He reclines back, balancing the tumbler on his thigh, his chest bare and eyes focused on me.
“The size of your bank account doesn’t make you classy,” I say. “It’s the dignity you carry yourself with and the respect you show to others. If you have an ugly attitude and belittle those around you, it doesn’t matter who designs your suits or how posh your penthouse is. None of it matters.” I harden my voice and give him firm eye contact. “If you want me to work with you and hang out with you, respect me. Respect my intelligence, and most of all, respect my feelings.”
He watches me for a moment, his pupils large and expression slack. “Do you put this much effort in everything you do?”
“In the things that are important, yes.”
“That’s remarkable. And rare.” Sincerity scratches through his voice. He sets the tumbler on the trunk, twists the cap closed on the bottle of scotch. Then he laces his fingers together between his spread knees and stares at his hands. “You strive for greatness without calculation or awareness that you’re doing it. That’s empowering. It inspires me to be a better version of myself.”
His praise tightens my chest and pulls my brows together. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’ll take it any day over his hurtful comments.
He lifts an arm along the back of the couch, beckoning me to slide beneath it. I shouldn’t give in to my desperate need for affection, not with this man. But a voice in the back of my mind urges me to live in the moment.
As I scoot across the cushions and rest my cheek on his chest, another inner voice whispers, How is this different than dating?
“Are you tired?” He grabs the remote and absently runs his fingers through my tangle-free hair.
“Wide awake.”
“Want to watch Dirty Dancing?”
I nod, and ten minutes into the movie, I tumble into sleep, fantasizing about dancing dirty with Trace Savoy.
“Don’t get me wrong. The cuisine is superb.” A distinguished man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”
I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.
It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”
Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.
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 satin 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.