Me? I get fucking livid watching them stare at her like that. My testosterone is blown all the hell up, wild and crazy and completely out of control. My hands squeeze into involuntary fists as Brooke slides her back down the pole, the firm round curves of her ass peeking out from beneath the tiny slip of the nightgown.
When she stands back up, she wraps her arm around the pole and leans back, lifting a leg up in a feat that's like, seriously Olympic gymnast level or whatever. The long, lean curve of her calf and thigh presses against the metal as she tilts her head back and sweeps the floor with her long beautiful hair.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I rise to my feet and notice that one of the bouncers is inching toward me. Don't blame him. Hell, I probably look like a crazy person. If I saw a dude looking at Brooke the way I'm looking at her, I'd kick his ass, too.
I tuck my hands back in my pocket as Brooke sashays to the front of the stage and slides her palms down the front of her taut belly, curling her fingers around the hem of the lace, swinging her hips in a tantalizing circle as she lifts it up and off, tossing it to the end of the stage and tossing her hair around.
She marches back to the pole as sweat starts to drip down the sides of my face, down my spine, beads on my upper lip.
“Holy shit,” I murmur under my breath, eyes glued to Brooke's form, to the sparkly pink hearts over her nipples, to the seductive way she moves her body to the music. My heart's fucking thundering at a million miles an hour, and it feels suddenly difficult to catch my breath. My ears start to ring as I take a small step forward and pause at the sound of the bouncer clearing his throat.
Well, fuck. Fuck him because that's not just some stripper up there; that's my girl.
I run both hands through my hair, over my shaved head, watching as Brooke does this crazy spin with her legs pointed out like a high heel wearing ballerina. She spins in a quick circle and ends up on the floor, doing this sexy crawl that has my balls tightening and my cock threatening to cream my pants.
Fantastic.
I suddenly need to talk to her so bad I can't breathe.
My arms fold across my chest like a defense mechanism, locking back the surge of jealousy and desperation that I'm feeling. Doesn't work, but at least it feels like I'm trying something here—something other than coming in my damn slacks.
Brooke slides her hands up the sides of her body and rubs them across her breasts, the very same breasts I had my mouth all over last night. When she reaches the pasties, she slides her nails under the top edge and peels them away with a single motion, letting the discarded hearts float to the floor as she goes for one round on the pole and money drifts across the stage along with laughter and cheering.
It's only after she comes around in the spin and does one last trace of the stage, stomping like a supermodel, that she pauses and nearly falls over, squinting into the darkness at … little old me.
Her face blanches and she slaps her arms over her breasts, effectively covering her nipples. As the song winds to a close, Brooke turns and flees the stage like a bat outta hell, men's laughter trailing behind her as her heels clack across the tiled floor and behind a curtain.
With a sigh, I grab my beer and pace in front of the chair until I notice people starting to look my way. I plop down to wait, my heart thumping and my dick throbbing and my brain all messed up and weird.
Tomorrow, I get to leave all of this behind, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.
“Zayden Roth.” A hiss comes from my right and I glance over quickly to find Brooke in a tight black midriff tee that says Top Hat across the front. Underneath it, she's got on a black mini and some leather boots. Without waiting for me to come to her, she storms across the carpet and snatches my arm, looking up at the bouncer and giving him a slight nod of her chin. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she growls as she drags me up and out of my chair, abandoning my beer as she tugs me towards a black curtain with a sign that says Executive Lounge.
Uh-oh.
We all know what happens back here.
“Who's watching the kids?” she asks when I find myself unable to answer. I can't talk right now, can't make any sounds move past my suddenly dry lips. Brooke's small hand on my arm is waking up all sorts of emotions that I wish I wasn't feeling.
Like love.
Like, I sort of feel like I'm in love with her.
Only I'm not though, right?
“Monica,” I choke out as she passes several doors covered in black tufted leather, pauses at the last one and uses a key that's on a green plastic cord around her wrist. She unlocks it and shoves me inside. “What are we doing in here?” I ask as I examine the leather couches, the mirrors, the pole in the center of the small room.