He looks around like he’s just noticed our surroundings. Sharp eyes don’t miss anything—not the grit on the floor or the desolation in my lie. “This is where you want to be,” he says. “This hellhole. Is that right?”
I laugh suddenly. It takes me by surprise. “This isn’t hell. You think heaven is nice clothes and expensive locks? That’s what hell is made of.”
Then there’s knowledge in his eyes. “And you left that…for this.”
“I don’t need your pity.” It makes me angry, the way he’s looking at me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I want him to desire me again. I want to see him panting after me again. “What I need is for you to stop talking and start fucking. You can do that, right? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
His hand tightens in my hair. For a moment I think he’s going to call my bluff. In that moment, I want him to. Instead he tugs downward, guiding me to the floor.
Now he’ll fuck my mouth, won’t he? He’ll use me, just like I wanted.
But he doesn’t do that.
Instead he pushes his boot between my legs. His hand remains in my hair, holding me there. I’m straddling his leg, bracing myself with my hands on his thighs. Is he going to… kick me? But there isn’t really room for that. There isn’t room for much of anything, except the solid warmth of his leg holding me up. I’ve had my legs spread, my ass up, my mouth around a stranger’s cock—but I’ve never felt quite as vulnerable as I do now.
“What are you going to do to me?” My voice trembles. I can’t even find it in me to care. Pride is a thing of the past. Pride is silk and good wine—things I can no longer afford.
“What you asked for.” He looks angry now, but his touch is still gentle as he shifts me lower. I’m hugging his leg now, the warm leather of his boot pressed right against my pussy. “You wanted us to fuck. You wanted me to pay you for it. Well, this is how I want you.”
A pain in my scalp drags me up, and then I’m rocking back down again. Up and then down—he gives me the rhythm to move. It’s sex, that rhythm.
It’s dancing.
I’m already in a strip club. There should be nothing dirtier I can do, nothing lower. But now I’m grinding on this man’s boot, feeling horrible pleasure spark in my clit, and I realize I was wrong. This is worse. This is dirtier by far.
“Wait,” I whimper even though I don’t know what we’d wait for.
His hand drops, heavy on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “No, baby. This is what you asked for, and I’m giving it to you. That’s how this works.”
“This isn’t…” My throat feels tight, and horrible tears prick my eyes. I didn’t cry when I danced onstage the first time. Didn’t cry when I got fucked. Why does he make me feel like this? It’s even worse than how Byron made me feel. “This isn’t using me. It’s not making you feel good.”
A rough laugh, like metal dragging over concrete. “Oh, I’m feeling pretty good, sweetheart.”
He means his erection. He means the sizable bulge in his jeans.
“Let me stroke you,” I beg him. Anything would be easier than getting raked over his boot, fucking his leg, exposed in my own awkward arousal. It’s building even though I know this is wrong. No, it’s building faster because it’s so wrong. There’s something perverse in me. I don’t know if I was born with it or if Byron drilled it into me, but the humiliation only makes me hotter. Every stroke of the supple leather to my clit brings a new rush of heat.
He shakes his head, the expression in his eyes almost sad. “This is what you asked for,” he repeats. “Maybe next time you’ll ask for what you need.”
I shudder, right on the edge. “I need, I need—”
“I know,” he murmurs.
As I look into his eyes, I have the strangest feeling that he does know. Maybe he already knows what I’m afraid of. Maybe he knows what I need. It pushes me over, and then I’m coming, rocking my clit against leather, humping his leg while he murmurs how good I am, how sweet.
And when I am done, my body trembling, heart thudding, he pays me. I stare at the money as if I’ve never seen it before—as if I’ve never gotten paid before. As if it’s never hurt this bad before.
His expression is hungry as he stares down at me. But I must not be enough, because his erection is still thick in his jeans when he stands.
He looks down at me, and I feel again those brambles grow wild and fast, foliage too dense to see past, branches too thick to cut down. And again, that strange sense that he wants to hate me. He doesn’t want to get close. I remember this feeling too well. And when Kip leaves, I shiver on the floor, nauseous and afraid, remembering.
* * *
Six months ago
My face is stiff from smiling. My calves ache from the four-inch heels. Why is it the more a shoe costs, the thinner its sole? I greet another couple with as much warmth as I can pretend, considering the man has a lipstick smear on his face.
Not the same shade as his wife’s lipstick.