Stripped Bare

by Kalinda Grace

  Copyright © 2016 by Kalinda Grace

  Cover designer: T.M. Franklin

  Editor: Kathie Spitz

  Cover image: nelka7812

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Her long brown hair flows down her back as she wraps her legs around the pole. She's poetry in motion . . . graceful and gorgeous as she dances on the stage. In a room filled with the completely generic and fake, she is extraordinary and real.

  She arches her back, giving us a spectacular view of her perfect breasts. Peaks and valleys of soft pink flesh that are just begging for my hands. For my lips. For my tongue.

  I'm the one who is completely ordinary, because I'm no different than any other man in this room.

  We all want her.

  None of us can have her.

  Or so they say.

  I've built a billion-dollar empire by being a master negotiator, and I am determined to prove “them” wrong.

  Whoever they are.

  She dances on this stage, and around that pole, night after night. We watch, because we're men, ruled by our animalistic desires and straining erections.

  We all want her, but the rules are consistently enforced.

  You can look, but you can't touch.

  I want to touch.

  Desperately.

  Her legs are long and lean in her stilettos, and I wonder if she would wear them in my bed.

  I bet I could convince her.

  Money is quite the bargaining chip. It can move mountains, open doors, and crumble defenses.

  And, I think, it can convince a beautiful stripper that one night in the bed of a billionaire would have to be better than dancing for a room full of them.

  I'm not a complete monster. I know there must be a story behind the pretty green eyes of the woman draped around the silver pole. Most girls don't dream of becoming strippers. Granted, this is a gentleman's club, which means the tables are a little less sticky and the bouncers wear tuxedos, but I'd still be willing to bet my life's fortune that this particular career choice is her idea of a last resort.

  It doesn't have to be.

  The thumping bass of the song resonates in my ears and the liquid in my glass coats my tongue as I drink and watch. Her beautiful body shimmies down the pole . . . slowly . . . enticingly, and I hear the quiet murmurs of appreciation from the other assholes in the room.

  She dances away from the pole and closer to the edge of the stage. She bends, tilting her head forward, and I watch, mesmerized, as her hair cascades like a waterfall. The music changes, and she leans her head back. My eyes linger over her . . . along her lovely neck and down the length of her delectable body.

  I lower my glass just as her eyes meet mine.

  I'm paralyzed.

  Hypnotic.

  Emerald.

  Our connection is brief, but in that moment, I get a glimpse of her soul.

  And she gets a glimpse of mine.

  The song ends, and the spectators whistle and cheer.

  But not me.

  The gears in my mind shift and spin, and within seconds, I have a plan.

  “Tesla, your hands are shaking.”

  Kassidy offers me a glass of wine. I gratefully wrap my trembling fingers around the stem and sit down at the vanity mirror. I sip slowly, praying the alcohol will calm my nerves.

  Everyone says he’s made of money, but he doesn’t dress like the other rich perverts that frequent the club. He always wears a zipped jacket that doesn’t look expensive but probably costs more than I make in a year. I don’t know his name, and I don’t know if he’s a nightly customer of the club, but I do know that he’s here every night I am. I know he sits at the very same table, and I know he orders the same drink.

  And, after tonight, I know he has blue eyes.

  They burn me as I dance, and while I’m naked on the stage, he watches me with an intensity that strips me bare, leaving my blood boiling and my soul exposed. I can’t explain why he’s different. Why his smoldering glare affects me more than all the others. Maybe it’s the way his blonde hair hangs loosely over his eyes. Or maybe it’s the way he slides his finger along the rim of his glass when he doesn’t know I’m looking. He’s sexy as hell, certainly, but it’s more than just intense physical attraction. I can’t explain it. I’ve tried, if only in my head. All I know is that—after months of dancing for every man in the room—these days, I only dance for him.

  But tonight’s different. Tonight, I made my first mistake.

  I made eye contact.

  I’d avoided it for weeks, because I knew . . . I knew they would be my fatal flaw.

  “Feeling better?” Kassidy asks, checking her reflection in my mirror.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Kassidy is gorgeous, with long black hair that curls around her shapely breasts. They’re gorgeous, too, but they should be, considering how much she paid for them. Sometimes, I wonder how her parents would feel, knowing she spent her college fund on a new pair of double Ds. She considers them an investment, which they are, if you plan on making this a career.

  I don’t.

  There’s a knock on our dressing room door. Rick, the club manager, steps inside. His arrival means only one thing.

  One of us has been requested for the VIP room.

  “Tesla,” he announces. “And he wants you dressed.”

  “Dressed how?”

  “He said comfortably, whatever that means.”

