by Pam Godwin
A muscle flexes in his jaw. The only response he gives.
“Okay, I’ll take a stab at the answer.” I slide my fingers beneath his silver necktie, caressing the fine silk. “You watched me dance at Bissara. You liked what you saw. Maybe you assume a woman who gyrates her hips like that is an easy lay. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the powerful Trace Savoy always gets what he wants.” I give the tie a yank that doesn’t move him. “You came here for me, and it has nothing to do with that contract.”
He grips the silk above my fingers and tugs it. Tug, tug, tug, until the end slips from my hand. “I find your forwardness off-putting.”
My neck goes taut. “I could say the same thing about your fuck-me eyes.”
“Fuck-me eyes.” His deep unflappable voice swirls around me in a smoky mist. “Curious conversation for someone wearing an engagement ring.”
I press my thumb against the silver band and picture the woman I used to be. Free-spirited, happy, and forward as hell. She’s been curled up in the fetal position for too damn long.
“I’m not engaged anymore.” I avert my gaze.
“Then he’s as idiotic as the one you were with tonight.”
The need to defend Cole sizzles in my stomach like a hot ember. “Maybe I’m a total raging bitch and drove him away.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” He brushes an errant strand of hair behind my ear, making my breath catch. “You, my tiny dancer, are an erotic dream dipped in the sweetest honey. A man only needs to look at you to become fiercely protective of your smile.” His finger traces the ridge of my bottom lip. “Of every limber curve.” He feathers a path over the heaving swell of my chest. “Every delicious tremble.”
He lifts from the couch to bow over me, forcing me backwards with his massive frame. My spine presses against the coffee table, and I squeeze my legs together between the straddling V of his. No part of him touches me, but he doesn’t have to. His bedroom eyes are enough to crank my pulse and plunge my senses into delirious disorientation.
“I’ve watched you dance.” He bends closer, arms braced on either side of my head with the silk tie dangling like a teasing caress across my exposed midriff. “I’ve memorized every shimmy and thrust of your hips, the sensual movements of your arms, the flirtatious tosses of your head, and the limitless flexibility of your spine. You’re a flesh and muscle articulation of sex. Each vibrating hip drop, quiver in your thighs, and bounce of your tiny tits plants filthy thoughts in a man’s head. His mouth waters, so he orders more to drink. His slacks become too tight, so he remains at the table, hiding the swollen evidence of his intentions. And he’s hungry, so very hungry he stays and he watches and he eats.”
My insides thrum with the velvety cadence of his timbre, every word stirring, seducing, working me into mindless anticipation. The scent of his skin floods my lungs, smothering me in a wicked haze of spicy aftershave and masculinity.
I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. I’m so fucking wet my pajama pants stick to my thighs. The ache between my legs is unbearable, and my voice is a goner beneath the rapid gasps of my breaths. I want this man. Tonight. Right now.
Have I lost my damn mind? Try as I may, I can’t rationalize my reaction to him. Only a few hours ago, I wasn’t prepared to take this daunting leap with anyone. Now I’m arching my back and panting like a hussy? “What are we doing, Trace?”
I hold my breath as he teases his nose down my neck, along my collarbone, and across the top of the camisole where cotton meets quivering skin.
He studies me with so much concentration it feels like he can see through my clothes, my flesh, to examine my deepest wildest desires. “We’re finalizing the interview.”
Interview? My stomach hardens, and I push at his chest. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t budge against my hand, his voice void of emotion. “You’re an acquisition. One that will earn me a lot of money.” His head cants at a slight angle. “Don’t look so surprised. Were you not listening to anything I said?”
He orders more to drink…he remains at the table…he watches and eats.
Realization dumps cold water on my arousal. Trace wasn’t referring to himself. He was talking about the patrons in the restaurant.
He sits back on the couch, nonchalantly adjusting the suit jacket around his narrow hips as if his cock isn’t straining the shiny fabric of his slacks.
“If you’re here strictly on business…” I lurch off the coffee table and stand on the opposite side. “Explain that.” I point at his erection.
