Authors: Kalinda Grace
Stripped Bare
Copyright © 2016 by Kalinda Grace
Cover designer: T.M. Franklin
Editor: Kathie Spitz
Cover image: nelka7812
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Her long brown hair flows down her back as she wraps her legs around the pole. She's poetry in motion . . . graceful and gorgeous as she dances on the stage. In a room filled with the completely generic and fake, she is extraordinary and real.
She arches her back, giving us a spectacular view of her perfect breasts. Peaks and valleys of soft pink flesh that are just begging for my hands. For my lips. For my tongue.
I'm the one who is completely ordinary, because I'm no different than any other man in this room.
We all want her.
None of us can have her.
Or so they say.
I've built a billion-dollar empire by being a master negotiator, and I am determined to prove “them” wrong.
Whoever they are.
She dances on this stage, and around that pole, night after night. We watch, because we're men, ruled by our animalistic desires and straining erections.
We all want her, but the rules are consistently enforced.
You can look, but you can't touch.
I want to touch.
Desperately.
Her legs are long and lean in her stilettos, and I wonder if she would wear them in my bed.
I bet I could convince her.
Money is quite the bargaining chip. It can move mountains, open doors, and crumble defenses.
And, I think, it can convince a beautiful stripper that one night in the bed of a billionaire would have to be better than dancing for a room full of them.
I'm not a complete monster. I know there must be a story behind the pretty green eyes of the woman draped around the silver pole. Most girls don't dream of becoming strippers. Granted, this is a gentleman's club, which means the tables are a little less sticky and the bouncers wear tuxedos, but I'd still be willing to bet my life's fortune that this particular career choice is her idea of a last resort.
It doesn't have to be.
The thumping bass of the song resonates in my ears and the liquid in my glass coats my tongue as I drink and watch. Her beautiful body shimmies down the pole . . . slowly . . . enticingly, and I hear the quiet murmurs of appreciation from the other assholes in the room.
She dances away from the pole and closer to the edge of the stage. She bends, tilting her head forward, and I watch, mesmerized, as her hair cascades like a waterfall. The music changes, and she leans her head back. My eyes linger over her . . . along her lovely neck and down the length of her delectable body.
I lower my glass just as her eyes meet mine.
I'm paralyzed.
Hypnotic.
Emerald.
Our connection is brief, but in that moment, I get a glimpse of her soul.
And she gets a glimpse of mine.
The song ends, and the spectators whistle and cheer.
But not me.
The gears in my mind shift and spin, and within seconds, I have a plan.
“Tesla, your hands are shaking.”
Kassidy offers me a glass of wine. I gratefully wrap my trembling fingers around the stem and sit down at the vanity mirror. I sip slowly, praying the alcohol will calm my nerves.
Everyone says he’s made of money, but he doesn’t dress like the other rich perverts that frequent the club. He always wears a zipped jacket that doesn’t look expensive but probably costs more than I make in a year. I don’t know his name, and I don’t know if he’s a nightly customer of the club, but I do know that he’s here every night I am. I know he sits at the very same table, and I know he orders the same drink.
And, after tonight, I know he has blue eyes.
They burn me as I dance, and while I’m naked on the stage, he watches me with an intensity that strips me bare, leaving my blood boiling and my soul exposed. I can’t explain why he’s different. Why his smoldering glare affects me more than all the others. Maybe it’s the way his blonde hair hangs loosely over his eyes. Or maybe it’s the way he slides his finger along the rim of his glass when he doesn’t know I’m looking. He’s sexy as hell, certainly, but it’s more than just intense physical attraction. I can’t explain it. I’ve tried, if only in my head. All I know is that—after months of dancing for every man in the room—these days, I only dance for him.
But tonight’s different. Tonight, I made my first mistake.
I made eye contact.
I’d avoided it for weeks, because I knew . . . I knew they would be my fatal flaw.
“Feeling better?” Kassidy asks, checking her reflection in my mirror.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Kassidy is gorgeous, with long black hair that curls around her shapely breasts. They’re gorgeous, too, but they should be, considering how much she paid for them. Sometimes, I wonder how her parents would feel, knowing she spent her college fund on a new pair of double Ds. She considers them an investment, which they are, if you plan on making this a career.
I don’t.
There’s a knock on our dressing room door. Rick, the club manager, steps inside. His arrival means only one thing.
One of us has been requested for the VIP room.
“Tesla,” he announces. “And he wants you dressed.”
“Dressed how?”
“He said
comfortably
, whatever that means.”
The door slams, and I chug my wine. When it’s gone, I check the garment rack. My definition of comfortable is a T-shirt and jeans, so that’s what I pick. I quickly get dressed.
“Keep the stilettos,” Kassidy advises.
I nod and check my make-up one last time before heading upstairs.