that did not seem to please her. He retreated, still kissing her, then put his hand between her legs. Noah saw his forearm flex and heard her yelp of surprised pain.
She yanked herself away from him with some effort, leaving them staring at each other for a few seconds, both of them breathing heavily. Noah’s hands curled into fists and he studied the other man’s taller but slimmer-than-his physique, seeking weaknesses and deciding where he’d punch the handsy fucker first. Yoga Lady smoothed her hair and took a step back from him, looking over his shoulder as if trying to find someone. Noah ducked into the shadow, not willing to give away his position just yet.
The guy smiled and ran a finger down her flushed cheek, across her bare shoulder, down her arm and up to her boob. She slapped him, hard and loud enough for everyone under the stairs to startle and look at them.
“Fucking bitch,” the guy growled, making a lunge for her at the same instant Noah placed himself firmly between them, pushing the guy away with one hand while putting his other arm back, shielding her.
“I think the lady was pretty clear your presence is no longer desired,” he said, keeping his voice mild and conversational. He sensed her slipping away from him, likely into one of the curtained-off side rooms where God knew what she’d find. But he kept his gaze on Mr. Touchy-Feely, hoping this wouldn’t end in a brawl that would get him kicked out of here or worse.
The dude was pretty drunk, that much was clear—he swayed forward, then back, his eyes glazing over. “Dude, I wasn’t gonna… Oh fuck it.” He waved a hand in Noah’s general direction, then staggered out from under the steps, leaving Noah standing with one arm outstretched to nothing.
He turned, praying she hadn’t bolted yet. All he wanted to know at this point was her name.
He slid behind the black velvet barrier and tried to find her in the scrum of couples in various stages of making out and, in a few cases, actual, awkward, half-dressed sex. Sad, he thought. He pushed past them, desperate and eager in equal measure. He was damn glad he never had to hook up in some half-assed brothel posing as a dance club.
When he finally emerged at the back of the hallway full of moaning and groaning and dampness, he saw her crouched down to her ankles, her arms wrapped around her legs, her face pressed into her knees.
He sat in front of her, put his hand on the back of her head, and waited. When she lifted her face, it was tear streaked, her eyes bloodshot, her face twisted into a frown. “Who are you?” she demanded, pulling away slightly. “I mean, I know who you are. But not…I mean. Oh, fuck it.” She stood, her hand to her neck. Panic suffused her expression. “Oh shit. I…I lost it.” She grabbed both his arms and gripped tight. “You have to help me find it.”
“Okay,” he said, loving the feel of her hands on him, despite her panicked condition. “What did you lose?”
“My…my necklace.”
Noah looked around their feet, hoping she hadn’t lost it on the dance floor. If so, she might as well forget it forever. “Okay,” he repeated, for lack of anything better.
“Where’s Evelyn?” Yoga Lady still had her fingertips dug into his biceps, but he didn’t care. She could hang on to him forever as far as he was concerned. He cupped her elbows. Her skin was ice cold to his touch. “Can you find her?”
She wasn’t drunk, best he could tell, but she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered. He used that excuse to tuck her under his arm and relish the closeness and warmth of her body against his.
Craven, Noah. But awfully nice.
She put one arm around his waist and let him lead her back through the sad-sack orgy in the hall and into the main room. “Who’s Evelyn?”
“She was with me. You bought us the vodka shots.”
“Oh right, the blonde.”
He cast his eyes around, hoping to drag out this moment so she could stay close to him, under his protection, and Evelyn, the blonde ran up to them, her phone in her hand. “Thank God, there you are.”
“Yes, here I am,” Yoga Lady, whose name he really ought to learn, said.
Evelyn eyeballed him in a way that made him feel like a naughty teenager. Luckily, he loved it when strong women acted on their strength, so he was the opposite of intimidated. He pulled Yoga Lady closer. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, taking her friend’s hand and dragging her out from under his arm. “And what are you doing?”
“He’s fine,” Yoga Lady insisted with a sniffle, her hand still at her neck. “He got rid of some creep for me. But Evelyn… I lost my necklace. With the ring.”
“Nope. I have it. It must have slipped off in the bathroom. I saw it on the floor.”
“Thank God.” She held out her hand and Evelyn dropped a heavy silver chain with a what looked like a ring into it. His dream woman pressed the ring to her lips and closed her eyes.
Evelyn treated him to a hairy eyeball, since he was lurking with no real purpose anymore. He turned to Yoga Lady and held out his hand. “Here. Let me.”
She met his gaze, which almost brought him to h
is knees—he’d been dreaming about those eyes for so long. She frowned, looked down at the necklace in her hand, then held it out to him. Evelyn sucked in a breath but didn’t say anything when Yoga Lady turned and lifted her incredible fall of sleek brown hair, exposing the nape of her neck to him. He gulped, then focused on the complex clasp for a few seconds.
He draped the thing around her neck and after only a few fumbles, managed to work the connection. His entire being seemed centered on the bit of her vulnerable flesh under her hair before she let it fall. He touched it without thinking, then jerked his hand away, realizing the inappropriateness of it, although he’d treasure its silken perfection for days.
“Okay, fine. Great. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Evelyn said from somewhere behind him.
Yoga Lady turned and met his gaze. Her green eyes were steady, her lips pursed, indicating she was confused by him. He reached out and took her hand, lowered his lips to it then let it go. She smiled—a crooked, adorable thing he loved already.
Dear God, but I am smacked upside the head by this woman. Why? What makes her so fucking special?
Evelyn took her hand and tugged her away from him. She seemed reluctant to go. But her friend was insistent and, given the general vibe of this place, he didn’t blame her. He watched them as if from a long way away, only thinking to ask at the last minute, “Hey, wait. What’s your name?”
Evelyn frowned over her shoulder at him. Yoga Lady stopped and turned to face him, arms crossed like she’d done that morning at the studio. He walked closer. “I’m Noah. Noah Stokes,” he said, holding out his hand, willing her to take it. If he could just know her name, he felt he might survive the next few weeks.
She opened her mouth, but her friend grabbed her arm and pulled her away. “Our ride’s here. Sorry, kid,” she said. “Gotta go.”