“Making money gets my dick hard.”
Where did this heartless douche in a tin can come from? I feel like a damn fool. How did I melt beneath his manipulations so easily? Am I really that naive? And why does he think I’ll make him money? I’m a nobody. My belly dance routine earns good tips, but it’s just ambiance, much like a mariachi band in a Mexican restaurant.
“I’m confused.” I pace through the sitting room. “Patrons might enjoy my dance routine, but they come for the food.”
He eyes me impassively. “Have you ever gone to Bissara on the nights you’re not dancing?”
No. I glare at him.
“It’s a ghost town.” He stretches an arm along the back of the couch. “The overcrowded dining room you’re used to seeing? That only happens on the nights you dance. You know why?”
Given the incisive look in his eyes and the cruelty in his scowl, I can guess.
“Sex sells.” His gaze migrates from my face to my thighs and back again. “And you’re dripping with it.”
Humiliation sets my cheeks on fire, and I’m acutely aware of the cold wet crotch of my pajama pants. All his talk about my smiles and curves was just his sick way of making a point. My body serves a purpose, his purpose, and it has nothing to do with romantic interest. I really am a fool.
“Why not just open your own restaurant and offer me a job?” I chew on the corner of my thumb nail. “You didn’t have to buy Bissara.”
He stares without a crease or tic in his rock-hard expression, and the answer becomes clear.
“You want to own the only Moroccan restaurant in town.” Bitterness clips my voice. “To eliminate competition? Or to force me work for you?”
“Both. But I’m not forcing you. I’m just making the decision easy for you.”
“Oh, it’s easy all right. Easy to tell you to go fuck yourself.” I stand taller and stab a finger toward the door. “I want you to leave.”
“You’re overreacting.” He releases a patronizing breath. “This is just business. I’m offering a salary that’s more than fair, so lose the attitude and take the job.”
Heaviness seeps into my limbs and tightens my stomach. I’m attracted to him, and he sees me as nothing but a financial deal. I’m mortified for trembling and gasping beneath his touch, but I need to get over it and either kick him out or consider his job offer.
I snatch the contract off the table and read it again without looking at him. “Why is the owner of the casino making this offer and not some middle manager?”
“I’m hands-on,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice.
A voracious shiver grips my body, and I’m certain it’s the response he intended to elicit. His assertive stares, inappropriate touches, and suggestive words are all meant to persuade. I’d have to be comatose to not be affected by it. But it’s not just his actions. It’s him. He’s compelling, gorgeous, powerful. The kind of man a woman wants at her side, united and tangled, fighting for her, not against her. I cringe at the thought of making an enemy of this man, but if I keep my emotions out of this, he can’t hurt me.
As I reach the end of the contract, my head is all over the place. It’s a lot money to turn down, and I suspect Trace Savoy won’t accept my rejection without a fight. Doesn’t mean I’ll back down, but I need to consider every angle.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I lift my gaze. Our eyes connect, and we freeze. Everything stills. We don’t blink, don
’t move, don’t breathe. There’s something there, something fragile and gritty and complicated creeping between the lines of personal and business. I know he senses it, too. Part of me wants to demand he acknowledge it, but the other part, the smarter part, knows that nothing good can come from involving myself with this man.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the trance. He glances at the screen and returns his attention to me. “Why do you dance?”
“It’s my passion.”
“Elaborate.”
Despite his curt tone, I don’t mind answering. Dancing is the piece of myself I will never suppress or hide.
“I love creating art through movement. Not only does it allow me to express my feelings, it makes others feel.” I lower onto the coffee table, bending a leg across the surface to face him. “It’s not about the job or the money or the accolades. I dance because I have to. Because it’s who I am—the artist, the athlete. It’s my outlet to let go, to just be.”
“And you achieve this through teaching?”
