She nodded. “He was one of my headliners. Not sure exactly who he was, though. Don’t worry—they’re not going to know who you are. But you didn’t answer me. Is this a thing for you?”
“No.”
She cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced. And she was spot-on. Rafe had been in his fair share of fights over the years.
“It’s not a story I care to divulge right now,” he replied.
Nodding again, she took another small sip of her Diet Coke, but the way she seemed dubious—hesitant of his intentions—rubbed him the wrong way.
“You think a man has a right to put his hands on a woman when she doesn’t want him to?” he rebuked. “You may allow guys to grope your ass whenever—”
Her hand dropped from her glass and she twisted her body to face him so quickly he damn near missed it. “Men don’t touch me,” she snapped, the champagne color of her eyes deepening as her lids lowered into slits. She leaned forward a little as if her thin body could withstand a hurricane. “Ever. That’s not how my club works. That’s not how burlesque works. No touching, no private dances, no full nudity. I sell seduction. Temptation, fantasy. I don’t sell my girls. And I sure as hell don’t sell myself.”
She was pissed. He could see it in the light flare of her nostrils as she leveled her eyes on his, unwavering. “That’s not what I meant.”
Seemingly calming down now that her tirade was out of her system, she propped her elbow up on the bar, recrossed her legs, and repositioned herself against the wood. “That might not be what you meant, but that’s what you thought. There’s a fine line—I know this. We push the boundaries of seduction at Velour, just slightly. But I just want to get one thing straight with you. That’s my club. Those are my rules.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a smirk. She was even sexier when she was pissed.
She raised her eyebrows at him. He enjoyed watching her little retort. Face flushed with the remnants of her agitation, she pursed her lips and folded her arms beneath her chest. “I also don’t leave with random assholes who have a taste for blood and are drowning themselves in women and liquor,” she jested.
“Oh yeah—and I suppose that’s how you’re pinning me?”
“Yes, handsome, that’s exactly how I see you. I’ve seen every single walk of man come into my club, and they all want the same thing: a distraction. Whether they need to get away from their boring sex life with their prude wife, unwind from work, or are drinking themselves away from heartache, they all want a distraction.”
Rafe nodded at Pete, who was talking to a guy on the other end of the bar. Pete took the cue and nodded back, repeating his routine of wiping out a glass and pouring whiskey. “So if you don’t leave with random assholes, then where does that leave me?” He pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept in his pocket and lit the end, inhaling deeply as he watched Fallon out of the corner of his eye.
Her lips parted and a shallow dimple formed. “Lucky.”
Running his thumb around the rim of the glass of whiskey Pete had just put in front of him, Rafe asked, “How so?”
• • •
She could play this little game of banter. The severity of his mood had morphed, amusement folding in the creases around his eyes, his mouth curling as he regarded her response. “I make the rules. Therefore I can break them.”
His smile extended upward, uneven on the side where his scar ran deep. She diverted her eyes, protecting herself from the vulnerability she felt from his jovial expression as he watched her.
Putting his cigarette to his lips, he inhaled, then let the smoke out slowly. “You know, I’m struggling to figure you out,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes, sipping her drink. The chilled carbonation soothed and tingled her throat as she swallowed. “And why’s that?”
He pressed his glass to his lips and sucked in a leisurely sip of whiskey. She watched as his Adam’s apple rose, then fell as he swallowed; then she shifted her eyes back to his when he set the glass down.
This undeniable physical attraction she felt toward him was new for her. It was uncontrollable. Her traitorous body scorched with a need she wasn’t sure she was ready to give into yet. The last eight years had been nothing but calculated decisions made to keep people at arm’s length. Sexual relationships formed from want . . . not need. She’d never had the impulse—felt the need—to lean over, rest her hands on a man’s thighs, lick his neck . . .
Rafe’s tongue snaked across his bottom lip, lapping the lingering whiskey. “You don’t strike me as a woman who breaks the rules often. At least not her own rules.” His voice compelled her thoughts to retreat from the temptation she was feeling.