A pause. “Who the fuck you gonna tell? You trying to get yourself into trouble?” More muttering. “Now stop fucking around. Count to sixty and then come out.”
I count slowly and steadily. I’m shaking all over, but it’s too late. He’s right about me telling people. Cops tend to pick and choose who they’re going to listen to. Didn’t I experience that firsthand?
There’s no reason to panic. I can just do the happy birthday part, then if he asks for sex, I’ll just have to tell him singing’s what I was told to do for him. He can take it up with Caroline’s “Madame G.” if he wants, but I’m not having sex with some random guy no matter how much money’s at stake.
When I finally reach sixty, I jump up. The tissue papers tear with ease, and I spread my arms wide, baring my teeth in what I hope is a sexy smile, and yell out, “Happy birthday!”
I hide my wince at how shrill my voice sounds. At least my breasts stay put, although they do bounce quite a bit when I jump up, knocking aside the top of the cake. Maybe everyone’s too busy staring at my boobs to notice the way I shrieked the announcement.
As my eyes adjust to the brightness in the room, I quickly look around to see how many people are in there. And I don’t see anyone, or anything, except…a door.
Oh crap. I’m facing the wrong way.
Slowly I turn, bracing myself. A man rich enough to throw so much at a stripper for his birthday party must be planning something crazy wild.
But I only see a beautifully appointed contemporary penthouse—maybe a suite at a hotel?
Then I spot the birthday boy…and my eyes almost bug out.
Elliot Reed.
An inky black button-down shirt and slacks of the same shade mold to his large, muscular frame. Right now he’s sprawled on a snow-white couch and the contrast is breathtaking. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a strong throat and a bit of hard chest. He’s even more stunning than I remember, every chiseled line of his face and body on stark display.
My heart thuds, but I can hardly hear it over the deafening roaring in my head. A prickling sensation spreads over me, my nerve endings vibrating with anticipation.
He tilts his head and studies me. Long dark eyelashes frame his unreadable eyes.
My throat’s so parched, I don’t think I can do much more than croak. But I’m supposed to sing, so I slowly climb out and croon in a low voice.
A dark eyebrow rises for a fraction of a second before returning to its previous position. Nerves and tension leave me quivering, and my breasts shudder as I draw in a shallow shaky breath.
The song fizzles like a wet firecracker.
His eyes glide over me, face to toes, then lazily back up. I feel his gaze like a slow physical stroke. Fire seems to follow everywhere he looks, and he lingers at the apex of my thighs and my belly. He isn’t doing anything except looking, but something hot and slick floods me down there until I’m swollen and aching between my legs.
He raises his head just a fraction. My nipples bead until they almost hurt, and I gasp at the sharp sensation. I swallow again. How many guests are here? I should check that out before I make my position clear on sex, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from his face. Finally he meets my eyes, and I feel like I’m sinking into something warm and decadent, like a pool of melting chocolate.
“Have to admit…I didn’t think this was the direction you’d take when I said stripping wasn’t your calling.”
His voice skims over me like the most luxurious silk. It takes me a while to process what he’s saying. Once I do, anger and humiliation explode in equal parts.
“I hate to break this to you,” I shoot back, “but your input has nothing to do with my career choices.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m not even supposed to be here.”
“Yet here you are.” Something shifts in his eyes. He juts his chin. “Get on your knees.”
The command jolts me. It’s quietly spoken, but there is a steely expectation that I will obey. And the hell of it is, I want to. I want to get on my knees and slinky-crawl up to him so I can press my lips against his bared throat and feel his heart beat under my palm. I want to see if he’s really as unaffected as he looks.
But instead I stiffen my legs. “I’m not here for sex.”
“You think that pathetic song is going to earn you two grand?”
“Keep your money. I’m not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale.” The small smile on his face is insolent, the kind that would earn a slap in one of those old black-and-white films. “Three grand.”
I blink at him. “Are you seriously insane?”