Until Dawn

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Job hazard,” Ethan told Liv. “Lots of risks thrusting up against a chair.”

  Liv laughed again. “I guess I’ll keep my day job.”

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

  By the time we reached the second floor, I’d never been so glad to step out of a staircase and into a bachelorette party in my life. Even the squeals of delight from the hopped-up-on-pheromones women were a welcome change from the back-and-forth between Liv and Ethan. But the squeals also reminded me of a few important facts.

  Ethan wasn’t really a stripper.

  But Liv thought he was.

  And so would the other women.

  Which meant they’d expect him to dance.

  I have to get him out of here.

  “I’ll show Brock the changing area!” The words came out as an embarrassing exclamation, and both Liv and Ethan turned my way.

  “You will?” Liv sounded as surprised as she looked.

  “I left my purse somewhere near there,” I lied.

  Her gaze moved between us for a second, then rested on me. “Can you give me a girl-minute?”

  I groaned. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at Ethan. “This’ll only take a second.”

  He smiled back. “Take as much time as you need. I never like to rush things.”

  I shot him a murderous look, then let Liv drag me around a corner.

  “Not him,” she said firmly.

  I frowned at her. “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I saw the way you were looking at him.”

  I used every ounce of self-control I had to keep from blushing. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

  “The dare! Mr. Hard cannot be your target.”

  “He’s not.”

  “I’m not a dummy, Lu. And I’m not saying this for fun. Even if he weren’t gay—”

  “You think he’s gay?”

  “I know he is,” she stated. “The agency I used only hires gay dancers. And they charge extra for out of the ordinary touching. It’s in the contract.”

  “They’re strippers surrounded by drunk women,” I said. “What, exactly, constitutes out of the ordinary?

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure grabbing one of the guys and kissing him would be close! So…just don’t pick him, okay?”

  Too late, I wanted to say, but I made myself nod. “Kissing gay exotic dancers isn’t high on my to-do list.”

  “Good.”

  “Can I show him where to change now, or…”

  “Go. I’ll be watching the fireman.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I will.”

  I waited until I was sure she was gone before making my way back to Ethan, who was leaning casually against the wall where I’d left him.

  “Okay,” I said, “you need to get out of here. Fast.”

  “But I haven’t done my show,” he protested with a grin. “And you haven’t told me what your funny little friend wanted.”

  I made a face. “She was warning me not to make ‘Brock’ the target of that dare.”

  “Why? Does she want Mr. Hard for herself?”

  “Hardly. Brock’s not her type.”

  “Brock’s an everyman.”

  “Yeah. And Brock’s also every man’s everyman.”

  “Every…” Ethan’s dark eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Ah, shit. Well. At least I know why Brock’s so well-dressed and pays so much for his haircuts.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “We need to find a way to sneak you out without causing a scene.”

  “I’ll go as soon as you give me an answer about those two hours.”

  The cheers from the other room grew louder, and I knew the fireman had to be nearing the climax of his show.

  I nodded. “Fine. Two hours. But I’m not promising anything after that.”

  I’d never seen a grown man’s face light up before, but right then, that’s exactly what Ethan’s did. His smile was pure joy. A boy getting his first bike. And it made my heart thump faster, because I knew the expression was just for me. I had a sudden urge to throw myself into his arms. I even took a half a step forward to do it. But Liv rushed in just then, stopping me from getting any closer.

  “Seriously, Lu?” she said. “The fireman’s done and Brock’s not even in the staging area. You’re officially fired from babysitting any more strippers we hire.”

  I opened my mouth to comment on the likelihood of that ever happening again and to point out that technically “we” hadn’t done the hiring, but I missed my chance. Because before I could utter a single syllable, Liv had grabbed Ethan’s hand and was pulling him away. I stared after them for a second, my jaw hanging loose with unspoken words. My feet wouldn’t move. My head spun a little. And I wondered how in God’s name I was going to be able to stop Ethan from doing a striptease for a roomful of women.

  Chapter 15

  Ethan

  I stood inside the little space that’d been set aside for the exotic dancers—aka, me—for wardrobe changes, and asked myself for the five hundredth time if I was actually going to go through with this insane charade. And if I did, how long it would take for someone to realize that taking off my clothes for money wasn’t my forte.

  Except I couldn’t see a way out of it. Not unless I literally ran away.

  And you’ve done that enough times over the past week.

  Though if I’d had to pick a situation where I made my stand, this one sure as hell wouldn’t have been it. In fact, dancing was way down on my list of favorite things to do.

  When I was a kid, twelve years old, my mom put me into a dance class. The Art of Hip-Hop for Boys, it was called. I’d remember that name forever, because it was just so damned pretentious sounding.

  At the time, some boy band had just made it big, and every kid around wanted to learn their routine. Not me. I wanted to learn a shit-ton of classic rock on the guitar instead. I cursed my mom every Saturday when she dropped me off. I cursed Byron, the overenthusiastic instructor with the gyrating hips. I even cursed the other guys in the class, who seemed to actually enjoy the ridiculous movements. When the twelve tortuous weeks were over, I told my mom it was the most useless thing I’d ever done.