“Yeah, but honestly, I’d rather focus on honing my own talent. In an ideal world, I’d perform on stage with dancers I can learn from. But Beyoncé has yet to knock on my door and offer me a position on her dance team.” I snort to myself. As if. “We don’t always get the job we want. So I teach dance lessons and entertain restaurant patrons. It makes me smile and keeps a roof over my head.”
“There’s a small stage at the center of the restaurant’s new location, and that stage will be visible from the most active gaming areas in the casino.” He leans in, eyes hard, a business man poised to seal a deal. “The casino averages over six million in admissions every year. That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.”
“Art or male desire?” I squint at him. “Your spiel about selling sex sounds exactly like you intend to objectify me to promote your goods and services. I’m a person, not a commodity.”
“You’re whatever I want you to be.” The controlling controller controls his gait to the front door. “We’ll finalize the contract tomorrow night. Seven o’clock sharp.”
It takes great effort to not recoil from the cutting snap of his voice. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My office is on the 30th floor of the casino hotel.” He sweeps open the door, bringing with it the sound of the idling car on the curb. “Don’t make me wait.”
“I’m scheduled to dance at Biss—”
“Bissara is closed until the remodeling is finished at the casino.”
“Wait. Back up.” I approach him with suspicion edging my voice. “Didn’t you just purchase it this morning? You’ll lose money if you don’t keep it open.”
“I’ll lose money if I don’t get the employees relocated and up to speed immediately.” He palms the doorframe, towering over me. “The new Bissara will be a fine dining restaurant. Full-service, high-quality, catering to wealthy clients with refined palates. The staff must undergo thorough training to meet the specifications.”
Well la-di-da. I don’t care about his rich and important agendas. I’ll go to his office tomorrow, only because I want to hand him a counteroffer that’ll make his eyes bulge and his ego explode with indignation.
“Lock the door.” He steps outside and shuts it behind him with a victorious glimmer behind his scowl.
I glare at the deadbolt until my vision blurs. Why does he care if I lock it? What the hell is his angle? There’s something going on beyond him wanting my employment. He chased away my date. Trespassed in my house. Offered me a job that pays triple the normal rate. It feels like he’s gone out of his way to put me directly under his thumb.
Am I reading too much into this?
The door cracks open, and his crystal blue eyes fill the gap. “Lock. It.”
Oh my God. I shove it closed, turn the deadbolt, and flip him off through the door.
A moment later, the muffled sound of his car fades into the distance. That’s when it dawns on me I didn’t ache for Cole once while Trace was here. It’s both disturbing and remarkable. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll ever forget what I lost, but for the last hour, Trace’s assjackery extinguished the grief I carry for the man who owns my heart.
But as the silence creeps in, so does the emotional pain I’ve been wallowing in for years. Self-pitying, soul-gutting, wishing-for-death pain. Sometimes it feels like all I have left is an endless well of tears and bitter loneliness. Sometimes it’s easier to give into the anguish than to hold it at bay. I’m tired. So fucking tired of missing Cole with every agonizing breath.
Am I fading? Becoming less of who I was? Cole’s absence cast me in darkness, but this solitude and discordance is of my own making.
I trudge through the dining room and rather than giving into the urge to straddle and hug his bike with all my might, I keep walking. Passing through the hall, I strip off the pajama bottoms. In the spare bedroom that serves as my closet, I slip on a pair of low-rise booty shorts. Then I enter the dance studio through the door between the rooms.
My emotions unravel with each step across the wood flooring. Burning chest, tightening throat, pressure behind the eyes—it’s all there, threatening to turn me into a useless blob.
I rush through my stretches before powering on the sound system and selecting an empowering song.
The instrumental intro of Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande trickles through the speakers. I stand in the center of the room, rolling my shoulders and measuring my breaths. The instant the smoldering vocals begin, I move. Arms, legs, abs, neck, every muscle is engaged, sweeping in wide fluid motions and channeling my emotions.
I don’t need to focus or think about the steps. I simply let go, give myself over to the moment. The music floats through me, possesses my body, and carries me to better days.
“Here he comes.” Virginia wraps a liver-spotted hand around my arm and points her filmy eyes at the vacant street. “Hear that?”
