Stripped Bare

by Kalinda Grace

  I want him. I’ve wanted him every time I’ve seen him. He’s sex personified—with his designer suit and gorgeous face. Long eyelashes and chiseled jaw. Strong hands and long fingers.

  I want him.

  But not like this.

  I can’t deny I’m disappointed. It eats at me, because I was hopeful he wasn’t a jerk. That he wasn’t a pervert. That he was kind and caring. But what did I expect? He’s in a strip club, paying major money to watch women like me take off their clothes.

  I expected more of him, which is ironic and hypocritical.

  Because I should expect more of me, too.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m ashamed of what I do, because it gives men like Jax Monroe the impression that I’d do just about anything for money.

  Exotic dancing is an art form. It can be beautiful and graceful, and the good dancers are highly skilled and talented. We have bruises on our bodies because of the pole. Bruises aren’t sexy, so we hide them with concealer, which we have to reapply between sets. The money is ridiculous, so when you work in a club like Rick’s, the bruises and aggravation are worth it, because you aren’t asked to do more than dance.

  “I wish you’d just let me dance for you.”

  “I wish you’d consider my proposal without immediately dismissing it.”

  I feel vulnerable, as if I’ve shared too much, and he’s going to hold it against me.

  “I know nothing about you.”

  This piques his attention. “You can ask me anything.”

  “Anything?”

  He nods.

  “Why do you go to strip clubs?”

  Jax smiles, arching an eyebrow. “Impressive. I was sure you’d start off by asking me what I do for a living or if I’m married.”

  I glance down at his ring finger. It’s bare, which really means nothing.

  “I’m not,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “And I don’t go to strip clubs. I go to one club.”

  “Why this one?”

  “Because you’re here.”

  God, he’s smooth.

  “Why did you start coming here?”

  “I was invited to a bachelor party about three weeks ago. That’s when I saw you for the first time.”

  I remember.

  I saw him, too.

  “I wanted you then.”

  “So you’ve been planning this for weeks? Getting me in this room and offering me sex in exchange for money?”

  “No, there wasn’t a plan until tonight.”

  “Why tonight?”

  “Because you finally looked into my eyes.”

  Jax grins and refills my glass. He’s so confident and cocky.

  I’m livid.

  I’m flattered.

  I’m tempted.

  Livid wins out, and I toss my drink in his face.

  I’m drenched in thousand dollar wine.

  And hard.

  Interesting.

  Tesla leaps off the couch and walks over to the window. With her back to me, she leans her head against the wall and stares out the glass.

  Using my sleeve, I wipe my face before reaching into my pocket. I send a quick text to my driver, asking for a change of clothes. His response is immediate, and I return the phone to my pocket.

  Tesla doesn’t know this, but I find strong women sexy as hell. I like women who don’t put up with my bullshit.

  I like fireworks.

  I like a challenge.

  I’ve yet to meet my match.

  I’ve made her uncomfortable, which wasn’t my intention. I need to keep her talking. I need to find a way to get her away from the fucking window and within touching distance.

  Touching.

  My fingers itch.

  I have to make her think she’s in control.

  “Dance for me.”

  Tesla turns around. “What did you say?”

  “You’d be more comfortable if you could dance for me, wouldn’t you?”

  She glances at the clock. Again.

  “Yes, I would, actually.”

  I stand and walk over to the card table that’s set up in the corner of the room. Four straight back chairs are there, and I grab one.

  I sit down, and I wait.

  Tesla closes her eyes, and I watch, transfixed, as she unsnaps her jeans. They slide to the floor, revealing the same midnight blue bikini bottoms she wore on stage tonight.

  “Leave your shirt on.”

  “On?”

  “Yes, for now.”

  While I slip off my damp jacket, she slides on her stilettos. They make her legs look impossibly longer, and I lick my lips as she struts toward me. Gone is the insecure girl. She looks confident and strong, and very much like the woman on the stage. She walks over to the bar and grabs the remote, changing the music on the sound system. A driving bass pounds, and it’s just enough to silence the sound of my heart beating in my ears.

  Tesla stands within arm’s reach, with her feet slightly apart. Arching her back, she begins to draw circles with her hips. Her movements are fluid and smooth and incredibly erotic. Her eyes are closed as she steps forward, and I spread my legs. She positions herself over me and leans forward, placing her hands on the chair. With her eyes still closed, she pushes her breasts toward my face, causing her shirt to brush across the tip of my nose. I inhale, and I groan.

  It’s at this point I realize this was, quite possibly, a very bad idea.

  “Take it off,” I whisper hoarsely.

  She reaches for the hem of her shirt and tosses it over her head. Tesla moves her hips, dipping and grinding, until she’s just barely brushing my lap.

  Instinctively, I reach for her hips, desperate to feel her against me, but I stop short, remembering the house rules.

  “You can touch me,” she murmurs.

  “I can?”

  “If the dancer allows.”

  Her eyes linger on my face, and I wonder if she wants me to touch her.

