“Such a mouth, you nasty girl,” he chuckled. “You know hands are off. Don’t want you to lose your job, bossy.”
“Put. Your. Fucking. Hands. On. Me.”
“That mouth.” He shook his head. “I should put them on you. And not in the way you mean. But you want it, you do it. Show me what you want.”
I drifted my hands down his fabulously muscled arms, his bulging deltoids and biceps, and lower down past his elbows and heavily boned wrists to finally grab his rough hands, which were nearly twice the size of my own. I drew them to my chest, pressing them to me, using his hands to squeeze my aching, heavy breasts—god, it felt so good—then guiding them down, scraping my sides to my waist and hips and finally around to my ass, while I continued the dance, my eyes locked on his the whole time. This had recently become our pattern—though I hadn’t ever screwed the rules like this with anybody else—so it didn’t come as any surprise to him. But it was our little secret, and I knew it turned him on, too. The corner of his mouth tilted up.
The music kept up its beat, and I continued to gyrate on top of him, our faces so close, sharing breath. I reveled in the hard definitions of his body. He was like a hot work of art: all big, tall, powerful male, beautifully muscled, dark mussed hair and tanned skin, strong bones and gorgeous planes in face and body. And those beautiful green-silver eyes.
He should have been intimidating—and he was—but he also drew me to him like a freaking magnet. It was like my body turned on as soon as he entered the space, and I was powerless to keep myself away.
That in itself should have been a warning to me. Of course, I was never great with heeding warnings.
I wanted to see him, to see all of him, to see that six-pack and the V at his hips that I could feel between my thighs. I wanted to taste him, but that crossed a line, and I didn’t dare.
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.