by Danika Dare
I shook my head, deciding that I needed to draw a line in the sand sooner rather than later. “No hands on the girls,” I said with what little breath I had left to protest.
He just smiled. “You like that rule. Fine. Put your leg up on my shoulder.”
I was still puzzling over the request when he did it for me, hiking one leg onto his shoulder. I didn’t realize what he planned, though he was not being subtle, until he was burying his face between my thighs.
I gasped and grabbed his shoulders, but whether to clutch him to me or push him away, I couldn’t have said.
Either way, he was unfazed and determined, nosing aside the bit of fabric between him and his goal. He nuzzled and licked at my sex, lapping at me until I forgot that I was supposed to dissuade him.
I suppose I was a bit prudish for a stripper, because it was the most scandalous thing I’d ever done; letting the stranger get me off in a dark corner with his tongue.
By the time he brought his hands into the game, I was beyond protesting.
He was good. Consummate. Expert. Gifted. He knew what he was doing, and he clearly enjoyed the act. He held my ass with both hands and went to town on me with that talented mouth.
I was embarrassed by how quickly he made me come, when I should have been embarrassed that I hadn’t made him stop.
Those regrets would come soon enough, I figured.
When he finally pulled his sin of a mouth off me, I staggered away, sitting heavily on the low table, my knees too weak to hold me for long.
“Get back here. I’m not finished with you.” His accent was heavier, his voice low and hoarse and dripping with lust.
I watched him with baleful eyes, the satisfaction of my orgasm quickly overshadowed by the weight of my tattered principles. “I told you I’m not a prostitute,” I said with a sneer.
He seemed to get a kick out of that, grinning wide. “I didn’t say you were. I’m not paying you for that. Maybe you should pay me.”
I felt my entire body flush, and in spite of myself, my eyes were drawn back down to his lap. He was still obviously and heavily erect and not even trying to hide it.
“You could return the favor,” he suggested playfully. “I promise not to pay you for it.”
“I don’t sleep with customers.”
“So don’t think of me as a customer. Think of me as a friend that wants to suck champagne off your tits and eat your pussy again.”
I glared, his crudity giving me just the right push toward resisting him. “Does anyone ever tell you no?”
“Not often. Come here. I told you, I’m not finished with you.”
I was tempted. Too tempted. All that kept me from going back to him was my determination not to be one of those girls.
Also, his arrogance was getting to me. I wanted to knock him down a peg.
With my last ounce of dignity, I rose, sneering at him. “Well, I’m finished with you.”
I opened the curtain and walked away, feeling his eyes on me with every unsteady step.
Of course I beat myself up about the whole thing afterwards. How had I let it get that far? Why had I let him do that to me?
Why had it felt so good?
I got home from my shift at 3 a.m. to a house so quiet that I had to tiptoe through my bedtime ritual, which was not unusual.
I paid all the bills, but I knew that my roommates wouldn’t be as quiet when they rose at 7 a.m. as I did getting home, but I’d never dream of complaining about that. My sister and her four kids were anything but a burden to me. I was happy to have them in my home.
My sister, Ana, was four years older than me, but I’d always been the responsible one. She’d been getting herself into all kinds of trouble since I could remember, but I didn’t resent her for it. It was just how she was. She wasn’t even capable of thinking things through. She acted on impulse, and paid the price later.
Her four kids, by four different, asshole, deadbeat dads, were proof of that.
The thing was, I loved those kids dearly, and I’d do anything for them. So when Ana’s baby daddy number four turned out to be an abusive bastard, I couldn’t help myself. I intervened.
That was a year ago. And now here I was, supporting a large family by swinging naked from a pole. But at least that family was safe, hidden away from Ana’s violent ex, in a decent neighborhood, living a somewhat normal life.
What I did to pay for that decent neighborhood, and normal life seemed more than worth it to me.
It was only a job. One that paid very well. More than I could make anywhere else, with my skill set.
I’d been stripping for a year, and before meeting the bossy Russian that night, I’d never done anything on the job that I’d thought was truly sordid, never even been tempted to.
It had me rethinking everything.
Had the job finally gotten to me? Had I been corrupted by the strip club life?
Or was it him?
The bossy Russian was back a few days later, standing at the edge of the stage right as I started my set.
He’d come back to catch the entire show this time.
I tried to ignore him, but there was something in the air when he was close, something he put there that made me incapable of pretending that he was one among many.
Still, I tried my best, strutting up to the guy closest to him, having that poor, drooling schmuck undo my skirt for me, meeting Mr. Bossy’s narrowed gaze as it happened.
I felt myself flushing in pleasure as I saw his reaction to that. I’d made him mad. Good. What his anger did to his eyes did something amazing to me, made my heart race, my body thrumming with need.
God, I wanted him.
Which was why I needed to stay the hell away from him.
“I don’t want to see him,” I told the manager, Benny, after my set. I’d been ignoring the bossy Russian, but of course that didn’t work, and eventually even my manager heard about my negligence. “Give him someone else.”
“He’s requesting you. And he’s very persuasive.”
Which meant he was loaded.
