In Bed with the Beast (Naughty Princess Club 2)

It’s now or never, and I need to bite the bullet and just get this over with.

“He kept complaining everything was too tight and—”

“Stop,” he interrupts again, his face pinching, almost like he’s in pain.

“That I was too small and he—”

“Stop. Talking.”

Oh, crap. Now I’ve made him mad. Maybe that was too much of an overshare.

A few silent, tense minutes go by, until I can’t stand the quiet any longer, or the way he’s glaring at me and clutching the counter on either side of his hips so hard that I can his knuckles turn white.

“Okay, but can I just say one more thing? It’s really important.”

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve decided I’m probably not going to meet my prince charming on these stupid dates, and all I’m doing is wasting time, hoping they’ll be decent human beings I’m attracted to who can give me the experience I need to learn how men think and what they want, in order to start stripping for The Naughty Princess Club,” I tell him, talking as fast as possible so he won’t interrupt me again. “I already know you so I wouldn’t be wasting my time getting to know you, only to find out you’re an idiot. And . . . well . . . look at you. You’re a guy. A very confident, attractive guy who could teach me about men. And bonus for me, you work at a strip club. You watch women dance and flirt with men every night so they’ll give up lots of tips. I don’t know how to be sexy. I don’t know how to dance. So save me from another horrible date and teach me how to be sexy and flirty with men.”

I take a deep breath, holding it in with nervous anticipation. It’s so quiet in this house you could hear a pin drop. Right when I think I’ve just made the biggest mistake of his life, Vincent finally speaks.

“I’m not a happily-ever-after guy, princess,” he reminds me.

My heart drops just a little bit at his words, but I power through, hoping that if he agrees to this and we spend more time together, maybe he will be a happily-ever-after guy. Maybe he could be my happily-ever-after guy.

“I know. And that’s fine. I mean, it’s not like I think we should get married and have babies or anything,” I say with a nervous giggle.

Oh, God, he would make beautiful babies.

“And I’m not helping you become a stripper,” he scoffs.

“Don’t say that like it’s a bad word! You work at strip club!”

He finally pushes away from the counter and moves to stand across the island from me, crossing his arms over his glorious, naked chest.

“I don’t trust strippers. They’re nothing but liars.”

“Well, I’m not a liar!” I argue. “And I’m not doing this because I’ve always dreamed of taking my clothes off for money. I’m doing it because I need to finally do something new and exciting with my life. And also because it pays really, really well.”

“Oh yeah, it definitely pays well. It pays so well you can get yourself a fancy new place to live, expensive clothes and shoes and jewelry, and probably a nice, expensive car for everyone to be jealous of. Or you can do what they all do and find yourself a nice sugar daddy who will buy all those things for you,” he says angrily with a smirk.

“What are you talking about?! First of all, how dare you suggest that’s the kind of person I am! And second, PJ only employs single mothers and nothing at all like who you’re describing,” I argue, trying really hard not to throw something at him.

“Let’s just say PJ wasn’t always so particular about the women he hired. Some of them lied and cheated and did whatever they could for money,” Vincent informs me.

There is so much hurt and anger in his voice that I want to get down from my stool, move around the counter, and wrap my arms around him, but I’m still too ticked off about what he insinuated about me to move. He’s obviously talking about his own experience, even if he’s not coming right out and saying it.

“Who was she?” I whisper.

He winces, and for one moment, I think I see sadness wash over his features. Just as quickly, that look is gone and replaced with an angry tic of the muscle in his jaw as he glares at me.

“This has nothing to do with me. I’m not teaching someone how to be a stripper, no matter how sweet and innocent she might pretend to be.”

That does it—I hop right off my stool, angrily grabbing my notebook from the counter and shoving it as hard as I can into my purse.