HARDCORE: Storm MC(2)

The heavy beat of the music drove on deep and hard, and he nuzzled my breasts and growled. Then he did taste me. He opened his mouth and let his tongue drift over the skin over my clavicles, dipping down to the tops of my breasts, rolling over and sucking on the soft curves, and then bit the underside of one of them, hard and quick. I gasped, basically dry-humping his cock through his jeans, desperate for more but knowing I wouldn’t get it. His hands were gripping my ass, pulling the cheeks apart, like he wanted to open me and drill in. If only he would.



He smirked. And then the fucking song ended.



I panted, working to get myself back under control. I was drenched, so turned on. He was hard as a rock, too, but he grabbed my hips and lifted me off him, setting me back on my feet and holding my gaze with his own. The energy between us was insane; I’d never known another man I responded to this powerfully, this uncontrollably.



And that was dangerous. I needed to get my bearings, to step away from him, from his draw, from his scent, from his hotness. I needed to keep to the plan. It was time to walk away and get back to work. To figure out how I was going to get my revenge, and get out.



Patience, and having to bide my time, sucked ass.



Generally speaking, I preferred to be in control. To be in a man’s power was not only dangerous, but stupid. Men fucked everything up. I’d spent my life fixing what men ruined since I was eight years old, taking care of my little sister, Tan, making sure we were okay even when everything around us was shit. Mostly, it worked. We did okay. That is, until Club Hardcore, and Mr. Sleaze-bag Asshole Evil Murdering Bossman “Joey” Ronn.



Now there was no Tania, and it was up to me to make fucking Mr. Ronn pay for what he did to her. That was all I could afford to focus on, the only thing that mattered. Everything else was of little to no consequence. I went through the daily motions, but my reality had zeroed in to that single focus: make him pay. A life for a life.



So there was no room for my attraction to Dom, no matter how my body insisted differently. He was just a distraction. A useful distraction on occasion, and an enjoyable one. But still, nothing more than that. Now it was time to get back and keep my focus.



I turned away from him, checked my G-string, straightened my shoulders, opened the door to the darkened hallway, and walked away with renewed purpose. I parted the curtain at its front and stepped back into the open room of the club. A couple of girls were on the main stage, each on a pole, and another was working her way around the room, just as I had been and would continue to do, stopping at tables to give personal attention to the various clientele that tended to be less than diverse in its variety: mostly just guys in cheap business suits, with balding heads and pot bellies, and a few hard-ass bikers littered around the bar as not-so-secret security.



“You want a private dance, baby?” I asked the first guy I came close to, sitting alone at a rounded banquette against the wall and nursing a highball. He looked like an average joe, just what I needed after the overheated exchange with Dom. Who passed right behind me as I stood there, passing his palm over both cheeks of my ass, giving one side a good squeeze before moving along. I turned my head to watch his back as he walked on. He didn’t bother looking back at me.



Unfortunately, I noticed that several others were looking at me; they’d seen the exchange, and they were watching us. A couple of the girls looked at me accusingly: my best friend, Asia, with alarm in her eyes; two of the big bad biker dudes; and Mr. Sleazy-Ass Bossman himself, Joey Ronn, who narrowed his eyes with suspicion and pursed his fat lips in distaste.



Uh oh. I guessed the jig was up. They’d caught on that there was something going on between me and Hot Dom. And nobody seemed to like it.



Working girls are not supposed to enjoy the work. But seriously? With a man as smokin’ as Dom, how is a woman supposed to pretend not to like it? If only all the clientele were as hot as he was, this would be every woman’s dream job.



The job really wasn’t that bad most of the time. I got to dance to good music and take the joes to the cleaners for their cash. I didn’t have to whore myself; no happy endings were required by management, and there was a strict hands-off policy for the back rooms. If a guy crossed the line, we only had to hit a button for security to come and enforce the rules.



Plus, I made great money—way more than I could earn doing some lame-ass gig at minimum wage. That’s why I brought Tania into the club, too, so we could double our intake and get ourselves stockpiled with a solid cushion for opening our dream shop and living the life: two sisters making good and doing well, no man necessary, thank you very much. But that was before Tan got in over her head, before Joey the fucking sister-killer took advantage of her.