“Don’t get me wrong. The cuisine is superb.” A distinguished man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”
I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.
It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”
Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.
It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.
I said I wouldn’t pursue him, and I’ve had plenty of distractions to stop me from accepting his invitations. Five weeks ago, Nikolai and I nailed our Samba performance at the Fourth of July celebration at the Arch. I’ve also been juggling dance lessons at home and the shelter in between the evenings I work here.
The schedule is killing me, and after a lot of internal debating, I’ve decided to transfer my dance students to Nikolai. He teaches at another school and needs the income more than I do. I can always take the students back, if and when this casino gig goes south.
As Trace charges around the empty tables, I cast him a cease-and-desist order with my eyes. He slows his roll, hovering at a distance behind the creepy restaurant patron.
“Do you do private dances?” The man’s tongue slithers like a dying slug along his bottom lip. “I’ll pay handsomely for the lap variety.”
Bile creeps up my throat. Do I look like an exotic dancer?
My cherry-red half-circle skirt wraps low on my hips and attaches to a metallic gold mini underskirt. Chunky glass rhinestones and beaded appliques fringe the hardshell bra, red satin panel draped around one hip, and matching satin upper-arm bands. The belly dance costume is feminine and artistic. Certainly not designed for a lap dance.
I lift my chin and meet his beady eyes. “Do you miss the warm wet center of your mother’s loins?”
So much for taking my job seriously.
“My mother’s what?” His face pinches, deepening the pucker of wrinkles on his brow.
“Her loins. You spent nine months there. I assume that’s why you’re staring at mine with pathetic longing.”
His shoulders snap back, and his gaze darts toward the exit. “You don’t need to be nasty.”
“Don’t I? You just asked me for a lap dance.”
“Excuse me,” he mumbles, slipping away and walking out of the restaurant.
Servers flutter around the tables, collecting dishes and making a wide berth around the mountain of bristling power glaring at me.
“What are you looking at?” I anchor my hands on my hips.
Trace glances over his shoulder, as if I couldn’t possibly be addressing him.
“I’m talking to you,” I say. “The man with the eternal scowl.”
Clasping his hands behind him, he prowls toward me. “Interesting tactic there. He’ll never look at his mother the same way again.”
“Oh, please. All the creepers have mommy issues. That was a free therapy session. Maybe I should start charging.”
“Stay with me tonight. We can watch a movie and—”
“Nope.” Dear God, I want to. Iwantto-Iwantto-Iwantto.
I hustle out of the restaurant before I change my mind.
But he’s right on my heels, nipping and growling. “Why not?”
“I have plans.” With a jug of wine and a vibrator named Dimples.
It’s a five-second walk to my dressing room, where I slip in and close the door on his sexy scowl. Except his shoe prevents it from shutting. Then his hand.
“You’re avoiding me.” He barges in.
“I’m avoiding cuddles on your couch and long brush strokes in your bed.”
“Why?” He shuts the door behind him and crosses his arms.
Why, he asks? Why, oh why? Because I’m horny, and when I’m around him, I want to strip him, lick him, and fuck the frown off his gorgeous face.
“I’m attracted to you.” I walk into the luxurious bathroom he designed just for me. “That attraction makes me want the things you are very clearly withholding.”
As he follows me in, I reach behind me to unhook the beaded bra. The rainfall shower head with recessed body jets is heaven, so I always shower here before heading home. Besides, removing my clothes is a sure way to make him disappear.
Except he doesn’t leave.
Brushing my fingers away, he swiftly releases the row of hook and eye closures.
My heart races, and my hand flies to my chest, holding the cups in place. “Trace.”
“Danni.” He shifts closer, closer, until his necktie brushes my spine, his palms cup my bare shoulders, and his forehead rests against the back of my head. “Come upstairs with me.”
That sounds like an invitation for more than a movie. Then again, I tend to have an overactive imagination, and it shoots straight out of my mouth.
“I’m hungry, Trace.”
“I’ll feed you.”
