Even though I know that there is no good reason for me to be here, about to go on stage and do what I do unabashedly, I still can't seem to shake the slight flutter of nervousness that washes through me at the thought of going on that stage and being in that limelight.

I love it.

Part of me lives for it.

There's nothing more fun than letting myself be taken over by the rhythmic beat of the dance music, the hype, and energy and enthusiasm of the mostly female crowd as they drink and dance and let themselves be taken over by it, too. And I don’t care if that’s a good reason or not.

Like I said, I live for it. There's only one other thing in this world that makes me feel more alive and brings me more pleasure and happiness, but I keep that part of my life separate from this one.

Right now, I'm just me, Derek Christian. Dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, and more tattoos and taut muscles than you can count. I’m not being cocky or prickish about it; I’m just stating a fact. I work hard on my body—six days in the gym each week isn’t for the faint of heart—so that the ladies can appreciate what they’ve paid for.

Let’s be honest, they don’t give a rat’s ass that I’m college educated, that I’m a good guy, or that I have people depending on me.

Those rowdy, raucous ladies out there in the audience just want to hoot and holler while I roll my hips and let them eye-fuck me while I dance.

And I’m cool with that. Because I’m quite a fan of eye-fucking the ladies myself.

I’m an even bigger fan of actually fucking them, too, as most guys are whether they actually go through with it on every whim or not, but that’s not what tonight is about.

“Let’s do this,” a voice says behind me.

I glance back and see Chance, donning the same low-slung jeans, tight white t-shirt, and black leather belt as I am. He’s been with the Thunder And Lightning group longer than I have, and he’s got the dance moves, cockiness, and devout following to prove it. The difference between him and I is that he’s let the attention go to his head. We both might live for the show, but unlike me, he doesn’t have anything but the show. No family he keeps in contact with, no life to go back to when he’s not on stage.

Life is the show, and the show is life.

I'm not like that.

I give him a curt nod, the corner of my mouth twitching up in anticipation. “Hell, yeah.”

It’s showtime.

* * *

With a blast of lighting in every shade of purple, yellow, green, and red you can think of, the music goes from a steady beat meant to pump up the crowd and prepare them for the group of us to hit the stage, to a hot new version of one of today's sexiest and most loved club hits on the radio right now. We know the drill, every one of us knows exactly where we're supposed to be and what we're supposed to do.

It's time to work.

The moment the music starts, all five of us, dressed in the same tight-fitting, simple outfits, blast out onto the stage, much to the delight and screams of the female audience. In a matter of seconds, I can already tell which ladies in the front row are going to be trouble. They've got a drink in each hand, loud and boisterous behavior practically pouring from each of them, and their eyes are filled with more than just lust and the need for fun. They're not going to be satisfied with just watching from a distance. Usually, the women in the front rows are there for a reason—they want interaction.

And that can only mean one thing.

Those women are going to want the element of touch, and I have no doubt in my mind that they’re very intent on doing a little touching of their own.

I make a mental note to keep to the right side of the room, away from the rowdy group I've already pinpointed, and instead set my sights on the women farthest away from them. I can get just as hyped up as anybody, but I’ll let Chance take over the section where the raucousness seems to be. Hell knows he adores the attention.

The front row of the right side of the room is just like everyone else right now, on their feet, clapping, and letting out whistles and catcalls of appreciation. That, I can handle. Hell, that's what I love—he ladies that want me, and every other half-dressed man in this room, but that let me do my thing. They're the ones that make this so entertaining, so alluring, and so damn addicting.

It's only the first song being played, but halfway into it I've got my white T-shirt pulled off, and surprisingly, one of the women in the crowd has already tried to undo my belt when I took a chance and zoned in on her, gyrating my hips and giving her a little personal attention. It turns out I was wrong. My initial impression that she was a little bit more laid back than the rowdy group on the other side of the room had been incorrect.

All these ladies were downright wild tonight. Not a bad thing, but I’m going to have to be careful or I'll have absolutely nothing left on by the time the first song ends.

I play to the crowd, slinking my way up the front of one brunette, and then rocking myself against the air, only inches from the pretty blonde beside her before taking a step away. The music overtakes me, and mixed with the enthusiasm of the women around me, I get a little wilder myself, more than I usually am this early in the show. I let the women I dance in front of—and against—get a little grabby. It’s all in fun after all, and part of the game. The last thing I’m going to do is deny these ladies a good time. That's what they paid for, and that's damn well what they're going to get.

That's when I notice a pretty woman sitting in the second row, near the end of it, and she’s clapping half-heartedly and doing her best not to spill the drink in her hand. I don't stop moving, not wanting to waste even a second not giving this crowd what they came for, but my mind is suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that this woman is here, with her friends, and she isn't enjoying it nearly as much as she should be.

Challenge accepted.