  But you did ask Mia to let you prove yourself.

  And what better way to start than by doing something I hated just to help her save a little face? Because I had a feeling that if I suddenly disappeared, it would somehow come back to bite her in the ass. Her firecracker of a friend would be right pissed off, that much was for sure. So, yeah. If I had to fake my way through a striptease, then I’d fake my way through a striptease.

  “Well, Mom,” I muttered heavenward. “I guess I owe you an apology. But please don’t watch as I shake my ass for all these women.”

  “What was that?” a man asked.

  I turned and found a dude stepping into the cordoned-off area. He had a stack of clothes over his arm, but was dressed in nothing but a flame-covered G-string. He was also hands down the most ripped man I’d ever seen. Bodybuilder status, probably.

  Shit, I thought. No wonder Liv was worried about my ability to impress.

  I cleared my throat. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Been there. You new?” he asked, sticking out his free hand.

  “Uh, yeah,” I replied, taking the offered shake. “Brock.”

  “I’m Dimitri.” He eyed me up and down. “Naughty boss?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Not a bad choice. Definitely some executive women out there. What’re you dancing to?”

  Shit again.

  Dimitri laughed. “Let me guess. You forgot to bring your own stuff?”

  I did my best to sound sheepish. “Rookie mistake?�
��

  “You should be glad I stuck around, then. I’ve got something you can borrow, I’m sure.” He stepped over to one of the display shelves, pulled out a hidden music dock, and started scrolling through songs on an iPod. “What’re you into?”

  “Rock,” I said immediately.

  “M’kay. Hang on. I might have a few things that work. How long of a set do you need?”

  “How long of a set should I need?”

  He lifted his face and raised an eyebrow. “You seriously are a newb, aren’t you?”

  “The truth?” I replied. “This is my first show.”

  “God. A virgin. You poor thing. Well, I usually do a two-song set. And I always have an encore ready if they want it. But I’m a seasoned pro. You might wanna start with a single song, then see how you feel.”

  “Whatever you think’ll work. I trust your expertise.”

  “Being the boss of the Naughty Boss.” He winked. “I like it.”

  Liv’s voice carried in from around the corner. “Knock-knock, Brock! The ravenous ladies are ready for you.”

  “Am I ready for them?” I asked Dimitri.

  He flicked the iPod triumphantly. “Yep. Got it!”

  “Thirty seconds,” I called to Liv.

  “We’ll be waiting.” Her tapping heels faded away, and I could swear they sounded ominous.

  Dimitri squeezed a meaty palm on my shoulder. “Relax. And if you run into any trouble, just think of Channing.”

  “Thanks.”

  A beat filled the air—presumably filtered from the iPod to the docking station, then through some speakers in the ceiling—and I straightened my shoulders. I stepped from the makeshift changing area to the short hall. Straight ahead, I could see sparkles and shimmers. I could hear the clink of glasses and not-so-subtle giggles. And the combo was scary as all hell. Far more intimidating than a roomful of bankers and CEOs. I’d never been so fucking nervous in my life.

  “Channing!” Dimitri called.

  Right, I told myself. Channing.

  I forced my feet to move forward and chanted at myself in my head the way good ole Byron the instructor used to.

  Hip, two-three. Hip, two-three.

  When I got all the way into the gallery area that held the woman from the bachelorette party, though, neither Channing nor Byron helped. For the first time in my life, I froze under pressure.

  Shit.

  Balls.

  Channing-shit-hip-two-fuck!

  My gaze darted through the room. Pink and blue and purple were everywhere. Then a flash of white caught and held my eye, and my brain—which was working a hell of a lot faster than my body, apparently—told me I had a bigger problem than not being about to move.

  The white in question was a veil.

  The veil was on a woman’s head.

  The woman was Aysia Banks, Mia’s future sister-in-law.

  And she was currently looking at me like she was trying to figure out whether or not she recognized me.

  Aysia leaned over and said something to the woman beside her, who shook her head in response, then lifted her face my way. Which clued me in to something else. It was Mia who stood beside her. Her honey brown eyes found me. They held me. And when she mouthed something indecipherable at me, my body finally sprang into action.

  My hand came up to my tie. I loosened it, my hips swaying back and forth with the thud-dum-thud sound of the bass guitar. One of the women let out a whoop of appreciation as I got the tie free.

  I kept my eyes on Mia. I hoped that the other ladies in the room were too inebriated or preoccupied with my hip thrusts to note that I was focusing on her rather than on Aysia.

  I undid one button. Then another.

  I paused and slid the tie down my arm, then strutted—thanks, Byron, for that move—toward the bride-to-be. When I got close enough, I turned my attention to her for just long enough to see that her eyes were glassy with the effects of her champagne, and they didn’t show any recognition now.

  Thank God.

  I lifted the tie, draped it over Aysia’s neck, swished it back and forth, then danced backward, my stare fixed on Mia once again. I had no clue if anything I was doing was remotely sexy, but the look on my favorite redhead’s face was enough to keep me going. Even if not one of the other women was remotely turned on, Mia’s eyes were full of desire.

