Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

He wears his leathers like a second skin, like they’re armor and he’s a fighter. I can’t really imagine him walking through a precinct in a blue shirt. He’s not a cop. But there was that feeling, when I was onstage. I felt his interest, more than sexual. I felt his suspicion. I felt every instinct telling me he is there for more than a dance. I can’t afford not to listen.

“There’s no more than that,” I answer flatly.

He grunts, clearly displeased. But it doesn’t sound like he’s going to force the issue—or complain to Blue. “Then dance.”

Right. That’s why I’m here. That’s not disappointment, heavy in my gut. I don’t expect anything from men except to get paid. So I dance, starting slow, moving my hips, my arms, touching my breasts. I’m a million miles away like this. I’m lying on my back, feeling crisp grass underneath my legs, looking up at the night sky.

It almost works, except that I need to get close to him. I need to climb onto him, straddling his legs with mine, reaching for the back of the chair to shake my tits in his face. And when I do, I smell him. He smells…not like smoke. Not like sweat.

He smells like my daydream, like grass and earth and clean air.

I freeze above him, body crouched, my breasts still shivering with leftover momentum.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

And his voice. God, his voice. It’s gone rough and low, all the way to the ground. It slides along the creaky wood of the chair and the concrete floor and vibrates up my legs. It shimmers through the air and brushes over my skin, that voice. We’re not touching in any place, but I can feel him just the same.

I swallow hard. “Nothing’s wrong, sugar.”

“Then sit down.”

He means on his lap. Touching. It’s against the rules, officially.

Unofficially it’s one of the tamer things that happen in this room. “What if I don’t want to?”

One large shoulder lifts, making the leather sigh. “I won’t make you.”

I hear the unspoken word yet ring in the air.

I should probably refuse him. Whether he’s a cop or not, he’s throwing me off. That’s dangerous. And if there’s some other cop in the building? That’s even more dangerous.

But for some reason, I lower myself until I’m resting on his jeans, my posture awkward and off balance—until he shifts, and suddenly I’m sliding toward him, flush against him while I straddle his legs. Then his arms circle my body, trapping me. Any second now he’s going to grope me. Maybe take his dick out and fuck me like this. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But he just stays like that, arms firm but gentle. A hug. This is a hug.

Jesus. How long has it been since a man hugged me? Just that, without touching anywhere else, without his dick inside me? A long time.

My throat feels tight. “What next?” I ask again, and this time I’ll offer anything on the menu. The real menu, with sex and pain and whatever else he’s into.

“I’d like to touch you,” he says, his breath brushing against my temple.

I know that’s not all. We haven’t even negotiated a price, but I find myself agreeing, silent and still.

I look into his eyes and feel something—familiarity. Do I know him from somewhere?

A hundred men come through here. They are nothing to me, and yet I can’t help thinking I would remember him if he had come in another night. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen him before. Met him. Known him.

I should be afraid. And I am, but I’m also wondering about the tattoo on the back of his hand. What does it mean? Then I have other things to wonder about, because that hand is touching me.

He doesn’t start with my breasts or even my ass. Not the obvious places, the important ones. He starts with one hand at the back of my neck. My heart pounds heavy in my chest, almost bursting free. I can’t get enough air. And suddenly this seems like an important place after all, so vulnerable. So small within the careful hold of his hand. How is it possible that his hands are so large?

He slides his other hand under my chin, lifting my face. And looks me in the eye. I can’t look away. His eyes are dark and bottomless, the light glinting like distant stars.

“What’s your name?” he mutters.

Honor. I almost say it, but that’s not who I am here. Besides, they announced me when I went onstage. He doesn’t seem like the type to forget, not when he asked for me after, not with his hands cradling my head, careful with me but faintly threatening. Because he could snap my neck in a second. He knows it. I know it. I even think Blue waiting outside knows it, but it all comes down to trust.

And I don’t trust him.