I take a quick glance around, seeing Chance across the room practically humping one blonde woman who can't be much more than legal drinking age, and quite possibly ten or fifteen years younger than himself, and he already his belt undone and his jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips. I definitely won’t be the first one completely undressed tonight. There’s no doubt about it, these ladies are definitely on the wild side tonight.

I'm not sure whose eyes widen further as I make my way around the first row—unsuccessfully dodging outstretched hands that slide down my bare torso and attempt to cop a feel while I theatrically shake my ass and run my own hands suggestively down my abdomen as I move—and into the second row. The pretty woman with the inky black hair has eyes that are round as saucers, but her friends on either side of her are just as wide-eyed, and just as shocked that I’m heading in their direction.

I know my role, and I also know I shouldn't be signaling anyone out purely for my own agenda. But this woman is sitting here clearly not enjoying herself, or me for that matter, as much as she could be, and I plan on changing that in every way I possibly can.

I ignore her friends and their hoots and hollers as I reach for Little Miss Jet Black Hair and promptly pull her to her feet, directly against my bare chest. Suddenly, her eyes look about ready to pop out of her head. But I'm the one that’s surprised, mostly that she hasn't either slapped me for signaling her out, or for immediately—and very lewdly—rolling my hips forward to make her feel my cock against her lower abdomen.

The very obvious movement only makes the crowd around us scream and cheer louder, but the hazel eyes staring back at me are signaling everything but the desire for me to get the hell away from her. Instead, a masked fire is staring back at me, and while she's obviously shocked by my gesture, she hasn't once tried to push me away from her. I lean forward, never once deviating from the rhythmic shaking of my hips that seems to be driving every female in that room crazy.

“I'm not—” Her voice hits my ears over the loudness around us.

“Having a very good time,” I finish for her, my mouth directly against her ear, letting her feel the hot breath I breathe out. That seems to bring out the hesitation and uncertainty that had only been an undertone a moment before. “I really don't—”

For the first time, Little Miss Jet Black Hair pushes on my chest, trying to put distance between us. I know I should back off, but those hazel eyes, with the faintest flecks of green that are reflecting the flood lighting back at me, are doing something to my mind.

I don't know this woman from a hole in the ground, and I don't know why she's here. But, for the first time since I took this gig as a male dancer in Vegas, I do something I've never done during a show before.

I stop dancing completely.

Little Miss Jet Black Hair is hesitant, and she's pushing me away, but her eyes say something completely different. And it's that something that holds me in place, making me want to know her, and want to know what it's like to have her. It's that fire in her eyes that makes me see her differently, even differently from how I saw her only a minute ago. That ignited flame brings out just how naturally beautiful the woman is, and seeing as this is Vegas and everyone around here bets on everything, I'd have to say that I would bet everything I have that she doesn't even realize it.

It's also that natural beauty, innocence, and withheld lust in her eyes that makes me guide her back down onto her chair. Suddenly, the show is entirely different. Suddenly I'm not dancing for a room of two-hundred people; I'm dancing for her. I ignore her friends, who have moved their chairs back out of the way, and I ignore the gasps and whistles that assault my ears as I spread Little Miss Jet Black Hair’s knees apart, moving suggestively between them, and begin to roll my hips forward in time with the music.

I tip her chair back, suspending her only on the back legs of it, much to her surprise. The tiny gasp that the movement elicits from within her throat only urges me to go on, to go farther. One arm is behind her shoulder holding the chair in place, my other hand slid around to her back, holding her there the same way.

“I'm Derek,” I whisper seductively against her ear, unable to stop myself from letting my tongue jet out and flick her earlobe.

The gasp that falls from her lips then brings a mischievous grin to my own. I tip her chair forward again, letting gravity help to toss her forward, toward me again. This time, I put my hand on her shoulders and press her back into the chair, straddling her as I roll my hips forward to the beat of the music that's our only company in this moment. She's embarrassed, and the soft crimson that heats up her cheeks does little to discourage me from reaching for her hands and guiding them down my hard abdomen, letting them caress and move over each chiseled contour of my chest and abs...right down to the waistband of my jeans. The buckle of my belt is already undone, but that's not what's got my attention right now. I'd love nothing more than to have her fingers on the other side of those jeans and the G-string I'm still wearing, circling the shaft of my cock.

That's what has my attention. I've done this show a million times, and not once have I not been able to make it through every gyration and hip roll and seductive and lewd movement without wanting to fuck any of the women I've grinded my cock against for the sake of an hour's entertainment.

It's supposed to be all fun and games, nothing more than getting felt up and mauled by a room full of women with only the intention of escaping from the mundane everyday lives that Las Vegas allows them to disappear from.

Hell, escaping is the only reason most of us guys do this show in the first place.

So, why in the hell am I standing here, letting the music pound incessantly around me, staring blankly into the eyes of a woman I've never met, but suddenly am willing to do anything to know?