It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.
I said I wouldn’t pursue him, and I’ve had plenty of distractions to stop me from accepting his invitations. Five weeks ago, Nikolai and I nailed our Samba performance at the Fourth of July celebration at the Arch. I’ve also been juggling dance lessons at home and the shelter in between the evenings I work here.
The schedule is killing me, and after a lot of internal debating, I’ve decided to transfer my dance students to Nikolai. He teaches at another school and needs the income more than I do. I can always take the students back, if and when this casino gig goes south.
As Trace charges around the empty tables, I cast him a cease-and-desist order with my eyes. He slows his roll, hovering at a distance behind the creepy restaurant patron.
“Do you do private dances?” The man’s tongue slithers like a dying slug along his bottom lip. “I’ll pay handsomely for the lap variety.”
Bile creeps up my throat. Do I look like an exotic dancer?
My cherry-red half-circle skirt wraps low on my hips and attaches to a metallic gold mini underskirt. Chunky glass rhinestones and beaded appliques fringe the hardshell bra, red panel draped around one hip, and matching satin upper-arm bands. The belly dance costume is feminine and artistic. Certainly not designed for a lap dance.
I lift my chin and meet his beady eyes. “Do you miss the warm wet center of your mother’s loins?”
So much for taking my job seriously.
“My mother’s what?” His face pinches, deepening the pucker of wrinkles on his brow.
“Her loins. You spent nine months there. I assume that’s why you’re staring at mine with pathetic longing.”
His shoulders snap back, and his gaze darts toward the exit. “You don’t need to be nasty.”
“Don’t I? You just asked me for a lap dance.”
“Excuse me,” he mumbles, slipping away and walking out of the restaurant.
Servers flutter around the tables, collecting dishes and making a wide berth around the mountain of bristling power glaring at me.
“What are you looking at?” I anchor my hands on my hips.
Trace glances over his shoulder, as if I couldn’t possibly be addressing him.
“I’m talking to you,” I say. “The man with the eternal scowl.”
Clasping his hands behind him, he prowls toward me. “Interesting tactic there. He’ll never look at his mother the same way again.”
“Oh, please. All the creepers have mommy issues. That was a free therapy session. Maybe I should start charging.”
“Stay with me tonight. We can watch a movie and—”
“Nope.” Dear God, I want to. Iwantto-Iwantto-Iwantto.
I hustle out of the restaurant before I change my mind.
But he’s right on my heels, nipping and growling. “Why not?”
“I have plans.” With a jug of wine and a vibrator named Dimples.
It’s a five-second walk to my dressing room, where I slip in and close the door on his sexy scowl. Except his shoe prevents it from shutting. Then his hand.
“You’re avoiding me.” He barges in.
“I’m avoiding cuddles on your couch and long brush strokes in your bed.”
“Why?” He shuts the door behind him and crosses his arms.
Why, he asks? Why, oh why? Because I’m horny, and when I’m around him, I want to strip him, lick him, and fuck the frown off his gorgeous face.
“I’m attracted to you.” I walk into the luxurious bathroom he designed just for me. “That attraction makes me want the things you are very clearly withholding.”
As he follows me in, I reach behind me to unhook the beaded bra. The rainfall shower head with recessed body jets is heaven, so I always shower here before heading home. Besides, removing my clothes is a sure way to make him disappear.
Except he doesn’t leave.
Brushing my fingers away, he swiftly releases the row of hook and eye closures.
My heart races, and my hand flies to my chest, holding the cups in place. “Trace.”
“Danni.” He shifts closer, closer, until his necktie brushes my spine, his palms cup my bare shoulders, and his forehead rests against the back of my head. “Come upstairs with me.”
That sounds like an invitation for more than a movie. Then again, I tend to have an overactive imagination, and it shoots straight out of my mouth.
“I’m hungry, Trace.”
“I’ll feed you.”
“Will you feed me what we both want?”
His hands clench on my shoulders, and his breaths quicken. He’s thinking it, wanting it, even if he won’t admit it out loud.
In a moment of insanity, I loosen my grip on the bra and let it fall to the floor. My nipples harden against the cool air, and my breaths catch the tempo of his, growing louder, shorter, ragged with desire.
Standing behind me, he can’t see my breasts, but if he lowers his hands just a few inches, he could hold them, play with them. God help me, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched there I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from begging.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.
If he’s trying to convince himself, it doesn’t work because his hands are already moving over my body. One sweeps across my upper chest, and the other caresses a path around my hip to flatten against my abs.
My breasts feel heavy, tingling for attention, but he ignores them. With his arms folded around me, he holds my back to his chest as his mouth lowers, feathers along my neck, pressing harder, growing rougher, until he’s kissing, sucking, and greedily biting my skin.
Every lick and scrape of teeth shoots a current of pleasure between my legs. I let my head fall to the side, giving him better access. The hand on my stomach splays wider, dipping, sinking beneath crystals and satin to stroke the trimmed hair on my mound.
Oh, Jesus. Please don’t stop.
I melt against his chest, my hands falling back to the hard bricks of his ass and digging into the fabric of his slacks. We’re both panting, shaking, grinding together as he reaches deeper between my legs, sliding over the wet waxed flesh of my folds.
His engorged cock prods my backside, and my knees weaken. Stars blot my vision, and the pound of my heart roars in my ears. If his long confident fingers plunge inside me, I’m done for. I’ll come instantly, and the whole casino will hear me. But I don’t care. I need this. I need him.
He rolls his hips against my ass aggressively, frantically, simulating sex. I bask in the claiming, in the heat of his harsh exhales on my neck, the fingers tracing my slit, and the massive body curled around mine. Teeth graze my shoulder, and his panting strengthens into a deep groan.
Until he bumps against the ring on my labium.
His breaths cut off, and his entire body goes still.
“What’s wrong?” Dread knots in my stomach, suffocating the flames of my arousal.
His hands leave my body, and he steps back, taking all the air with him. The same reaction he had when he touched the ring on my finger three months ago.