“Will you feed me what we both want?”
His hands clench on my shoulders, and his breaths quicken. He’s thinking it, wanting it, even if he won’t admit it out loud.
In a moment of insanity, I loosen my grip on the bra and let it fall to the floor. My nipples harden against the cool air, and my breaths catch the tempo of his, growing louder, shorter, ragged with desire.
Standing behind me, he can’t see my breasts, but if he lowers his hands just a few inches, he could hold them, play with them. God help me, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched there I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from begging.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.
If he’s trying to convince himself, it doesn’t work because his hands are already moving over my body. One sweeps across my upper chest, and the other caresses a path around my hip to flatten against my abs.
My breasts feel heavy, tingling for attention, but he ignores them. With his arms folded around me, he holds my back to his chest as his mouth lowers, feathers along my neck, pressing harder, growing rougher, until he’s kissing, sucking, and greedily biting my skin.
Every lick and scrape of teeth shoots a current of pleasure between my legs. I let my head fall to the side, giving him better access. The hand on my stomach splays wider, dipping, sinking beneath crystals and satin to stroke the trimmed hair on my mound.
Oh, Jesus. Please don’t stop.
I melt against his chest, my hands falling back to the hard bricks of his ass and digging into the fabric of his slacks. We’re both panting, shaking, grinding together as he reaches deeper between my legs, sliding over the wet waxed flesh of my folds.
His engorged cock prods my backside, and my knees weaken. Stars blot my vision, and the pound of my heart roars in my ears. If his long confident fingers plunge inside me, I’m done for. I’ll come instantly, and the whole casino will hear me. But I don’t care. I need this. I need him.
He rolls his hips against my ass aggressively, frantically, simulating sex. I bask in the claiming, in the heat of his harsh exhales on my neck, the fingers tracing my slit, and the massive body curled around mine. Teeth graze my shoulder, and his panting strengthens into a deep groan.
Until he bumps against the ring on my labium.
His breaths cut off, and his entire body goes still.
“What’s wrong?” Dread knots in my stomach, suffocating the flames of my arousal.
His hands leave my body, and he steps back, taking all the air with him. The same reaction he had when he touched the ring on my finger three months ago.
“It’s just a piercing.” I’m frozen with hope. Hope that he’ll snap out of it and finish what he started.
Oppressive silence pushes against my back. I cross an arm over my nude chest and fight to keep my shoulders from hunching. Then I shift to face him.
With a hand on the wall supporting his slumped posture, he holds his other hand beneath his nose, as if smelling me on his fingers.
“What just happened?” My voice is low, hoarse.
His gaze lifts, locking on mine as his hand balls into a fist and drops to his side.
“A lapse in judgment. Forgive me.” He stands taller, blanking his expression. “I made a mistake.”
My airway constricts, and chills crash through me. I feel injured, insulted, but the pain is minuscule. I’ve endured worse. Survived worse. Nothing compares to burying my heart in a grave of ashes, and my body seems to recognize this. My limbs go numb. My chest lifts, and the tingling pressure behind my eyes evaporates.
“Good night, Trace,” I say softly and swivel toward the shower to adjust the faucet.
The door clicks shut behind me, plunging me into the cold familiarity of loneliness.
I don’t come out until I’ve washed away the sweat, makeup, and glitter…and the resentment.
Maybe I’m too forgiving, but in my mind, there’s nothing to absolve. For a standoffish, reserved man, he’s been straight-up with me. He’s attracted to my body, but he doesn’t want the messy relationship. Yes, he had a weak moment. So did I. And he shut it down before it went too far. Before he hurt me. Deep down, I admire his restraint.
Adding to my clemency is my conversation with Father Rick at the homeless shelter earlier this week. I donate most of my income and while dropping off a check, Rick mentioned The Regal Arch Casino has been matching my gifts to a ratio of 3:1. For every dollar I donate, Trace has been giving three dollars on the sly. Maybe he saw an opportunistic tax write-off. But after all his huffing and puffing about giving my money away, he jumps on the bandwagon? What is he up to?
