He stalks to the dresser, then opens the top drawer and retrieves a silk tie. He slams the drawer shut and spins around. “Are you sure?”
I nod. Very sure. “Yes.”
“I don’t think it’s right…”
“Fuck me senseless.”
He closes his eyes for a second, inhales a deep breath, then opens his eyes again. Then he comes at me.
My body is in sensory overload. When I see that tie, my insides spark to life.
He grips my hair with one hand, forcing my head back. He walks me backward until I feel the frame of the bed against my legs. Our gazes lock. “Lie down,” he commands.
I don’t even look; I fall onto the soft mattress. He grips my shoulders, turns me, then shoves me upward. In seconds, I’m bound to the headboard. Excitement rushes through me. I’ve never done this before. My gaze follows him as he circles the bed—ogling me—owning me without speech or touch. He rubs the back of his neck. “Goddamnit, Marisela.” He sounds strangled, almost beaten.
My hips buck. I want to touch him but can’t move my hands, so I twist. He chuckles, then grins wickedly at me. My body has a mind of its own; my snatch is on fire. “
Please
…”
He walks to the end of the bed, staring. He leans in, tracing the insides of my thighs with one finger. Any stimulus at this point goes straight to my slit. I close my eyes.
Please touch me.
Love me.
He crawls between my legs, then cups my breasts, gently at first. I gasp as he pinches my nipples. I watch every deliberate move he makes. He leans over and nips my breasts, trailing kisses across my chest. I kick. Deprivation is killing me.
An insane urge to live out every filthy fantasy I’ve ever imagined with Marisela consumes me. Things I’ve never done with any woman. I can’t help myself—the way her tiny body responds to mine, the way she rides my face when my tongue is buried inside her drives me crazy. After she begged me to get Estevan out of her head…I don’t know what came over me. My willpower disintegrates whenever I touch her. And I like seeing her tethered to the bed.
“Craig, I want to feel you inside me.”
I place my hands on either side of her face and capture her lips. My hand drifts between her legs—I finger her clit. She caresses my tongue with hers, sucking gently. I moan. She encourages me by slamming her core against me. This should be long and slow. Not with her begging and that crazy mouth of hers. I press my shaft against her stomach, testing her desire. Then I slide inside her. She’s so slick. I recoil and she moans. I do it again, feeding her a couple more inches. I nibble on her lower lip, staring into her wicked eyes.
“You drive me crazy, baby.” I hammer inside her.
She matches me stroke for urgent stroke. I can’t get Estevan out of my head so I pound harder—she cries out in pleasure. I reach up, and then release her hands from the headboard. She immediately loops her arms around my neck, pulling me against her.
“Harder,” she insists.
I gently roll over, letting her sit astride. I stare up at her. Her dark hair spills around her shoulders in a tangled, sexy mess. Her breasts bounce as she rides me, her hips spiraling unrestrainedly. I clamp her thighs and close my eyes, tired of struggling, tired of holding back. Any sexual discipline I had before I met Marisela disintegrates; she’s in full control. She bends forward, sweeping her hot tongue over my bottom lip. Chills fly through me. She whimpers when our bodies slam together, then threads her fingers through my hair, arching her back. I squeeze her ass with both hands. “I can feel you throbbing,” I say.
She pulls back enough so I can see her face, then smiles. “I don’t
ever
want this to stop.”
“I won’t let it,” I say, giving a hard thrust.
I can’t resist that naughty grin. I stare at her tiny wrists still bound together and pull out, flipping her on her back. She gasps. I stretch her hands above her head and push forward, filling her again. We fit together so perfectly. She moans, locking her ankles behind my back. She rotates her hips and I plunge deeper. In and out. In and out. We’re both panting, our bodies covered with sweat. I hold her face between my hands and bite frantically at her lips. “You’re addictive, baby. Come with me.”
She lets go, and I follow.