All I hear is the too-damn-early squawk of birds telling me to go back to bed.
“He’s bringing the marijuana into our neighborhood.” The saggy skin on her neck quivers. “I just know it.”
A smile struggles behind my pinched lips. When my hundred-and-ninety-year-old neighbor isn’t complaining about the Bosnians moving in with their pink flamingos and loud music, she’s fretting over alleged drug activity. I love Virginia dearly, but her over-imagination is horribly discriminatory.
For the past few weeks, she’s had her floral smock all twisted up over the tattooed devil on a motorcycle who rides down our block. She can’t see two feet in front of her, but her hearing is sharper than a bat. And she says he’s coming.
A gentle fog blankets the sleepy road. The giant oak trees and quaint brick bungalows in this neighborhood date back to the 1920’s, as do most of the residents. Since I’m the only one under the age of seventy, they all come to me when there’s a problem. Last week, I spent an entire afternoon chasing a poor squirrel out of Jackie’s basement. And Wilson, the Vietnam vet who lives across the street, needs help programming his TV on a weekly basis.
I still don’t hear the offending motorcycle, which Virginia claims rattles her fine china before the Lord has risen for the day. She also swears the pot-smoking heathen tries to run her over when she steps off the curb. Of course, she chooses to alert me of his misbehavior at six every morning.
Seeing how I’m not an early riser, I’m prepared to do anything to put an end to her banging on my door.
So here I am. Armed with coffee—I can’t function without it. Standing in my front yard—it’s cold enough to freeze my tits off. Dressed to kill—I know how to rock a slouchy crop top and cheeky boyshorts.
The plan is simple. I’ll wave down the biker with a little flash of skin. He’ll pull over because he’s a man. We’ll have a friendly stop-pissing-off-my-neighbors conversation, and I’ll be back in my warm bed in no time.
“I’ll take care of it, Virginia.
” With a grip on her bony elbow, I guide her across the driveway.
Her house slippers shuffle along the pavement, chafing my patience. By the time I coax her into her home next door, I’m shivering so violently my bones hurt. I consider slipping back into my house to pull on some leg warmers, but an engine rumbles in the distance, maybe two…three blocks away.
Curling my hands around the warm coffee mug, I tiptoe through the chilly grass and step into the middle of the empty street. The gray sky casts the fog in a wintry glow, making it feel colder than it should in late September.
The purr of the engine grows louder, and after a few shivery breaths, the motorcycle thunders like a black stallion out of the mist at the end of the street.
I’m hoping for a bald, grizzly-bearded biker dude. Never met one I didn’t like.
He motors toward me, straddling a beast of a bike and maintaining the prudent speed limit. Heavy boots, faded denim, and a black leather jacket come into view, but that’s where the stereotype ends. Beneath the half-shell helmet is a young, clean-shaved face and huge brown eyes.
At twenty feet away, I know I’m in trouble, because this man is fucking gorgeous.
It’s his smile. A heart-thudding, sexy-as-fuck, world-changing smile that shines from the inside out. It lifts his cheeks, illuminates his entire expression, and damn if I don’t feel it pulling on my own lips.
He slows his approach and stops on the curb beside me. With his eyes on mine, he turns off the engine and kicks a leg out, balancing the bike between muscular thighs wrapped in frayed jeans.
I float toward him, and his gaze follows, tracing my face as if absorbing every detail. We’re both smiling, locked in a wonderfully bizarre introduction.
Our eyes dance over each other, greeting, exploring, and connecting in a moment of silent fascination, where time and words are inconsequential. I hear the crescendo of possibilities, feel the vibrations answering inside me, and everything just…clicks.
His grin, complete with dimples, grows impossibly wider as I drink him in. Golden complexion, pillowy lips, straight white teeth, square jaw—every symmetrical feature renders a sculpture of masculine beauty. Carved to perfection, rebellious around the edges, and flirtatious without opening his mouth, oh baby, he’s all that and a lit fuse on dynamite.
