Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

That seems to please Mrs. Owens. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, forbidden pleasure and regret rolled into one. “You can wake me up anytime, Mrs. Owens. I’ll make you tea whenever you want.”

“Of course I’m not going to wake you up. You need your sleep. If I could only figure out that darned stove.”

I bite my lip, on the verge of tears. I don’t want to cry in front of her. And I sure as hell don’t want to cry in front of him.

“Excuse me,” I manage before shoving away from the table.

I leave the groceries on the floor of the kitchen, waiting to be unpacked. I leave the teacups filled with water. I leave the strange man at the table, both hateful and kind, a symbol of everything bad about me—and a beacon of hope all at once.

The hallway is a blur, and I almost run into the wall. Hot tears sting my eyes.

I push into the small bathroom and shut the door, leaving the light off.

There’s only a second of peace before I hear footsteps.

He doesn’t call my name. He doesn’t even knock. He simply comes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, locking us inside.

“Why are you—”

I don’t have a chance to finish my question. Why are you here? Why are you being nice to Mrs. Owens?

Why are you being nice to me?

Before I can get the words out, his mouth is on mine, his hands are in my hair. He’s breathing me in, sliding his tongue against mine. I let out a shocked breath before my body betrays me—returning the kiss with the same ferocity, the same hunger. It feels almost like an apology, this visit, this kindness. This kiss. Like he’s sorry he was cruel to me, but he’s not planning to stop.

“This is why you dance,” he breathes against my lips.

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. I pant against the wall, waiting for him to make me strip, make me touch him, make me get on my knees and suck him off. That’s the only reason to be in a dark bathroom with the door closed. That’s the only reason he’d follow me here, the only reason he’d be in this house at all.

He runs his hands ov

er my shoulders, my arms. My breasts. The touch is sexual and possessive but also sweet, as if he’s assuring himself that I’m all there. That I’m all right.

That he didn’t hurt me too bad.

“Wednesday night,” he says gruffly. Then he’s gone. From the bathroom. From the house. Gone from Mrs. Owens’s memory just minutes later.

Leaving only an empty teacup to prove he was ever there.

Chapter Thirteen

The same doorman greets me at the shiny apartment building. There’s no sneer in his smile, no coldness in his eyes. I see a lot of men, most of them with wads of cash in their pockets. It’s strange to see one with any amount of respect.

He must think I’m Blue’s girlfriend.

My stomach twists, fast and hard. It’s a mix of embarrassment and guilt and a hope that will not die. There’s a part of me that wishes that were true. The doorman doesn’t know that Blue would never date me. He wouldn’t even be seen fraternizing with me at the club. The only reason he lets me come to his place is because it’s more convenient for him to fuck me here.

The elevator ride feels way too short. Before I can breathe again, I’m standing in front of his apartment door. It doesn’t open on its own this time. He’s not there to push me away and drag me back. It’s only me standing there, only me deciding to knock. Only me waiting for his footsteps with dread and anticipation.

He’s wearing a T-shirt again, well-worn and snug around his chest. He’s got jeans and no shoes—perfectly comfortable at home. There’s something deceptively casual about what he wears and the way he holds himself, so distinctly different than the hard, intimidating front he has as head of security of the club. And yet I know this man is more dangerous to me, more willing to hurt me in ways he wouldn’t at the Grand, more pleased to see the results of his work.

Dark eyes scan me from the blue eyelet blouse to the white skirt with bold-colored flowers.

No surprise shows at all. “You look gorgeous,” he says in that same conversational way he’d tell me nice set or be careful out there. The same voice that means he thinks the opposite.

“I didn’t have time to change.” I don’t tell him where I’m coming from, that I just spent four hours on a cramped plastic seat while Mrs. Owens gets dialysis. There are places that’ll come to your home and nurses that work around the clock, but stripping doesn’t pay for any of that. It just keeps us warm and dry and fed.