“Could be I need a closer look.” His dick throbbed, and he battled the pure, animal instinct to lay claim to the snug valley between her cheeks. Instead he contented himself running his thumb over the soft, yielding curve of her breast. He held his breath, hoping she’d take the bait and offer to go somewhere more private. Then he’d read her the riot act, about…everything.
“Tell you what, MM. You look to your heart’s content. Let me know if you reach any conclusions.” With that, she slipped out of his hold and sashayed over to Ariana. Lee Ann backed in from the other side, and the three of them proceeded to seduce every man in the vicinity with a hot, girl-on-girl-on-girl bump-and-grind. His aching privates gave the act a standing ovation.
He couldn’t take much more. Six weeks without so much as a handshake from Stacy had drained his strength and weakened his willpower to the breaking point. Add in the skimpy outfit, the pulsing music and the sensuous dance moves…hell…every man had his limits. When Old Spice gyrated over to get in on the action, Ian decided he’d had enough. He caught Stacy’s arm and tugged, bringing her around to face him.
She bumped into his chest and put her hands on his biceps to steady herself. “See something you like?”
“Yeah. I like the way you dance.”
A satisfied grin curved her lips. “I dance even better in private.”
His reply popped out of his mouth before he thought things through, and it had nothing to do with keeping her safe. “Show me.”
Chapter Four
Oh, she’d show him, all right. Stacy led Ian off the stage and through the throngs of guests partying it up on the dance floor. Who did he think he was fooling? Did he honestly believe she hadn’t realized who he was t
he minute he’d caught her and held her against him? The scent of his soap, the way their bodies fit together, the timbre of his voice—even if he was trying to pitch it lower to fool her—all gave him away. For one moment her moronic heart had leaped at the possibility he was here to fight for her and convince her to give them another chance.
Then reality crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. He wasn’t here because he’d finally surrendered to an overpowering desire to see her. The damn letter accounted for his presence, because neither he nor Trevor thought she was capable of handling one crackpot pen pal on her own.
She intended to show him exactly what he could do with his overbearing, cocky, Neanderthal mentality. She’d handled her stalker, and now she would handle Ian, too. He’d get no glimpse of her still-aching heart. Instead, he’d see a carefree woman looking for a no-strings-attached good time with a handy stranger. By the time she finished, he’d be wondering if she even remembered his name. She’d take him on the ride of his life. Show him what he’d been missing.
Immature? Probably, but wounded pride spurred her on. Just don’t get sentimental. Don’t say or do anything to clue him in. And don’t flip your damn hair, she coached herself as she pushed through the mobs of people loitering in the hallway leading to the private VIP rooms.
She glanced back at the tall, dark figure behind her. Maybe being with him one last time would bring her some closure and enable her to move on. Something had to, because three drinks hadn’t helped. Prancing around and partying like she’d done in her wild-child days hadn’t helped. For the last six weeks, she’d waged an internal war to stop herself from running to him, telling him she’d made a terrible mistake, and asking him to forgive her. Every single day. She had to make it stop.
She reached the first VIP room and realized the door might be locked. A weak part of her whispered that might be for the best, but luck was on her side. The knob twisted under her hand and the door popped open. She smiled and led Ian into the private room. He closed the door behind them and the sounds of the party immediately receded to a muted chaos punctuated by the relentless, pumping bass lines. Perfect. Not so quiet as to facilitate, God forbid, conversation, but not so loud it felt as if they still stood in the middle of the dance floor.
Her hands wanted to shake, so she propped them on her hips and took a moment to look around the once-familiar space. Not much had changed. The small, softly lit VIP room served one main purpose—to give clients a place to sit back and enjoy a private dance with the entertainer of their choice. A costly indulgence, at an upscale gentlemen’s club like Deuces, and the decor, while restrained, acknowledged the price of the luxury. A comfortable dark leather chair sat in the middle of the room, centered on a splashy black-and-red Oriental-style rug. Large, gilt-framed bordello mirrors graced the walls, to provide the client with multiple angles of viewing pleasure. Sturdy, architecturally styled bookshelves lined the wall behind the client chair, and held a sound system and a private bar. Way back in a shadowy corner stood a stool where the bouncer would sit during an actual private dance, to ensure the client remained a gentleman at all times.
Tonight the corner stool sat blessedly empty, and Stacy knew Ian would not be a gentleman. She’d make sure. Down and dirty—that’s how they both liked it.
She guided him to the chair and gestured for him to sit. “Ever had a private dance before?”
“Never.”
“Sit back, sweetheart. You’re in for a treat.” She reached behind him for the sound system’s remote, and programmed what she’d liked to call the “soft-core playlist” back in her Deuces days. Unobtrusive, sexy music streamed from hidden speakers, further muffling the noise from the party.
“Any rules I should know about?”
“Normally yes, but not tonight.” She stepped up until she stood over his lap, with her hands on his broad shoulders and her breasts close to his masked face. “Tonight there are no holds barred. Nothing off-limits. Think you can handle it?”
Trap set. Ian never backed down.
“Don’t you worry, Angel. I can handle whatever you throw my way.” He reached around, under her skirt, and palmed her bare cheeks, left vulnerable by her thong. “Quick hands, remember?”
She remembered, and forced herself to hold back a shiver. His voice held a note of something she couldn’t readily identify—challenge, maybe. Like he wanted to push her and see how far she’d go. Best to keep that analytical, intuitive mind of his occupied. Leave him no time to go all psychological on her. She rotated her hips slowly, giving his hands a nice, thorough tour of the hills and gully they’d laid claim to. Rough palms slid all over her smooth, sensitive skin. Her nerve endings sat up and whimpered for more.
She lowered her arms and shrugged out of her wings.
“A fallen angel,” he murmured and traced his fingers along the front of her dress.
Her nipples contracted again, almost painfully tight this time. She imagined the feel of the knit ski mask rubbing against her breast as his tongue teased the hard, hypersensitive point. She bit back a moan. “I’m no angel.”
Maybe she arched her back, or maybe he simply read her mind, but he reached up, yanked her dress down her shoulders, and popped her breasts free of the thin, sheer bustier she wore beneath.
The condom fell into his lap.