  The door slams, and I chug my wine. When it’s gone, I check the garment rack. My definition of comfortable is a T-shirt and jeans, so that’s what I pick. I quickly get dressed.

  “Keep the stilettos,” Kassidy advises.

  I nod and check my make-up one last time before heading upstairs.

  The VIP rooms aren’t the gritty, sleazy places you see on television. Our rooms have plush seating, plasma screens, mini-bars, and a strict no sex rule. The most action a guy can expect is a lap dance, and for some insane reason, they pay ridiculous amounts of money for it. One of the girls bank-rolled her entire college education thanks to the VIP room, so truly, the possibilities are endless. Lap dances aren’t my favorite thing—I really don’t like touching high-rollers dressed in Armani suits—but Rick enforces the rules, and for the most part, the men who frequent the club obey them.

  I reach the top of the stairs to find Rick waiting outside the door.

  “He paid for two hours.”

  Two hours?

  “I know. It’s weird. I’ll keep an eye out, and you know where the panic button is. You okay?”

  I’m the most inexperienced of the dancers, and Rick’s like the cuddly big brother who’ll kick a guy’s ass for messing with his sister. It’s oddly comforting.

  “I’m good. It’s just a lap dance, ri
ght?”

  “Right.”

  I nod and push open the door, letting it close behind me. My breath hitches in my throat when I see the man sitting at the bar. His back is to me, but I’d recognize that zipped jacket anywhere.

  Blue Eyes just paid to spend two hours with me.

  Soft classical music streams from the speakers as I walk slowly into the room. Suddenly, he turns around, and I find myself staring into the eyes of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. The dim lights of the club hid his strong, chiseled jaw and his unruly sandy blonde hair. I’m fantasizing about sliding my fingers through it when his voice flows through me, warm and caressing.

  “Good evening,” he says.

  “Hello.”

  The man smiles.

  “My name is Jax Monroe.”

  Names are too personal. I’ve had a thousand of them.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “What do you want it to be?”

  It isn’t my intention to sound sexy, but his bodily reaction is immediate. His eyes blaze, and he grips his glass a little tighter.

  “Is there a rule about using real names?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d like to know your real name, please. First and last.”

  “I’m Tesla. Tesla Jones.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tesla.”

  The way he says it, the way it rolls off his tongue, makes me shiver.

  Jax reaches for a bottle of wine. It’s expensive and in no way equal to the shit I just chugged in the dressing room. He pours and offers me a glass. I thank him and take a sip. It’s light and fruity, and I smile, because that’s my favorite kind.

  He smiles, too.

  There’s a giant clock on the wall. Only five minutes have passed.

  “Something wrong?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m just not sure what you expect of me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you paid for two hours. Lap dances don’t usually take that long.”

  Jax chuckles. “As tempting as that sounds, I don’t want a lap dance. I thought we could talk.”

  “Talk?” I say it like it’s a foreign word. As if I’ve never just made idle chit-chat before. Which I haven’t. Not in this room, anyway.

  “Is that okay?” His brow creases, as if he’s unsure.

  “You just want to talk?”

  He nods.

  “You paid a lot of money to just talk to me.”

  His gaze burns into mine.

  “Yes, I did, and I can already tell it’s going to be worth every penny.”

  She’s suspicious, which impresses me.

  Everything about her does.

  “Would you like to sit?”

  Tesla nods. I grab the bottle of wine before leading her over to the leather loveseat.

  Tesla.

  It’s perfect, really. Unique. Beautiful.

  But right now, she’s tense, and that’s the last thing I want her to be.

  I tell her to relax as we sit down. She exhales a deep breath and crosses her legs. Tesla followed my instructions to dress comfortably, except for the heels. Not that I’m complaining. Her legs look fucking spectacular in them. Still, I want her to feel at ease.

  “Are those comfortable?” I ask, nodding at the stilettos.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Feel free to slip them off.”

  She looks uncertain, until finally, she kicks off the shoes. I watch, captivated, as she flexes her toes, giving them the chance to relax.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She takes another sip of wine.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  I smile, because yes, it’s painfully obvious.

  “We’re just talking, Tesla.”

  Her forehead creases. “It’s just that . . . there isn’t usually much talking in the VIP rooms, unless it’s—”

  “Talking dirty?”

  A gorgeous blush crosses her cheeks, and I find it ironic. After all, she was just bare-assed in front of a room full of men.

  “You don’t like talking dirty?”

  She shrugs. “I do it because they pay for it. It’s just part of the gig. But no, I don’t enjoy it.”

  “Do you enjoy dancing?”

  “I love to dance.”

  “Do you like exotic dancing?”

  “It’s an art. People have no idea how difficult it is.”

