The Perfect Stroke (40 page)

“No.” I tell him, and I see his eyes flash. It’s like an emotion skitters through them and causes the color to deepen. What would they do when he’s touching a woman? Or when he’s making love to her? It might be best if I don’t think of that.
Ever
.

“Then why are you so opposed to me seeing you when the entire room outside just saw the same thing?”

“They were strangers,” I whisper inanely. It’s hard to explain how I differentiate myself from the room when I dance and how I can zone everything out except the music and the steps.

“But then, so am I Ana.”

“It’s different,” I defend.

“How?”

“They don’t matter,” I tell him, immediately wanting to kick myself. What happened to the woman who is self-controlled and can handle any situation? She’s gone right now for sure, because that didn’t come out how I meant it to. “I mean, it’s not that you matter either. When I dance, there is distance. I don’t focus on anyone. One-on-one is different. It’s why I don’t do private dances. Taking my clothes off for a man is reserved for someone I’m dating, someone I care about.”

I’m blathering on and the embarrassment infuses deeper into my face, the heat from it coming off of me in waves so that I know it’s there.

I try to pull away because I’ve made a big enough fool out of myself. He doesn’t let me. Instead, his hold increases in strength and he pulls me into him. I fall awkwardly against him. His hand locks against my neck. I look into his eyes, which are just a breath away from mine. “Mr. Anth—”

That’s all I get out before his lips crash against mine. His are firm, but soft at the same time. His tongue slips through my lips and instantly finds mine. For a moment I don’t respond, too shocked to move, but then slowly it all hits me: the feel of his rough hand against my neck and face, the way he towers over me and makes me feel small, the sweet taste of his mouth, the way his tongue is searching mine out, and most importantly, the way his body crushes up against me—
solid, determined,
warm
. I give in with a moan, pushing into him and wanting more. My tongue finds his and they dance, wrapping around each other in their fight for supremacy. I feel one of his hands move to my ass, pushing under the robe and cupping it as if we weren’t in the middle of a club. I should stop him, but his fingers flex into my ass cheek and the feel of that is so good that combined with his kiss, I’m too lost in all that is him to even think of calling a halt.

“You’re a hell of a kisser, Ana Stevens,” he whispers once he pulls away. He moves away slightly and places a gentle peck against my forehead before retreating. My body leans towards his at first, not wanting him to go, but I manage to stop before I make too big of a fool of myself.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a minute as if searching for something. I have no idea if he finds it. I figure he doesn’t because he turns away from me. I just stand there stupidly as he walks away. 

“I don’t date,” he mutters, his back still to me as he opens the door.

I’m sure he doesn’t need to. Women probably throw themselves at his feet. He has that god-like persona. He’s beautiful and commanding. He has more money than I will see in my lifetime. He’s definitely dark and dangerous, and he has that forbidden vibe—especially to me. Women must flock to him. All of that, added into the way he kisses? I fight back the urge to tell him I’ll go with him. For just one more taste of him, I think I’d agree to almost anything.
He’s that addicting
. I shake my head out of the fog he’s woven around it. This is stupid. I do not fit into Roman’s world; even trying would destroy me. Of that, I’m sure.

“I’ll be out in an hour, Mr. Anthes,” I bluff. I can’t leave because I have to find Allen. My voice is raw but solid, bringing the conversation back to the business at hand.

“There’s no need, Ana. You may remain dancing, at least until I decide what I’m going to do with you.”

What he’s going to do with me?
Now
that’s
something to worry about. I can hear Paul bitch at me now for taking chances. “What do you—”

“I’ll see you soon, pet,” he says over his shoulder before he disappears.

Pet?

I’m left staring after him like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast-moving car.
I hope I survive the crash.

Two Weeks Later

I sit in the back of the room watching the dance floor through the smoke. I shake the ice in my glass before downing the last of my scotch. I may own the Dive, but it’s not my scene. I keep it to launder my money through. It serves a purpose, just like most things in my life.

That’s not the reason I’m here tonight. I’m here for Ana. I should have just walked away. I spent a week convincing myself of that. I spent the following week trying to replace her. That was a colossal failure. I couldn’t even get it up. I’d kiss a girl and instead of getting turned on, I kept remembering the feel of Ana’s body, the taste of her mouth and wanting more of her, because apparently no one else will work. It’s all I can seem to think about. Hell, I even jacked off to the memory of our kiss last night. A fucking kiss has me harder than I’ve been since I was a young kid wet behind the ears.

