Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

He doesn’t let me get away with much. I can feel the invisible leash around my neck. I can feel him tug. I slip between his legs. It’s close enough to his lap that I can pretend innocence. Maybe this was what he meant all along. I give lap dances all night long, but very few men will turn down a blowjob if I’m already kneeling between their legs.

I slide my hands up his thighs, staring at the bulge in his jeans. He wants this, and somehow so do I. I don’t have any illusions about blowjobs. I don’t imagine it will taste good or feel sexy, but I want to hear him fall apart. I want to feel it.

His hands grab my wrists. His eyes are dark now, displeased.

He pulls. My body swings up, easy and lightweight in his arms. Then I’m in his lap, tucked into the crook of his arm, straddling his legs. Shit.

I force myself to pout, to keep things lighthearted. “I want to make you feel good, sugar.”

His arms tighten around me, half embrace and half prison. “You do.”

My heart pounds. He pushes past my defenses, just like that. Not with cruelty. That I could manage. Or at least, survive. He slips underneath my walls just by looking at them. I don’t know what would happen if he actually did more. How quickly I would fall.

And I want him to feel just as vulnerable—more. So I relax my body, as if I’m giving in. I rest my arms on his shoulders, either side. My palms slide down his chest to frame the necklace he wears, the one underneath his shirt.

“What’s this?” I whisper.

His expression closes. “It’s nothing.”

I recognize those walls—I put them up myself. And I recognize those lies. They are all I have left. That alone should make me respect his wishes. I can suck his dick without lifting his shirt. Instead I find myself stroking his neck, reaching down to the warm metal chain—and pulling out the necklace.

A cross. A simple cross with straight lines, formed out of a black stone with cloudy white swirling through. Marble? I think he must have worn it for a long time. But somehow I know I am one of the only people to ever see it.

Because he let me see it. I don’t fool myself. He could have stopped me. He could do anything to me, but he let me take out his necklace. The unexpected trust sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t take you for a religious man.” It isn’t only his presence here in the strip club. Hypocrisy runs deep. I wouldn’t be surprised to find half the men here in church on Sundays, wiping away their sins with the same hands and tongues they used to defile me.

But he has something they don’t, a kind of fight, a stark determination that says he walks his own path. He has his own plan—and no use for God’s.

“I’m not religious,” he says, tucking the cross back under his shirt. “That’s a gift.”

It has to be from a woman. While the shape of it is simple, almost primitive, it was clearly chosen with love and feminine affection. And it certainly matches Kip’s dark looks—his black boots and black jacket. His black eyes. They’re angry now, but I don’t stop. A wise woman would leave him alone. She would take her clothes off. She’d give him her body. But she’d never trust him with her heart.

“Who gave this to you?” I whisper. His mother? A girlfriend?

His wife?

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Plenty of men here

are married. Rings are common enough, worn by men too lazy or brazen to take them off before coming. But I don’t want this man to be married.

His expression darkens. “You want answers, but you won’t give me any. Fair’s fair, sweetheart.”

I flinch as his hand reaches for me, but he only tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. It’s always coming undone from the pins I use to hold it. My hair is always falling down around me, tumbling and wild. The admiration in his eyes says he likes it that way. His hand lingers in my hair, teasing the strands between his fingers.

“Tell me your name,” he says gently. “If you don’t trust me, I can’t help you.”

Every muscle freezes. Cold sweeps in, turning me to ice. I don’t feel fear. I can’t feel pain. “How do you know I need help?”

His eyes soften. The understanding in them is like a physical blow, and I have to hold my breath just to keep myself from shattering.

“Don’t you?” He strokes rough fingers down my cheek. “Your eyes ask for help. Your body. You look down at me from the stage like you want me to climb up and take you away.”

I stare at him, shocked. Shocked that he read so much into me. Shocked that he’s right. “No.”

His large hand wraps the back of my neck. He tugs me close and whispers in my ear, “What are you afraid of?”

My heart pounds so loud it’s all I can hear. The dark walls become blurry as if I’m going fast instead of trapped. As if I’m falling. “I don’t need your help. This is where I want to be.”