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I spin on the pole. I can’t do most of the acrobatics some of the other dancers are able to do, but I’m not required to hang upside down or do the splits. Only look sexy. So I crouch down, slowly straighten, arch my back, press my ass to the pole.
Then turn and press my boobs to it, slowly spinning, throwing my head back.
Dollars fall on the stage with soft whispers. Chairs scrape on the floor. Yeah, they like that. They think it’s a metaphor for their dicks, they think I’m dying to rub myself all over them.
I’m not, just for the record. I’m just dancing the way Meera taught me to.
And the only dicks I’m interested in…
Don’t go there, Brin.
Not even as Sawyer’s face flashes through my mind, as the faces of the handsome pack lounging in his café become a reel playing on repeat.
Nope.
Don’t do that to yourself. You walked out of that café for a reason. The reason is still valid.
As I spin and smile and toss my wild hair, as I make love to the pole for the dollars raining on the stage, with exultation but also dread in my heart, I know that nothing has changed.
And what happens next simply hammers it home.
The air is electric as my second song winds toward its end. One of the tip rail customers pats his lap, winking at me as I come to a halt, panting, sweat dampening my back, rolling down between my breasts.
I’m supposed to give them something. I don’t feel like doing any lap dancing, but I sway my hips as I climb down the steps from the stage and head for the winking customer.
Even a mini lap dance can get you a nice tip, so I nod at him and put a hand on his shoulder, fake-straddling his lap. My ass isn’t touching him, though. You need good thigh muscles for this trick.
I sway my hips from side to side, sweep my hair right and left, tip my head back. To everyone else, it might seem like I’m riding his leg, practically getting off on him, but I’m still dancing, dancing to the beat.
Then, from under my lashes, I catch his gaze narrowing on me, on my cleavage, on my spread legs. His mouth tugs in a smirk, sharp and cruel.
Now that’s what gets me. I’d expect a guy’s gaze to… lose focus somehow when I’m touching him, not grow more shrewd, as if he’s calculating something inside his head. I expect a guy to lose control, not… this. This total control. This cold calculation.
It’s slimy.
It makes my stomach roil.
Done with this crap, I straighten and step away from him, not caring anymore about the tip. But his hand closes around my wrist, yanking me back to him.
“Where are you going?” he hisses. “We aren’t done here.”
I yank my wrist away, glancing around for Meera. “No touching policy,” I remind him quietly, but he’s going again for my wrist.
I almost trip over my platform shoes as I all but sprint away from him. His hand closes on nothing, and I, my heart pounding, hurry toward the back, to the dressing room.
Shit, what a nasty reality check.
The door is open and I stomp into the dressing room, closing it behind me. I lean my back on it, trying to catch my breath. My ankle throbs. I think I twisted it a little as I ran back here.
“Brin?” a male voice rumbles. “Everything okay?”
I just about jump out of my skin, a shriek escaping me. “Oh my God, River! You scared the living shit out of me.”
He laughs, then frowns. “Are you all right? You’re pale. Did something happen?”
“Customer.” I shrug. “Got handsy.”
“You should tell Meera.”