It’s Friday night, the weekend after my trip to San Antonio. The club is slammed. I’m still floating after Craig told me he wanted to love me—he makes me so happy. Robyn and Garrick haven’t questioned me about our relationship. Craig and I haven’t discussed Estevan in a week. I hope the asshole dropped off the end of the world. I’ve saved enough money to pay two months’ rent to Macey. In short, my new life is shaping up. And I’ve finally worked up the courage to invite Craig over to my sister’s house for dinner on Sunday night. That’s when I’ll reveal my plans to move. Craig doesn’t even know. I’m not sure how he’ll react. As long as I’m living at Robyn’s, I’m safe. My brother-in-law is the only man I know who is fiercer than my boyfriend.
I’m dancing for a twenty-something-year-old guy who keeps buying table dances but doesn’t react when I’m naked. In fact, he stares up at the ceiling most of the time or closes his eyes. We’re sitting near the catwalk. Craig is working the front door. The latest song ends, and I wiggle into my black velvet dress, then sit down. I take a sip from my nonalcoholic, lady’s drink and watch Desire on the main stage.
“She’s hot, too,” my customer observes.
I hate to admit it, but she is. There’s something naturally sensual in the way she moves. “She’s been here a long time.”
He nods. “After she finishes her rotation onstage, invite her to join us.”
I grimace. “Sure.” I can’t protest; it’s his time and money. By now, half the club knows Craig and I are dating. Most of the girls have accepted it. Desire’s avowed followers, including a handful of customers overly involved in her life, haven’t. They’ve made it a point to boycott me onstage. But, as Robyn’s little sister, I’m enjoying some popularity of my own.
A few minutes later, I see a line of Banditos enter the club. I immediately go stiff. Craig throws me a cautionary look. I sink low in my chair. In order to get to the dressing room, I have to walk through the middle of the club. My gaze follows the bikers—they claim the first ten chairs on pervert row on the main stage.
Shit.
I’ll be up soon.
“Everything all right, Marisela?” my customer asks.
I feign a smile. “Sure. I need to get ready for the stage. When I’m done, I’ll get Desire.”
He pats my hand, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a fifty. “Here, baby.”
“Thank you.” I tuck the bill in my tiny black sequined purse, then walk away. Whoever invented this business was a bit of a lunatic but ingenious.
I make it to the bar and slip through the double doors unnoticed. There’s a lump in my throat and my heart rate is ridiculously fast. I’m standing in front of the security office where all the monitors are. It’s empty and I peek inside. There are ten screens, and I stare at different live feeds of the club. Two monitors are dedicated to the main stage. I can see the faces of half the bikers. I search desperately for that red-bearded giant who stabbed Craig. I don’t see him.
Hell, breathe, Marisela.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a pair of strong arms encircle me from behind.
“Easy, baby,” Craig breathes into my ear.
I get goose bumps all over. I rest the back of my head against his chest and we stand silently for several minutes.
“He’s here,” Craig announces.
I know he feels the tension in my body. “What should I do?”
“Two choices,” Craig says, twirling me around. “Go home, or alter your look as much as possible and stay here with me. I’m not going to make the choice for you.”
Alter my look? “You want me to play dress-up with you?” I smile.
He shakes his head. “Everything is linked to sex in that naughty little mind, isn’t it?” He smacks my left butt cheek. “Seriously, Marisela, listen to me. Sooner or later you’re going to have to face Sargent. I’d rather it be here under my direct supervision.” I nod. “Good. Meet Tamera in the dressing room—she has a great idea for a costume change. Don’t come out until Dave calls you onstage. I’ll take care of your music.”
He plants a kiss on my head, then watches me saunter through the door to the dressing room, where Tamera is waiting for me.
“Thanks for helping, Tamera.”
“No problem,” she says. “What do you think about schoolmarms?”
I think old English lady with spectacles and a frumpy dress. But Tamera changes my mind when she holds up a perfectly tailored navy skirt/jacket ensemble. “Really?”
“Teachers are hot,” she comments. “Here.” She offers me a pair of black-framed, lens-free glasses. “We’ll do an updo, and I have garters and new stockings. You’ll rock this place.”