  I swallow thickly, because I want to grab her body and grind it against my lap. But more than that, I simply want to touch her skin. Just to see if it could possibly be as soft as it looks.

  “May I?”

  I feel like I’m seven, asking for permission.

  But I am.

  I’m seeking permission, because suddenly, it’s very important to me that she wants this, too.

  “You may,” she whispers, and it’s music to my ears.

  I feel powerful.

  Even as his finger slides between my breasts . . . stinging me, burning me . . . I feel powerful. Because he asked permission, and I granted it.

  The decision was mine.

  Jax doesn’t have to know that I’ve dreamed of his hands, and his fingers, and his lips. He doesn’t have to know how tempted I am to say yes.

  I writhe on his lap, swaying to the music, and he groans roughly. His hands grip my hips, crushing me harder against him, and I feel him. I feel all of him.

  He wants me. There’s no denying that.

  But I’m a naked girl dancing on his lap. Of course he wants me.

  Jax trails his nose against my throat, and the sensation causes me to cry out. He breathes me in, making my body tingle and crave and tremble. His quiet groan vibrates against my neck as my hips grind against him.

  “Does that feel good, Tesla?”

  I whimper, because it does. It feels amazing.

  “Imagine how good it’d feel . . . without the barriers. Without the rules. Without the clock. This could be us, in my bed, in those heels, and I could touch you. Really touch you. The way I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time I saw you on stage.”

  My fingers find his hair, and I pull roughly, causing him to growl my name.

  “If you’d just been a gentleman. Maybe asked me out to dinner. Asked for my number. I wanted you to ask. I’ve wanted you to ask for weeks.”

  “I’m not a gentleman, Tesla.”

  It’s a confession.

  A warning.


  Our eyes lock, and I see him. I really see him. He’s handsome and rich and used to getting his way. His touch scorches me. His eyes radiate through me. He makes me feel beautiful, sexy, and desired.

  But it’s not enough.

  No matter how good it feels to be held by his strong hands, and no matter how good it feels to grind against him . . .

  I’m not this girl, and I never will be.

  There’s a knock on the door, and I leap from his lap, leaving him confused and breathless and very, very aroused.

  I struggle to catch my breath as Rick’s voice slices through the music.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Monroe. But your driver’s here.”

  Jax growls, and I have no idea if it’s because he’s angry or horny.

  Or both.

  Probably both.

  I reach for my shirt and jeans, desperate to be dressed and out of this room. The clock says I still have thirty minutes, but fuck it. I’ll tell Rick to dock it from my pay.

  “Do you know what’s really sad, Jax Monroe?”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “What’s that?”

  “You could have had me for free.”

  I walk out.

  “I’m surprised to see you, Jax.”

  Tara sits across me, adjusting her glasses and scribbling on her legal pad.

  “I’m just as surprised to be here.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m fucked up, Tara.”

  She nods. She’s my therapist, so of course she’s well aware of my fucked-up-ness.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Perhaps work is getting stressful again?”

  “Work is always stressful, Tara. You know that.”

  She scribbles. I fucking hate it when she scribbles.

  “You’re exercising? I’ve told you how important it is for your mental health that you exercise.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me, and yes, I’ve been hitting the gym every morning.”

  That’s a lie. I skipped today. When you don’t sleep, I figure it’s enough to shower, shave, and work.

  Which I’m doing.

  Barely.

  Tara waits for me to continue.

  I pick at my cufflink.

  She glances at her watch.

  Fucking clocks.

  “There’s this girl.”

  She stops scribbling. “A girl?”

  “A woman,” I say, just so there’s no misunderstanding.

  “Is this girl what’s keeping you up at night?”

  “Yes.”

  Her interest is piqued, I can tell. It’s been a long time since I’ve mentioned a girl to my sister.

  “And don’t tell Mom, because . . . just don’t. God.”

  “I don’t tell anyone what we discuss. You know that.”

  “Only because you’re afraid they’ll take your license for counseling your brother.”

  “True,” she acknowledges, “but I’m thankful you’re seeking counseling at all, so I’ll take my chances and try to remain objective. Tell me about this girl.”

  “Her name is Tesla.”

  “Like the band. That’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Tara smiles. “What’s beautiful about her?”

  So many things, and then I pick one. My favorite one.

  “Her eyes.”

  “What color are her eyes?”

  “Green,” I reply, “which sounds completely ordinary, right? Like grass. What could be beautiful about green eyes?”

  “You tell me.”

  This is why Tara is the best. None of that “how that does that make you feel?” bullshit. She makes you talk.

  “Her eyes are deep, dark green. Like gemstones. And when she looks at me, it’s like . . .”

  I rub my face. I’m officially a pussy.

  “Go on. What’s it like?”

  “It’s like I can’t look elsewhere. I’m hypnotized.”

  Tara’s pencil is really moving now.

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Is that when the insomnia started?”

  I nod. Connecting those dots is fucking easy, right, Doc?

  “What happened a week ago?”

  It’s at this point I have to consider how much information to divulge.

