Ariana lifted her nose in the air and looked down at Kylie through lowered, heavily lined eyelids. “Thank you for letting me borrow body oil last night.”
“Any time.” The way Stacy had described her coworkers left Kylie with the impression they were all viciously competitive and out for themselves. Not so true, apparently.
At least the precious boots were safe. She wished she could say the same for herself. With shaking hands she transferred her tips from her costume to her lockbox and tried to get herself calm and mentally prepared for the private dance.
“Private” wasn’t really accurate. Deuces mandated a bouncer stay in the room. At least Benny was bouncing for her rather than Ramon, the other security team member working tonight.
Ramon had been on stage duty the night Carlton Long pulled Stacy offstage. He’d left his station mid-dance to take a call, which broke club rules and, indirectly, her sister’s leg. Stacy dismissed Ramon as “a lazy weasel who never has your back,” but the vast nothingness in his dull black eyes bothered Kylie almost as much as his unreliability.
Then again, who was she to judge? For the next few weeks, she’d be dancing next to naked around a pole, on a table, over some guy’s lap, or up close and personal in the VIP room—the most profitable option by far, which is why she had to do this private dance. Panic skated through her at the thought of providing such intimate and blatantly sexual-themed entertainment, but there was no way around it. She and Stacy had bills to pay. Besides, quitting now would look suspicious.
To calm her jittery nerves, she reviewed Stacy’s instructions. They played in her head while she made her way to the VIP room with all the enthusiasm of a dead man walking.
A private performance takes the fantasy to the next level for the client. One-on-one attention from the girl of his dreams. The performance is what we call “full contact,” though he’s not allowed to touch you anyplace personal. You, on the other hand, can touch him anywhere above the belt, and you can sit on his lap.
My clients tend to want an artistic experience. Carlton, for instance, liked to undo my top, but otherwise, wasn’t into a lot of contact. He preferred to sit back and watch while I touched myself and put on a show for him. He enjoyed…theatrics.
Not just dancing, but acting, Kylie thought facetiously. Still, at the end of the day, it remained just a fantasy. For whatever comfort that offered. She opened the red leather-upholstered door to the VIP room, steeled her nerves, and stepped inside.
Deuces’ upscale ambience extended to the private rooms. Dark colors and low lights called to mind a gentleman’s study. But rather than shelves of books and a desk, the room boasted mirror-paneled walls, a comfortable leather chair, and a small table for holding drinks. Tucked in a shadowy corner sat a utilitarian wooden stool for the bouncer.
Benny stood in front of the client, reviewing the VIP room etiquette. When he stepped to the side, her heart stuttered in her chest. Trevor sat in the chair, enigmatic eyes fixed on her.
Benny glanced at her and tipped his head. “We’re on the clock.” With that, he retired to the corner and literally faded into the background.
She stood rooted to her spot by the door, unable to move.
“Hello, Stacy.” Trevor’s low greeting sent a tremor down her spine. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m guessing you need to come a little closer.”
…
Stacy marched over to him, eyes flashing. The energy coming off her in waves announced one thing. She was ready to rumble. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her furious whisper reminded him of an alley cat trying to intimidate a pit bull. Her coconut-vanilla scent reminded him of sex on the beach, somewhere tropical and isolated, preferably deserted, except for them.
He shoved that thought aside and smiled up at her in his best impersonation of an eager client—a disturbingly easy role. Through his teeth he said, “I’m getting a private dance, just like any avid customer.”
“You’re not a real customer.” She kept her voice low, but her temper came through loud and clear.
“I’m as real as they come. I’ve paid the money, I’ve agreed to the rules. And now”—he leaned back in the chair like a guy about to enjoy a private dance—“I’m ready for my performance.”
Ready might have been an overstatement. Her plain man’s button-down, striped necktie, lace-trimmed stockings, and shiny black heels fucked with his head, not to mention a few other things.
She stared a hole through him for a long second, and it occurred to him she might refuse. But then she reached behind him for the stereo programmer. Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” moaned from the surround sound. Music selection complete, Stacy took her position straddling his lap and slowly rolled her hips in time with the music.
“Anything particular on your wish list tonight?”
Tons, but this wasn’t about him. He needed to keep his mind on the investigation. “How’d you dance for Carlton?”
“Carlton liked a sensual dance, if I remember correctly.”
God bless Carlton. “Okay. Give me what you’d give him.”
She lowered her lashes, which he couldn’t interpret. Was she afraid? Resigned? Sleepy? Nimble fingers undid the knot on the tie at her throat. She swirled the strip of silk around her shoulders, down her arm, and let it fall to the floor. The collar of her shirt draped open, revealing and abundance of smooth cleavage nestled in a lacy black bra.
He wanted to drag his own tie down and tear open the top few buttons of his shirt. The damn thing choked him. He couldn’t concentrate.
She moved her hips over his lap, barely brushing him. His cock immediately sat up and took notice, reminding him control and self-discipline had their limits. But her reaction surprised him a lot more than his own. Pink invaded her cheeks. She raised her hips slightly and focused her attention in the vicinity of his mouth.