Benny wasn’t a bad guy, in fact I always thought he was the reason Exhibitionist was actually a decent joint, for a strip club. He let us all do what we were comfortable with. All of the girls did as they pleased as long as they weren’t making any messes. We could say yes or no to whatever situations arose. Benny didn’t particularly care. He got a cut of everything, either way.
“He’s troublesome for me, Benny,” I said, a plea in my voice that I didn’t like but used nonetheless. “Please. I don’t want to see him.”
“Did he put his hands on you?” Benny asked, looking instantly irate. “If he did something to you, tell me now. I don’t care who he is, I’ll kick his ass out of here myself.”
I smiled fondly at him. His indignation on my behalf caused an instant change in my mood, made my cynical heart lighter for a change. “No, forget it, Benny. It’s nothing like that. It’s fine. I’ll go talk to him.
“He requested champagne.”
I felt myself blush as I turned away. “Of course he did,” I muttered.
“This champagne isn’t going anywhere but in a glass,” were my first words to the bossy Russian.
He grinned. “Go ahead, blame the champagne,” he said in that sexy accent that made me want to shudder in delight, “That suits me just fine.”
He had a bottle of vodka and a glass in front of him. From the look of him and the bottle, he had no need for the champagne, but I poured us both a glass anyway, toasting him but staying well out of his reach. “I have another rule,” I said conversationally. “No private dances behind the curtain.”
“Well, of course I’m disappointed, but I actually came here because I wanted to talk to you.”
I laughed out loud at that. “Oh yeah. I get that all the time. Men just love talking to me.”
His smile grew. I was mocking him but he didn’t take offense. “I’m serious. I have a proposition for you.”
I rolle
d my eyes. I’d heard that one plenty of times.
“I want you to accompany me to a wedding,” he said.
If he’d asked to snort coke out of my asshole while he paid a crowd to watch I’d have been less shocked.
“You’re drunk,” I pointed out. He maintained well, but I’d detected just the slightest slur behind his accent.
He smiled lazily. “So? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“As I’ve said, I don’t screw customers,” I finally responded, “and I don’t date them.”
“I’m not asking for either.”
“So clarify it for me. What are you asking for?”
“I’m asking to buy your beauty and time for an evening. Well, two evenings.”
“Why? Don’t lie and tell me you have a hard time finding dates.”
“I don’t want a date. I want a no-strings-attached woman on my arm who’s beautiful enough to make my ex-girlfriend so jealous that it’ll ruin her day as she walks down the aisle to marry the guy she cheated on me with.”
I was intrigued. More that someone had cheated on him, and that he was still so hung up on it than anything else.
“She must be a complete fool,” slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
That got a small but genuine smile out of him. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Will you do it?”
“When and for how long?”
“Next weekend. It’s out of town, so it would be a three day commitment.”
I studied him dubiously. “Where out of town?”
“California. A small town near San Diego that you’ve probably never heard of, but it’s a five hour drive from here. We’d stay at a very nice resort and attend two day’s worth of events.
“Sorry, Mister. That sounds like a whole lot of trouble.”
“I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars. Up front. Fifteen after. I’ll also clothe you for the occasion, very expensive clothes that you can keep after.”
Thirty fucking thousand dollars? All to pretend to date a guy that made me wet every time I glanced at him?
30K for two days of work.
Who could resist an offer like that?
Not me, I realized. Even if there was a catch. Even if he was lying about the fifteen after, I’d still get that fifteen up front, and that would be more than worth it.
“I won’t share a hotel room with you,” I told him, voice firm, principles shaky as hell.
“I’ll have a suite with multiple bedrooms. We’ll share the suite but not a bed. I won’t compromise on it. If we had separate rooms, Sheila would find out about it, and that would defeat the whole purpose of me bringing you. She has to believe we’re sleeping together.”
I studied him, still hung up on the fact that there was a woman out there that didn’t want him. Even if he wasn’t rich (though he clearly was, strippers know these things), he could get by on his looks and his charisma alone. The money was just icing on his appeal.
“This all sounds too good to be true,” I told him slowly, still taking it all in. “How do I know you’re not some psycho who’s going to chop me up into little pieces and bury me in the desert?”
He laughed out loud. “My name is Kashnikov, and I have a very public profile. If I was chopping women up, someone would have noticed by now. I’ll give you a day to do your research on me and decide.”
“Just Kashnikov? You only go by the one name?”
“That’s correct.”
“Like Beyoncé, and Madonna,” I teased him, “Or Cher.”
He laughed. “Yeah, like them. Some people call me Kash for short.”
“You’re honestly offering to pay me thirty thousand dollars to spend a weekend pretending to be your lover? No strings attached?”
“I honestly am. Here’s my number. I’ll need a decision sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”
I glanced down at the card he’d handed me. There was nothing on it but a number.
Well, hell. I watched him leave already knowing my answer. It wasn’t like I could afford to turn him down. Raising four kids was expensive.
CHAPTER THREE
I waited until the next day to call and give him my answer. I’m not sure why. It didn’t take me long to make my decision.