When I emerge from the bathroom, the dressing room is empty and quiet. But he left something behind. An envelope, propped against a can of hairspray on the dressing table.
I pull on a casual strapless dress, slide on some flip-flops, and open the envelope. Inside is a concert ticket, and as I read the print, my heart slams against my ribs.
Presenting Beyoncé at America’s Center & The Dome
It’s a single ticket for tomorrow night in a luxury suite. I’ve seen my favorite artist live once, and it’d been from the nose-bleed section. But to watch her from a premium seat? In a private suite? Holy fucking shit, I’m going to explode.
I bound out of the dressing room in a frenzy of excitement, taking the long way through the gaming area to look for Trace. He might’ve left me feeling unsteady and frustrated, but it doesn’t overshadow how grateful I am for the ticket. The need to say thank you in-person has me scanning all his usual spots—the restaurant, gaming tables, two of the three bars, the lobby.
Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.
My strides careen to a stop, and the concert ticket crumples in my hand.
I wish I was one of those people who can shield their emotions. I want to give him a smile, maybe even a small wave, and continue on like there isn’t an invisible band around my ribs, crushing my chest.
Be cool, Danni. Don’t overreact.
The muscles in my face ignore my demands. They contort, bunch, and turn cold, expressing everything I don’t want him to see.
Humiliation.
Hurt.
Regret.
Had I accepted his invitation tonight, that woman wouldn’t be running her hands through his hair, rubbing her double-D tits against him, or whispering in his ear. He wouldn’t be across the room, staring at me with dispassion deadening his eyes.
Rejecting his offer to go upstairs meant I’d be alone tonight. But the same isn’t true for him. And that’s the sucker punch that blurs my vision and turns my feet toward the elevator.
It’s a long walk across a short distance as I fight back the damnable tears in my eyes. Holding my chin up and gait casual, I feel like everyone’s staring. But they’re not. No one glances away from the beeping, flashing slot machines. No one cares.
That’s good. I’m just the resident dancer, tired and anxious to get home after a long night of entertaining.
If I’m honest, my reaction isn’t rational. For the past three months, I’ve watched women hang all over Trace. Watched his hand rest on their lower backs. Watched his eyes glimmer when he talks with them, drinks with them at the bar. He’s a player. We’re not together, not exclusive, not anything. Even though it felt like something only fifteen minutes ago.
I guess that’s the dig. Feeling the full brunt of his arousal in the bathroom, knowing he left worked up and fully aroused, and seeing the woman who will be enjoying the release of his sexual tension.
The woman he’ll be taking to his bed tonight. Instead of me.
For a moment, I consider stopping by a bar on my way home and picking a man for the night. It would so easy. I did it too many times to count before I met Cole.
Except one-night-stands lost their appeal after I discovered what it feels like to be adored, worshiped, and loved by a man who holds my heart.
I won’t ever go back to grunting and groping in the dark with a passive man.
Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe that’s exactly what my future holds. But not tonight. I haven’t reached that level of desperation.
By the time I arrive at my car, my eyes are dry and my hands are no longer trembling. I stare at the crumpled concert ticket, warring between ripping it up and straightening out the creases.
My excitement about going is squashed, but do I really want to be a petty brat about it? He gave me a gift, not a promise to be my boyfriend.
Before I lose my nerve, I type out a quick text.
Me: Thank you for the concert ticket.
Seconds later, a text buzzes my phone.
Trace: I’ll pick you up at 7PM.
He’s going with me? I should’ve guessed as much. Maybe he’ll bring the brunette who’s currently on his lap. Make it a threesome.
A whimper escapes my throat, and I drop my forehead against the steering wheel. Why in the fresh hell do I care?
Because I’m stupid.
And lonely.
And I might be falling for him.
Startled by the direction of my thoughts, I lift my head and press a hand against my racing heart as a violent mix of emotions roils in my gut.
I’m falling for Trace.