  “But you don’t enjoy it.”

  “I don’t like stripping, no.”

  “Then why do it?”

  She laughs lightly. “How much did you just pay to spend two hours with me?”

  I don’t have to give her the total. She knows.

  “That’s why I do it, Jax.”

  “So it’s the money.”

  “Yes.”

  I nod. It’s the perfect answer.

  “How old are you, Tesla?”

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” I reply. She didn’t ask, but I want her to be comfortable with me. “Did you always want to be a dancer?”

  “I wanted to be a ballerina. I was, for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  Tesla sighs softly. “Last year I was dancing in a production of Swan Lake when I broke my big toe.”

  “And a broken toe is a career-ending injury for a ballerina?”

  “It ended mine.” Her voice is despondent and melancholy.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs and finishes her wine.

  “What would you like to do now? For a career, I mean.”

  “I’d really like to finish college,” she says. “My parents insisted I have a backup plan in case dancing didn’t work out, so I majored in culinary arts. I’d like to open a bakery someday.”

  She glances at the clock again, and I wish I’d asked Rick to rip the damn thing off the wall.

  “I make you nervous, don’t I?”

  “A little, yes.”

  Her honesty fascinates me. Of course I make her nervous. I’ve just asked for two hours of her time, and she’s out of her element. Normally, she’d be . . .

  And then I realize I don’t know.

  “What does two hours in the VIP room typically consist of?”

  “I don’t think anyone in the history of the club has ever asked for two hours. It’s typically a half hour. Like I said, lap dances don’t last that long. And when the man realizes that Rick enforces the no sex rule, even in the VIP room, they typically don’t buy additional time.”

  “What about outside the VIP room?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are there no sex rules outside of the VIP room?”

  I sound too eager. She’s going to bolt. I can feel it.

  “You’re asking if any of the girls provide . . . services outside of the club?”

  I nod.

  “I’ve heard rumors, yes. Some do.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No.”

  Her tone is final and resolute, but I’ve negotiated with some of the most powerful businessmen and women in the world. I’m determined to close this deal.

  “I have a proposition for you, Tesla.”

  Her beautiful eyes flicker with understanding. She’s an intelligent young woman. There’s no need to spell this out for her.

  “It’s a simple business arrangement.”

  “Involving what?”

  “One night in my bed.”

  “I’m not a whore, Jax.”

  “That possibility never crossed my mind.”

  “Then why me? If you’re so willing to pay for sex, why wouldn’t you want a pro?”

  It’s a fair question.

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  “I don’t believe that’s the only reason. There are plenty of beautiful women in the world, and I’m sure many of them would be willing to fall to their knees for someone like you.”

  The imag
e of this woman on her knees makes my dick twitch.

  “Name your price, Tesla.”

  She laughs nervously and glances at the clock.

  Fucking clock.

  “You hate working in this club,” I remind her. “You hate being a stripper. One night with me would ensure you’d never have to climb that pole ever again. You could go back to school and get your degree. Hell, you could bypass school altogether and open your bakery.”

  “So is this what you do? Ply women with alcohol and get them to reveal their deepest desires so that you’ll have a bargaining chip when you proposition them for sex?”

  The fire in her eyes ignites something in me, and I smile.

  “Is that what I’ve done tonight?”

  “That’s how it feels.”

  “Well, let me set your mind at ease. I’ve never done this before,” I reply. “You are a beautiful woman who captivates me every time she’s on that stage.”

  “Is that supposed to be flattering?”

  “Is granting wishes such a terrible thing?”

  “I’m not for sale.”

  “Everyone is for sale.”

  Tesla opens her mouth to argue, but she quickly snaps it shut.

  “Politicians. Lawyers. Businessmen. We all do it, Tesla. And, yes, you should be flattered. I just paid Rick for two hours of your time. Not that brunette with the fake tits. You.”

  Her voice is small. “Why me?”

  I can see this is the root of the problem. This is the factor that could blow this entire deal.

  Why her?

  “Because every man in that room wants you, but they can’t have you.”

  Her deep emerald eyes find mine.

  “You’re right. They can’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation? What makes you think I’d ever agree to this?”

  I lift my hand, brushing it gently across her cheek. She doesn’t cringe, and it gives me hope.

  “Because you haven’t left the room.”

  Thirty minutes have passed by since I entered this room. At this point, I should be back downstairs, getting ready to head home for the night.

  But no.

  This bastard had to pay for two hours.

  “Tesla, I wish you’d say something.”

  I have no idea what to say. What does one say when propositioned for sex? Especially when the proposal comes from a man whose mere proximity makes you tremble with anticipation and desire?