In fact, it took me maybe five minutes. All I had to do was look him up online, find out that he was indeed very rich, a billionaire, but that he had no red flags on him.
I guess I didn’t want to seem too eager. Or perhaps I was hoping a stray wisp of willpower would appear and I’d resist the offer.
Because in the end, I always knew what it was. There was never anything innocent between the two of us. It was always illicit. Lustful. Passionate. Carnal.
“I’ll do it,” I told him as soon as he picked up.
I swear I could feel the satisfaction in his voice as he said, “Good. Now tell me your real first name.”
“Greta,” I answered honestly. I’d never given my real name to a customer before, but this had clearly gone beyond that. In for a penny.
I could hear the smile in his voice. “I like it. It’s lovely.”
“Thank you,” I told him politely, feeling oddly flattered at such innocent praise.
“Let me arrange some things and I’ll call you back with the details.”
It was the strangest thing I’d ever done. Not just the weekend, but everything leading up to it. He worked around my schedule to give me a complete makeover on his dime.
I didn’t complain about any of it.
My turquoise blue hair had been fun for a minute, but I’d already been thinking about changing it back so I didn’t protest when the stylist he sent my way stripped the color out and then gave it a keratin treatment. The end result was a smooth platinum blonde that wasn’t far off from my natural color. There was a faint trace of the blue left, but it only added layers to the strands and kept them from being too boring for my taste.
An aesthetician/makeup artist spent an afternoon treating my skin, matching my color tones, painting my face, then sending me off with more top of the line cosmetics than I’d ever owned at once.
I certainly didn’t complain about that part.
The third step to the makeover was the most nerve-wracking. He’d scheduled me to work with his personal shopper to find clothes for the weekend, simply giving me a time and address for the appointment. I didn’t even realize he’d directed me to a private estate until I was pulling up in front of a guarded, wrought iron gate.
I had to show a photo I.D. before the stone-faced security guard let me in.
With trepidation I made my way along an expansive drive to the biggest mansion I’d ever set eyes on in real life. It was the stuff of television, a sprawling, Spanish style fortress surrounded by ten foot high walls.
I didn’t know where to park, so I went for bold and left my car right at the front door.
I’d worn a plain white tank and cutoff jean shorts with some old, comfortable platform wedges. My hair was in a messy topknot, my face scrubbed clean of makeup. I’d simply come to try on clothes, so hadn’t even thought to dress any nicer, and I felt underdressed to the point of trashy as I rang the doorbell. I had no clue who would answer, but I was relieved when it was a woman instead of Mr. Bossy himself.
Her hair was cut into an ageless black bob. I guessed she was somewhere in her late forties. She was elegant, her clothes and accessories classic and stylish. I could guess how I’d be dressing for the weekend just by looking at her; tasteful and boring.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. She didn’t seem particularly happy to see me, but she was civil enough. “I’m Mr. Kashnikov’s personal shopper. I have a room set up with samples for you. Right this way, please.”
She’d left me little room for further introduction, so I followed her without a word.
She led me down several long, impressive hallways, and up a back flight of stairs before she turned into a large living area that was filled with nothing but racks of clothing.
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br /> She moved to one of the racks, grabbing a strapless nude bra, and thrusting it at me. “Put this on. It should fit, and work with most of the dresses.”
I glanced around. There wasn’t a closet to change in, or even so much as a privacy screen, but I quickly shrugged it off.
There was clearly no need for modesty here. I showed off more every night at work, obviously.
Still without speaking, I stripped down and put on the bra, glancing around at the racks of clothes.
They weren’t what I was expecting.
Expensive, yes. Beautiful, yes. Conservative, no.
I knew with one sweep of the room that Mr. Bossy was not taking me to his ex’s wedding for any other reason than to show me off, which I supposed made sense.
You don’t take a girl like me to a place like that for any other reason.
“How many outfits do I need for one weekend?” I asked the stylist. I still hadn’t gotten her name. She hadn’t volunteered it, and I hadn’t felt any desire to ask. I doubted I’d be seeing her again.
“Six in total, I believe, three being gowns, which is what I’m in charge of. Mr. Kashnikov will see to the rest personally.”
As she spoke the man himself walked into the open doorway, and I became very aware of the fact that I was wearing nothing but a strapless bra and a lacy nude thong.
His eyes raked over me, but his words were for the other woman. “Make it five gowns. With shoes, and accessories, of course.”
Without speaking to me, he took a seat in a chair in the corner, and watched.
I tried to ignore him, but having him there changed the very feel in the air, made me restless, antsy. Turned on.
He took a call on his cell as I tried on the first dress the woman handed me, a fitted black silk sheath, then stepped into the shoes she set in front of me.
“No,” he said suddenly, voice pitched louder than it had been for his phone conversation. He pulled the cell away from his ear. “Not that one. More skin. More leg. More cleavage. Sheer lace. Cutouts. I want to see her body.” With that, he went back to talking on his phone.
I pulled the dress off over my head, and took the next one she handed me, a nude lace, off the shoulder dress with one cutout over the cleavage, one over my ribs, and a high hem that showed off my legs.
