Trust the cock, Kane.
That was a conclusion he’d enjoy later because right now the decent part of him, the part not enslaved to his cock, needed to figure out why his assistant was dancing half naked—and badly—in a strip club.
Her eyes flitted nervously over his head toward the bar, then back at him, imploring him to play along. He wanted to turn but he suspected that would be bad for her. She was in some sort of shitty situation. No one would choose this, would they?
She had to be here under duress. Goddammit, that was all the more reason to put an end to this charade. Drag her out of here in the safety of his arms.
But his hesitation spelled trouble. His lack of reaction to her incredibly suspect moves as he analyzed the situation had clearly forced her into an assessment of her own. And the outcome of this assessment? Try a new move to get the client’s attention, which involved her pivoting less than gracefully and… Holy f*ck
, backing up. Truck-reverse beeps screamed in his head. He held his hands up to put a halt to this crazy, only to have her back right up into his palms.
His hands were on her ass.
Her amazing ass.
She froze. As did he. The surly blonde joined the still-as-a-statue party, which had the effect of making Nigel, the fourth in their happy quadfecta, question what had happened.
“Love, what the hell—?” A snaggletoothed grin broke wide. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a meaty handful there, mate.”
Sure did. Still, no one seemed capable of turning this shit-ton of awkward into a slightly less shit-ton of awkward. If only she would—yes, move, no, grind her ass on his open palms. She started rolling her ass in circles against his hands.
Her ass. His hands.
This could not go on, yet he found himself unable to pull away, his palms magnetized to those wicked curves. She continued that slow, weirdly erotic move.
Ms. Strickland had found her party trick.
Mesmerized, he let his grasping gaze travel over the reveal of skin above her shorts. Seeing the tattoo up close, he realized he’d been mistaken. It wasn’t an animal, but a squadron of dragonflies, beautifully etched on her creamy skin. He licked his lips, the urge to drag her back and place his mouth against the ladder of her spine spiking his pulse. Hands full with her perfect ass, he wanted to explore and ravish the body of his assistant.
Remembering who she was yanked him back to reality. He shifted his hands to her hips and twisted her around with a rougher-than-intended jerk.
“C’mere,” he growled, the verbal command complementing perfectly the seeking fingers that dug into her hip bones. Amazingly, she obeyed.
Note remembered: Ms. Strickland likes it when you growl.
She straddled him, her hands resting on his shoulders, her kissable lips parted in surprise. Time to get to the bottom of this. Without roaming his hands all over her “bottom” as S-O might say.
“Chardonnay,” he murmured, not quite believing that anyone would choose to be called that.
She blinked. Apparently, she’d already forgotten her stripper name, and his heart cheered at the notion that perhaps this wasn’t her normal.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” she hissed.
He had a half-naked woman seated about two inches from his very stiff cock, and the woman happened to be his employee. It might not be what it looked like, but it sure as hell looked like something.
“What the f*ck
are you doing here?” he whispered in the ear farthest from Nigel and Emma’s stripper friend.
Her response? Grind on him some more. Because turning him on unbearably was the answer.
“I have to do this.”
Which? The grinding? The stripping?
“My boss is watching.”
“Your boss?” he asked, incredulity straining his tone because he had assumed she had one boss. Him.
She looked more than a touch exasperated at his narrow reading of the situation. “I have to”—she dragged her body up his thighs, snugging in closer against the cock fighting to rip free from his pants—“I have to make it look good.”
In looking good, it happened to feel amazing. His hands cupped her lush ass, barely covered in those shiny shorts. She sucked in a breath.
“Hips only. That’s the rule.”
“You backed your ass into my hands!”
She moved his hands to her hips, a prim move that reminded him of Ms. Strickland. His f*ck
ing assistant. “I was trying to get your attention.”
“Believe me, you had it, Chardonnay.”
“Oh, shut up. I didn’t pick that name.”
“It suits you,” he said, trying to see the humor in this situation. Laughing tended to kill the mood real quick, but he doubted there were enough jokes in the world to diminish his monster erection.
“You’re a terrible dancer,” he added, laying it on thick. “In fact, I’d pay you to stop.”