A Beautiful Distraction(81)

“I don’t share my women, Fallon. I don’t want anyone to see your body but me. I don’t want you taking off your clothes for anyone but me.”

Was he serious?

Stepping out of her closet, she moved toward him so she was in his line of vision, so he could see the sincerity in her expression.

“First of all, I’m not yours. Second of all, you knew I danced before you knew my name. Velour is my club, Rafe. These last few weeks didn’t change that. Sleeping with me didn’t change that. And whatever this is”—she gestured between them—“doesn’t change that. And I will let you in on a little secret: it’s not going to change either.”

Feel.

He made her feel. And at that very moment he was making her feel enraged.

“Fallon,” he warned as he stalked slowly toward her, his eyes boring holes into her. She swallowed, frustrated with herself for the sudden quickening of her pulse at the sight of his powerful, tempting body closing in on her. “I’m not okay with this.”

“God, Rafe,” she said, backing away. “This is me! This is my life. It may not be acceptable for you, but I don’t need your acceptance. I don’t need anyone’s. Every girl who works for me has her reasons for this job. I get it. Taking your clothes off and dancing is not something people are usually proud to discuss. Molly, she’s in med school. Cliché, right? Dancer working her way through med school.”

“Fallon—” He tried to interrupt, but the cathartic feeling she was getting only fueled her fire.

“And Na, she works full-time as a physical therapist. She works for me at night to save money for her mission’s yearly trip to Guam. With her church! Ironic, right? Then you have Jade. The former junkie who dances because no one else would give her a chance!”

Strong hands captured her face, his forehead lowering to hers. Her breathing was quick, heart thudding painfully against her chest. And he just held her eyes, the molten heat in them melting away the ice that had seeped into her veins. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled his head from hers, but he remained holding on to her. And she hated that she was grateful for that. She needed his touch at that very moment, even if she didn’t want to.

“You’ve heard them all before,” she said quietly. “We all have. But not me. I didn’t dance with the idea of fast cash at the end of the night. I came to Velour because I wanted to be on that stage. I was at a point in my life where I had given up everything that wasn’t already taken from me. Everything. I needed to feel that feeling again. I was suppressing every other damn feeling I could possibly feel, but that feeling—the feeling of being on the stage in front of an audience . . . it was seductive. So I did it. And I loved it. Dance has always liberated me, Rafe. Now it empowers me. And I’m sorry, but I won’t give that up. This is me. Take it or leave it. Here’s your chance to turn your back on me like everyone else. And there’s the door.”

She pulled away from his hold and pinned him with a look she never thought she’d be able to possess. But she was hurting. Hurting because she was so angry. And she was angry because . . . “Actually, you know what? Leave. Just leave! You were more right than you realized. Love is pretty fucking conditional.”

• • •

The piercing sound of the doorbell rang through Rafe’s alcohol-blurred mind as he sat and stared mindlessly at the TV in front of him. It had been four days since he’d left Fallon’s house pissed all to hell that she was still going to take her fucking clothes off for the asshole suits that attended her club. But he was even more pissed off with himself for actually leaving. He should have just stayed there, fought it out with her, let her scream and yell and get pissed at him. Then he should have pinned her to the bed and kissed every part of her body until she gave in to him.

But that was the whiskey talking and his dick responding because he knew the likeliness of that scenario playing out would have been slim.

Stumbling from the glass of whiskey he’d just finished, Rafe shuffled to his feet and ambled to the front door. And if anything could have sobered him up and ruined his pity buzz, it was the face on the other side.

“Hi, Rafe.”

Using the door for stability, Rafe staggered, then caught himself. “Bridgette,” he slurred.

“Yeah, baby,” she said, lifting her hand to the side of his face. “God, Rafe. You’re drunk.”

Her touch burned him, like ice over salted flesh, and he jerked away. “What do you want?”

His response time was a little off and Bridgette took advantage of his sluggish body and slipped into his house before he had the chance to slam the door in her face.