I’m getting excited. I think about lewd nurses and secretaries, how men love to fantasize about them. Then I remember Craig’s guest room filled with women’s clothing. I haven’t pressed him for an explanation. But I can’t keep myself from being jealous. There are only two possible reasons: either he’s a cross-dresser or those clothes belong to all the women he’s bedded.
I sit in a chair while Tamera combs my hair out. Within minutes, she’s pinned my long locks into a neat French twist with a few curly wisps framing my face.
I put the glasses on. “Recognize me?”
“Not a chance.”
I giggle, stand, and shed my velvet dress. I’ll wear my black G-string and matching heels. Tamera helps secure a garter belt around my waist and to expensive silk stockings. I admire her handiwork in the mirror. I look five years older. She holds up the jacket and I slide an arm in. I button it; my cleavage stretches the soft material. The skirt is snug and accentuates my curves. Finished dressing me, she gives me a final look-over.
“Wow, girl.” She shakes her head. “You’re better equipped to wear it.”
Tamera is enviously petite, with 36DDs and the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen. “Thanks again.”
She waves her hand at me. “I hate Banditos,” she confesses. “Always recruiting girls for their shit-box club and trying to make ‘old ladies’ out of every dancer they like.”
I grin. I can’t imagine any woman volunteering to become an “old lady.” There are no benefits, at least none that I can see.
“Marisela, stand by.” Dave’s voice comes through loud and clear on the small black speaker hanging by the door.
“Ready?” Tamera asks.
“Sure,” I answer, making my entrance.
I position myself between the main stage and front door. There’s a big-screen television over my head and a stack of speakers to my left. Sargent is already buzzed and distracted by his brothers. I see the dressing room door open.
No shit.
Marisela looks incredible—the real deal. In fact, she’s so far removed from the wild-haired, leather-clad smart-ass I met outside the club, I’m stunned into silence. She gives me a sultry smile as she passes by, her fingers grazing my crotch. I grit my teeth—instant erection.
Little shit.
She’ll pay for that one later.
“Straight from your wet dreams and onto the Devil’s Den stage, please welcome Mistress Marisela, the reason why I never got my fucking homework done,” Dave announces. The crowd responds favorably, clapping and catcalling as Marisela sashays to the middle of the stage. The lights dim, and a steady stream of smoke engulfs her.
“Smokin’ in the Boys Room” by Mötley Crüe comes on. Marisela does this incredible spin, kicking her leg out and lifting her arms above her head. I love watching her—the effects go right to my dick. My gaze wanders to Sargent; he’s immediately transfixed. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize her. He lines bills up along the ledge, waving her over. She makes him wait, accepting tips from several guys before she towers over Sargent. She cocks her head, looking at me. I don’t need to tell her to move on quickly. She kneels in front of him, smiles, arches back, hikes her short skirt up a few inches, then collects the money. Before Sargent can complain, she stands, then moves away.
Good girl.
I smile triumphantly. So far the disguise is working. The second song starts and Marisela unbuttons her jacket. Her breasts spring out in all their unfettered glory. I lick my bottom lip. My palms itch. My fingers and tongue crave one thing. Next, she wriggles out of her skirt. She’s wearing a thin gold chain that connects her nipple piercings to her belly button ring.
Holy shit.
I recall how she looked tied to the headboard in San Antonio. My pleasant memory is suddenly disrupted by Desire.
“I know what you’re doing,” she whispers in my ear. She rests her hands on my shoulders.
My lips part, but I bite my tongue. Better to let her get it out of her system without causing a scene.
“I don’t mind your temporary diversion, Craig,” she informs me, staring at Marisela. “She’s cute—I get it. But it’s been a few weeks. Ready to come home with me?”
My breath comes out in a frustrated rush. Some women don’t understand what
no
means. I get propositioned half a dozen times a day. Not just at work. I gently remove Desire’s hands from my body. “I’m committed.”
“To what?” she gibes. “Self-worship?”
I deserve that. “No, to Marisela.”
“How long is that gonna last? Another day? Since when did the same twat appeal to you for more than a week? Is her snatch gold-plated or something?”