  I wished like crazy that I had her alone.

  I moved down to the buckle on my belt, and undid it in what I thought was an impressive, one-handed move. The leather snapped as I yanked it free, and the whiplike sound made me grin. There was a bit of a cheer from my audience too. More importantly, Mia’s expression grew even hungrier.

  Want slid through me, and the music suddenly wasn’t the only thing pulsing.

  Shit, I thought with a pause. Was I supposed to have an erection like this?

  Maybe I should’ve asked Dimitri. Hell. I didn’t even know if I was supposed to be offering full frontal.

  Who knew stripping required so much thought?

  I undid the top button of my pants, smiled, did a tease with the zipper, then moved back to my shirt. I undid each of the buttons quickly, then shoved my shirt and suit jacket wide to expose my chest. I heard the cheers from all around the gallery, and I did a spin to indulge those who stood on the other side of the room. But I really only cared about Mia’s reaction.

  I finished my spin and faced her again. She was watching me, her top lip drawn between her teeth, her breathing visibly quicker than it had been a moment earlier. I smiled and drew my hands over my chest. When I saw that Mia’s eyes were following my fingers, I slowed down my self-exploration.

  What will it take to make her squeal like the others? I wondered.

  I suddenly had to know.

  * * * *

  Mia

  I wanted the other girls to leave. Or I wanted to take Ethan by the hand and drag him away. Whatever it took to get him alone so he could finish his striptease in private. Just for me. Because I definitely didn’t want him to stop.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I’d never been a fan of exotic dancers. Awkward thrusting. Gross chair humping. Greased-up, waxed chests. And bulges that made me wonder if some kind of surgery had gone wrong. But this was different. I loved everything about Ethan’s understated movements.

  The way his long, strong fingers slid over his well-defined abs.

  The way his eyes were fixed on me and only me.

  The way his hips undulated with just the right rhythm.

  And the longer it went on—second by slow, agonizing, shiver-inducing second—the less I cared that anyone else was watching. The less I cared that they might notice how his smolders were directed my way.

  He danced forward and slid his jacket and shirt back off his shoulders, glanced around like he was surprised to find an audience, then shrugged the clothes back into place. It was a ridiculously coy move. Especially factoring in what I knew about his confidence in bed. But the crowd ate it up. And so did I.

  Take it off, urged a voice in my head.

  Like he could read my mind and wanted to torment me, Ethan started to do his buttons up. The move brought a chorus of complaints as the women in the gallery started to protest. And I heartily agreed with their sentiment.

  No, no. Take it off!

  Ethan smirked, just shy of cocky, put up his hands in defeat, and undid the buttons again. Then he slid out of his jacket, twirled it around on his finger, and tossed it toward Aysia. Which was really toward me. And as my future sister-in-law caught it in the air, Ethan’s heady scent enveloped me. My mouth went dry. My panties grew damp. I squirmed.

  God, how I wanted him to come closer. I wanted to be the one slicking my hands over his body like he was doing now. I needed to feel his rock-hard muscles under my fingers. To lick off the little beads of sw
eat I could see forming across his abdomen.

  A gasp escaped my mouth. I knew Ethan saw it, even if he didn’t hear it. His eyes were on my lips, the smirk growing into a self-satisfied half-smile. He moved his hips in a circle, thrusting them into the air each time he reached the center of the circle. The bachelorette party replied with shrieks of encouragement that intensified as he dropped his shirt down to his elbows.

  Take. It. Off!

  And a heartbeat later, he complied with the silent order. The shirt pooled to the ground at Ethan’s feet, and he strutted forward, his unbuttoned pants flashing the waistband of his charcoal gray underwear. He was close enough to touch. Close enough to smell. My mouth itched to be on him, my palms ached to rub him.

  Take.

  It.

  Off.

  I dropped my gaze to his fingers, which traversed the edge of his boxer briefs. It wasn’t fair that he got to touch himself. Not when I was near enough to be able to do it for him.

  The music picked up, and so did Ethan’s grinding. He matched the driving guitar with enthusiasm. One part stripper, one part rock god. And still wearing too many pieces of clothing.

  “Take it off.” It slipped out in a whisper, but Ethan’s eyes homed in on my face like he’d heard it perfectly.

  He inched the pants down.

  “Take it off,” I said again.

  Another inch.

  The pants hit his knees, and suddenly I was squealing like the rest of them. Bouncing up and down on my heels with anticipation, begging him to strip, and giggling like a crazy person as he complied. I wanted him naked. I was salivating to get him that way, the rest of the room be damned. When his fingers found his waistband, I knew I was the loudest screamer in the bunch.

  “Take it off!”

  But just as he was about to go full frontal, chaos erupted. The gallery filled with men’s voice, and the women’s shrieks took on a different quality, and for a second, I was afraid we were under some kind of attack. But then I spotted a familiar face—my brother’s—and I realized that the bachelor party had invaded early.