Love the Way You Lie(5)

I swallow hard. “Nothing’s wrong, sugar.”

“Then sit down.”

He means on his lap. Touching. It’s against the rules, officially.

Unofficially it’s one of the tamer things that happen in this room. “What if I don’t want to?”

One large shoulder lifts, making the leather sigh. “I won’t make you.”

I hear the unspoken word yet ring in the air.

I should probably refuse him. Whether he’s a cop or not, he’s throwing me off. That’s dangerous. And if there’s some other cop in the building? That’s even more dangerous.

But for some reason, I lower myself until I’m resting on his jeans, my posture awkward and off balance—until he shifts, and suddenly I’m sliding toward him, flush against him while I straddle his legs. Then his arms circle my body, trapping me. Any second now he’s going to grope me. Maybe take his dick out and fuck me like this. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But he just stays like that, arms firm but gentle. A hug. This is a hug.

Jesus. How long has it been since a man hugged me? Just that, without touching anywhere else, without his dick inside me? A long time.

My throat feels tight. “What next?” I ask again, and this time I’ll offer anything on the menu. The real menu, with sex and pain and whatever else he’s into.

“I’d like to touch you,” he says, his breath brushing against my temple.

I know that’s not all. We haven’t even negotiated a price, but I find myself agreeing, silent and still.

I look into his eyes and feel something—familiarity. Do I know him from somewhere?

A hundred men come through here. They are nothing to me, and yet I can’t help thinking I would remember him if he had come in another night. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen him before. Met him. Known him.

I should be afraid. And I am, but I’m also wondering about the tattoo on the back of his hand. What does it mean? Then I have other things to wonder about, because that hand is touching me.

He doesn’t start with my breasts or even my ass. Not the obvious places, the important ones. He starts with one hand at the back of my neck. My heart pounds heavy in my chest, almost bursting free. I can’t get enough air. And suddenly this seems like an important place after all, so vulnerable. So small within the careful hold of his hand. How is it possible that his hands are so large?

He slides his other hand under my chin, lifting my face. And looks me in the eye. I can’t look away. His eyes are dark and bottomless, the light glinting like distant stars.

“What’s your name?” he mutters.

Honor. I almost say it, but that’s not who I am here. Besides, they announced me when I went onstage. He doesn’t seem like the type to forget, not when he asked for me after, not with his hands cradling my head, careful with me but faintly threatening. Because he could snap my neck in a second. He knows it. I know it. I even think Blue waiting outside knows it, but it all comes down to trust.

And I don’t trust him.

“Honey,” I whisper.

He repeats my name like he’s never heard of it before. “Honey.”

My gaze drops to his mouth, which is firm and almost thin. A hard man’s lips, with scruff shadowing his jaw. “And yours?”

Those lips curve into a half smile. “You’re better off not knowing my name.”

That much I believe. It makes me trust him more. “I’m better off not sitting on your lap. Better off not taking my clothes off for strange men every night. I guess that ship has sailed.”

His lids lower with something like appreciation. “You can call me Kip.” He must have seen I didn’t quite believe him, because he laughs softly. “It’s my real name. Not like Honey.”

I wince at the pointed jab, but what does he expect? The truth?

There is no truth. Honey isn’t my real name, but as each day goes by, I feel less and less like Honor Moretti. I’m transparent, like a ghost. Insubstantial. That’s what hiding does to you. It makes you invisible.

He relents at whatever expression’s on my face, softening. “It’s short for Kipling.”

Just those few words and he’s given me something. Something personal. Something real. That’s rare in this club. That’s rare in the whole world. It makes me want more. I’ve seen the jut of old bone from the ground. I want to dig deeper, to uncover more truths. “As in Rudyard Kipling?”

His eyebrows rise. He tries to cover it up, but I’ve already seen.

“Are you surprised a stripper has read poetry?” I ask.

“No.”

“Liar.” I’m not mad though. The girls here are mostly surviving. We’re kicking up to the surface. It doesn’t leave a lot of leisure time for reading. “So, your parents were fans?”