Now, the plan is to fuck her out of my system. Ana will be mine—
one way or another.
I still hesitate to use the brother, but I might if she forces my hand.

She is even more beautiful tonight. Her blonde hair is short, falling down in a straight, silky and sleek golden halo at her shoulders. It’s beautiful, but too controlled.
In too much order
. It’s not hard to imagine it rumbled and messed up in bed, though. Her whole body screams sex, with the way her hips move and the way her legs tighten against the pole as she gyrates around it. It’s enough to make any man wish he was the object she was holding on to, which explains why she’s developed such a large following in a short amount of time. Big Joe wasn’t kidding when he told me she had become popular. The men here are all screaming her name. She doesn’t notice, I can tell. As far as she knows at this moment, the room is empty. She’s lost in the music and has tuned out all of the screaming.

I don’t allow the men to touch the dancers. My girls don’t dance for singles. I pay them fucking well. If the men want a lap dance, then and only then can the girls allow that. It’s always in a separate room and only with a bouncer in attendance. Big Joe told me that Ana flat out refuses private dancing. I found it odd because I’ve checked into her pretty thoroughly. The woman is one step away from being homeless, yet she still turns down extra money. I watch as she rotates around and around the pole, defying gravity. Her spin begins to slow down and she slides to the floor, driving the men crazy. She’s smiling.

There’s a monitor hanging over my booth. I’ve never really used it since I rarely make the time to come here. Tonight, however, I am using it. I’ve been using it the entire time. The men are going crazy for her, salivating and dreaming of taking her home tonight. They’re so lost in her body, they don’t even realize that she barely notices they’re there to worship her.
Ice
. It’s a name that fits her. It’s a name that begs an answer to the question: what could make her melt? 

My eyes are continuously drawn to her hip.  There’s a tattoo with the word: “survivor”. Just what has she survived? I wanted her from the moment I saw her, but given what’s going on with her brother, I couldn’t be sure what she was like in person.
Now I know
. Intriguing. I definitely want to taste her. Perhaps the most interesting thing is that I want to taste her more than once.

“What do you think, boss? I’m telling you, she doesn’t mean to give you trouble. She’s a good kid. I’d hate to see her get mixed up in bullshit and get hurt because her brother’s a dick-wad.”

“Bring her to the back. Shut down any other dancers for the room until I’m finished.”

“Boss, Ana doesn’t do private dances.”

“Don’t give her a choice. I’ll be waiting,” I tell him, leaving without further comment.

“The boss is waiting for you in the backroom,” Big Joe tells me just as I cinch the belt of my robe.

I look up at him as if he were insane, trying to ignore the thrill that runs through me. “Why would Yoly want me back there?” I question him, referring to the lady who hired me, even if I know better. I know who’s waiting and I’m excited about it. I should be panicking.

“It’s not Yoly. It’s Mr. Anthes. He wants a private dance.”

Electricity sizzles through me at his words. I’ve been thinking about Roman ever since our kiss, so much so that it worries me. I had been beating myself up ever since my last encounter with Roman. When I showed up the following day and went through my sets and Roman wasn’t around, I felt a keen sense of disappointment when it should have been relief. Stupidly, I had this anticipation running through me about seeing him again. When he was nowhere to be found, it bothered me. After a few days, it became apparent that he lied. He wasn’t planning on seeing me soon. I didn’t play his game and he was gone. That pissed me off, even if it shouldn’t. He’s got my head all fucked up, and that’s dangerous.

It didn’t change the fact that I obsessed over it, and the more I thought about it, the more pissed I became. I’ll admit that a lot of it was because he awoke things in me I have spent years trying to forget. To put it plainly,
I was horny
. It’s been a long dry spell—three years, to be exact—and with one kiss, Roman brought things out in me that I’d buried deep. He succeeded so much that I’ve been having dreams about the man. The fact that he disappeared for two weeks and then just shows up out of the blue demanding a dance pisses me off. The bastard knows I don’t do private dances. He just expects me to fall in line, like he’s doing the stripper a favor and now she has to entertain him. That’s the feeling that smacks me across the face and I hate it. It’s a reminder of why I hate dancing.

“I don’t do private dances,” I insist, while in my head I’m busy trying to figure out what in the world I’m going to do. I can’t risk him getting rid of me.