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Now Roman has his head tipped back, watching me from under long dark lashes, his mouth turned up in a lazy smirk. He looks like a debauched concubine from a fantasy brothel, his sleeveless top, black with silver designs, gaping at the sides, allowing glimpses of his muscled torso. His arms are finally muscled, too, multiple leather bands around his wrists.
I wonder how they allowed him in, dressed like this?
He shifts as I dance in front of him, shaking my booty, and mutters something under his breath. His gaze moves over me, heated.
He smells of arousal, dark and musky.
I dance my way over to Kyrian, swing my hips and toss my hair, and he watches, his hands clenched into fists, his gray eyes turning darker by the second. He’s powerful, sitting there as if on a throne, and I’m an exotic dancer brought in from faraway lands to please him. He’s a wolf king, a Viking warrior with a penchant for small, wild-hair girls, I decide.
What’s the matter with me? I’ve never created stories about the men I’m dancing for before. Fantasies.
He growls low when I step closer, between his muscular thighs, and his scent is heavier than Roman’s. An alpha’s arousal, layered with notes of cured leather and tobacco.
I dance away from him, even as I know he wouldn’t touch me without permission, all that coiled strength and tension hauled back, kept in check. Wait a minute, I trust him? Now that’s a revelation.
I trust all four of them, I realize, as I stalk up to Archer and resume my dance routine, my mind whirling. I’m used to men—and some women—trying to grope me as I dance, thinking that their money buys them access to everything I am, especially alphas who tend to lose control, or just assume everything belongs to them.
These men, though… all of them strong, even Sawyer could overpower me if he wished to… they wouldn’t. I know it in the marrow of my bones.
And yet I long to test that control, poke and press until they break, until they show me how much they want me, how far they are willing to go…
I jerk back as Archer leans forward. What the hell am I thinking? What am I doing?
But he only whispers, “Did you find the message?”
I’m panting—from exertion, from confusion. “What message?”
“The message I placed with the money I gave you the last time. Didn’t you unfold the bills?”
“No, they’re still in a wad inside my purse.”
He blinks—and what right do these hulking men have to own such long lashes over such pretty eyes, huh? “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Suddenly, he tips his head back and laughs. It’s low, and dark, and delicious. And kind of unhinged.
“What?” I demand, my dance forgotten. I put my hands on my waist. “What’s so funny?”
“What’s going on?” Sawyer asks, suddenly interested. Well, okay, that’s unfair, he’s been undressing me with his eyes since I exited the dressing room, but at the same time, he’s kept that glare going until now.
“Nothing,” Archer says, wiping at his mouth. “Just check the bills, honey.”
“I don’t accept propositions,” I say haughtily, even as my heart races—because from them, God save me, I so would. “Especially in writing.”
“Especially in…?” This seems to set him off again. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“You’re killing me,” he says.
With a glare for him, I move to Sawyer. “Did you want a lap dance, too?”
I didn’t mean it to come out as sharp. They are paying customers. The boss could have my ass for this. In fact, he is watching, like always, from the back of the club, his gaze cold and slimy on the back of my neck. I resist the urge to scratch at the spot.
“What I want…” Sawyer hesitates, and from up close, right here and now, his eyes look very green and wide, no hint of anger in them. “It’s just…”
Roman leans over and slaps his arm. “Tell her, Say.”