  “I can’t help you if you lie,” Tara reminds me. It’s her favorite phrase. She should really stitch it onto a pillow or something.

  “She’s a dancer.”

  My sister’s face brightens. “Ballet?”

  “Used to be.”

  “And now?”

  “Exotic.”

  “She’s a stripper?”

  “Don’t say it like that. I met her at your new husband’s bachelor party.”

  “I asked Kyle for no details about that night, if you remember.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  “Hmm.” She looks at me quizzically. “Well, you’re here. This girl must’ve really gotten under your skin.”

  Why the hell else would I be here? Because she’s my sister, and knows me so well, she asks the inevitable question.

  “What did you do to piss her off?”

  “Are you sure you really want to hear this?”

  “Probably not, but you’re here, so . . .”

  “I offered her money in exchange for sex.”

  Tara’s pencil freezes.

  “I’m going to try to remain objective and not kick your ass.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m assuming Tesla wasn’t for sale?”

  “You’d assume correctly.”

  Tara sighs heavily and removes her glasses. She’s trying to remain professional, when what she really wants to do is throttle me.

  “She told you no.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that why you’re so fascinated by her?”

  My brow creases. “What do you mean?”

  She tosses aside her legal pad, and suddenly, she’s no longer my therapist. She’s my sister, and she’s pissed.

  “You’re Jax Monroe. You are a billionaire. You can have, literally, any woman in the world that you want. Except one. And that’s the one you want.”

  “I really don’t think that’s it. I mean, I wanted her before she told me no.”

  “Yes, but she’s a stripper. There are rules, right? No touching. No sex. Even as a kid, you hated to hear the word no. It’s why you’re such a powerful businessman. Nobody says no to Jax Monroe.”

  “Tesla did.”

  “I know. I’m thrilled. I hope she forgives you because I’d love to meet this woman.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fuck you, Tara.”

  She grins. “Come on, Jax. Surely you understand why she’s upset?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do?”

  “Sort of,” I mutter, and it’s now Tara’s turn to roll her eyes. It’s a family trait. “I mean, she’s a stripper. How was I to know she had morals?”

  “Would you rather she didn’t?”

  “No, I like that she does. She’s strong, Tara. On stage, she’s this powerful vixen. When it was just the two of us, I saw . . . her. The real her.”

  “And did you like what you saw?”

  “I did. Very much.”

  “Then why not ask her out? Why treat her like a high-class hooker?”

  “Because money and business is all I know. You want something? You buy it. If you can’t buy it, you negotiate until you can buy it. Everything has a price tag.”

  “When you’re dealing with mergers and acquisitions, then yes, everything has a price tag. But this is not business, Jax. This is someone’s body. This is someone’s heart. This is someone who has deep green eyes that you think are beautiful.”

  It’s those green eyes that are haunting my dreams. It’s not just their beauty, but the pain I saw reflected in them when she left the room.

  �
�I hurt her, Tara. My proposition insulted her. Made her feel like a whore.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “Yes, it bothers me very much.”

  My sister gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Then perhaps there’s hope for you yet,” she replies.

  “Tesla.”

  I close my eyes and sip my wine. It’s been two weeks since Rick’s asked me to work the VIP room, and I’ve been thankful. So thankful.

  But all good things must come to an end.

  With a sigh, I turn toward my boss. He’s holding an envelope.

  “You have a visitor,” Rick says. “He didn’t technically break any rules, so I haven’t kicked him out. Yet.”

  I hadn’t told Rick the entire story, but he knows enough. Enough not to force me to work the VIP room for two weeks.

  “Do you want to see him?”

  I shake my head. It feels like a lie, because of course I do.

  But I can’t.

  “I figured as much, so that’s what I told him,” Rick replies. “He asked me to give you this.”

  He drops the envelope on my vanity table and walks out.

  I stare down at the white envelope. My name is written on the front. The penmanship is meticulously neat, and I wonder if it’s Jax’s handwriting. Probably not. I doubt many billionaires address their own envelopes.

  With fumbling fingers, I open it, smoothing out the letter. There’s a business card tucked inside.

  My gaze dances along the page.

  Tesla,

  I wrote this letter because I knew you wouldn’t agree to see me.

  I want to apologize.

  I need to apologize.

  But I’d prefer to do it face-to-face. I think I owe you that much.

  If you’ll let me.

  I’m looking at a piece of real estate tomorrow in the city. There’s a sidewalk café right next door. It’s usually a busy place, especially at lunch time. We wouldn’t be alone. The last thing I want to do is make you more uncomfortable, so I thought a busy restaurant would be best. I’m including my card with the property’s address. You can call, or text, or leave me a voice mail. Or you can just meet me there at one.

  I know I don’t deserve the chance to apologize, but I hope you’ll let me.

  Jax

  I carefully place the letter and card back inside the envelope. After gulping the rest of my wine, I get dressed and tell everyone goodnight. Trace, one of the bouncers, escorts me out into the cool night air, and I hail a cab.