“The guy’s name is Bruiser?”
My back stiffens while I pour him a drink. “It’s a nickname. Want to know how he got it?” By the lift of his brow, it’s clear he recognizes the sass in my tone.
“Nope. I’m good.”
“Great.” I bend at my waist, pressing my palm on his knee to hand him his drink. I’m still angry. Angry that Jami came back into my life when he did, angry that he wouldn’t stop poking around in my business, angry that he felt the need to offer me a job like some white fucking knight, angry that he came to the studio to wish me farewell only to show back up again not even one week later. Who the hell does he think he is? I want to let him have it, but I can’t. Not here. I need to play the game. But that doesn’t mean I can’t torment Jami in a different way.
I run my hand up and down his thigh. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Jami’s gaze slips down to my exposed cleavage then back up again. “I’m not going to make you do this, Violet.”
“No one makes me do anything. It was my choice to bring you here. It was also my choice to save you from Bruiser’s fist. But if I don’t treat you like the paying customer you are, then it’s my ass on the line. So, please. Just tell me what you want from me tonight.”
Jami stirs slightly, and I’m fully aware of his discomfort. It was different the first time when he didn’t know who was behind the mask. Now that he knows it’s me, I’m certain the guilt is eating him alive. We’re both no strangers to that feeling.
He looks away and takes a long drink of his champagne before focusing back on me. “I don’t know. What normally goes on in rooms like this?”
I quirk a brow, trying to decipher if he’s actually clueless or if he wants me to believe he is. “From what I hear, it’s usually up to the customer. I can dance, strip, we can talk, cuddle—”
“Cuddle?”
“Yeah.” I lift my hand from his knee and pull myself onto him so that my ass is on the couch and my legs are slung over him enough so that my heels push into the fabric of the seat. “I sit on you like this. Or you could rest your head on my lap. Which would you prefer?”
His throat bobs, his eyes never leaving mine. “This… um… position is fine. What happens now?”
I curl up to him and walk my fingers up his shirt. “We talk about stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah. Anything you want. Work, the stressors in your life, girlfriends, sinful thoughts, secret kinks. Just consider me your exceptionally well-paid therapist.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “I might need to see your certification first.”
I laugh despite the awkward moment of sitting half naked with Jami staring me down. “Maybe I should reword that to say unlicensed therapy session. I’m the least qualified woman here. Sorry to tell you, but you chose the wrong dancer.”
There’s a seriousness in his gaze I can’t ignore. “Fairly certain I chose the right one.”
Something about those golden-green hazel streaks in his eyes bind me to him the way they used to. I still remember the way I would stare at him too long just to memorize every angle of his face, but it was his eyes that I gravitated to the most. It was there that I could see his soul, the very part of him that he kept hidden from everyone else. Not from me. And that was how I always knew that Jamison Bexley was mine.
I clear my throat and shake my head to clear my thoughts. “To answer your question, as long as we follow the rules, anything goes.”
His eyes search mine. “It would help if I knew the rules.”
Smiling softly, I finger the top button of his shirt before flipping my long lashes up at him. “Would you like me to dance for you while I go over the rules?”
His hooded gaze dims. “Would you like to dance for me?”
“It is what I’m good at.”
He nods. “Okay. Then yes.”
My smile lifts my cheeks a little higher as I play up the flirtation for the security camera rather than for him. “Before we get started, don’t forget to tip me. For everything I do. For every drink I give you. For every extra I provide. They’ll need to see that I’m keeping you happy.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Jamison shoves his hand in his pocket and drags out his wallet. I take it from him and pluck out a twenty and stick it in the waistband of my panties.
I kick my legs out, bringing them to the floor, and stand. “In no particular order.” I start to sway my hips. “Rule number one,” I say while bringing my hands up above my head. “Keep your dick out of sight.” I move my hips like I’m twirling a Hula-Hoop and turn so that my back is to him, giving him a lingering glance over my shoulder. “Rule number two. Your clothes stay on unless I request differently.” I spread my legs and slowly run my hands down them, bringing my head between my thighs. “Rule number three. Don’t ask for sex. No matter how badly you want it. I’m not a prostitute, so don’t disrespect me by treating me like one.”
“I would ne—”
“Rule number four. No touching unless I consent to it first. Consent is very important.”
His eyes are on mine as he stirs in his seat. “Are you going to let me touch you?”
I lift myself back up so that he can’t see the way my skin heats and my eyes slam shut. Just imagining Jami’s hands on me while I’m moving for him is exactly why we shouldn’t be in this room together. I want to tell him yes. I want to give him everything. Even when I’m mad at him.
“I guess that depends,” I finally say.
“On?”
I unfasten the only button that secures my top together and let the fabric slip down my arms. “On a lot of things.” Turning back to face him, I’m well aware of the audible gasp that slips from his throat when he sees my lingerie. A black strapless corset top and a tiny silk thong.
“You’re going to need to be more specific.”
I bring a hand up my body from my panties to my throat. “For starters, the better behaved you are, the more you earn.”
“And what exactly will I earn?
“My trust first, and then maybe I’ll let you touch me.”
His gaze darkens. “Where?”
I bite down on my lip, not hiding my amusement. Seeing Jami like this, so desperate to hold onto his self-control, is worth bringing him in here. “I’m not sure yet,” I say, toying with him further. “Why don’t we play it by ear?”
My shirt slides off my arms and onto the floor. I kick the material away and start to really move, letting the music completely take me over. With each beat thrumming through my veins, I let go, performing like I would for any audience. Because if I focus on the fact that I’m the star of Jami’s personal show, I might not make it through this experience.
He’s too embedded in me, our past far too layered to shed myself from, no matter how hard I’ve tried. And I did try for years—for Trevor, for Brayden, for myself. But even when I pretended to have moved on, there was no escaping that deeper part of me that had locked Jami away like buried treasure.
I spin so my ass is fully on display, continuing to dance. At one point, I’m leaning back on my elbows with my legs spread out on either side of me, pretending to be dancing for anyone, anyone but Jami. When I flip around, I’m on my hands and knees staring back at him. “Should I dance more for you?”