I snort. No wonder I gagged Desire half the time. She has a filthy mouth. “More like silk.”
She rolls her eyes. “I still know what you’re doing—it won’t work.” She walks away with an evil smile on her face.
I’m not sure what she means, but I don’t trust her. Not as far as I can spit. In her selfish world no one steals me away from her. It fucks with her self-esteem. Most dancers try to maintain this mysterious persona crap I hate. Marisela doesn’t; that’s what intrigues me most about her. She’s who she is, good or bad, accept it or leave it.
My gaze follows her as she struts to the catwalk. I leave my post and head for the back of the club. As soon as I find a convenient place to stand, Sargent grabs a seat near her.
Goddamnit.
I didn’t think he’d like her so much. My eyes narrow. The bastard is going to ask for a table dance in VIP. I know his routine. He only follows girls he sees as potential “old ladies” or future employees.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
After the second song finishes, I fight every instinct to crush his skull when he grabs her wrist to keep her close before she gets on the pickup for her last set. My jaws clench. She flashes him a perfect smile; he releases her. I’m standing next to the stairs, ready to help her off the catwalk. Marisela eyeballs me.
“He’s a pig. I hate him,” she complains.
I close my eyes, trying to fight my instinctual overprotectiveness. “Deal with it a little longer, baby. He’s going to ask you for a dance.” I escort her to the truck.
She stares up at me as if she didn’t hear me. “What?”
“Give him what he wants and he’ll leave. I promise I’ll be right here.”
“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You don’t have to smell him.”
I laugh as she climbs onstage. “I’ve got your back.”
A few minutes later, Desire takes a seat next to Sargent. She’s going to tell him who Marisela is.
Curse that backstabbing bitch.
She won’t rest until Marisela pays for her rejection. I stay where I am, crossing my arms over my chest. Whatever he decides to do, he’ll have to get through me first.
I can’t believe I’m sitting in VIP with the guy I bashed over the head with a beer bottle. He stinks like a brewery, and every other word out of his mouth is an F-bomb.
Really?
“You’re off work tomorrow,” he says. “Let me take you for a ride on my Fat Bob.”
“Your
what
?” I squirm in my seat. Is he propositioning me? Men name their penises all the time. I should slap him.
“My Harley.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “No thanks, I have my own bike.”
“That Italian piece of shit.”
Oh. My. God.
He remembers me. “How did you know?”
“One of your little friends pointed you out.” I start to get up, but he grabs my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assures me. “Sit down.”
I do, then remove my fake glasses. “What do you want?”
“Friendship.”
I clench my hands; I don’t believe him. “Why?”
“You never know when you’ll need a buddy like me.”
A third-grader couldn’t have said it better. “I busted your head up with a bottle. How do I know—”
“Don’t you think I would have retaliated by now?” He opens the right side of his leather jacket and flashes his gun. “You’re the only woman to ever knock some sense into me. I deserved it.”
That’s an understatement. He stabbed my boyfriend. “On one condition,” I say tentatively.
He raises his thick red eyebrows. “Well?”
“Don’t ever ask me to be your ‘old lady.’ ”
He chuckles. “I’d spoil you.”
“No.” I smirk. “You’d beat me silly every night and take my money.”
He clamps his lips together to suppress a smile; but I see the merriment in his eyes. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby.”
I shake my head. “Do I?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies—listening to gossip in the dressing room.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a leather business card organizer. “Here.” He offers me one.
I read it. “You’re a bar manager?”
He nods. “Divas, down the street.”
I suddenly realize I’ve been stressed-out for no reason. This guy is a big teddy bear, at least with me. I stare in Craig’s direction—he’s guarding the VIP entrance like a harem eunuch, minus the silky pants. I give him a small smile, then turn my attention back to Sargent. “I still don’t understand why you want to be my friend,” I say, “but I’m in no position to turn you down.” I offer my hand.
My innocent gesture earns me another deep-throated chuckle. He shakes my hand. “If you ever need anything, darlin’, you call the number on that card—I’ll be here.”