I'm almost bare on top now, something that is obvious to the audience now that I'm standing in front of them wearing only a tiny flesh-colored bra. I kick up a leg and twirl, thankful the stage is polished. With each rotation, I pull off a scarf from my makeshift skirt, holding onto it long enough so that it flutters beside me for dramatic effect. I release it after a full rotation, letting it pool on the ground beside me.
When all the scarves are gone, I'm left wearing nothing but a pink ribbon around my waist and a G-string that matches the bra. I pull off the ribbon and let it fall to the stage with the scarves.
The song starts to wrap, and I draw a breath. I'm lost in the dance, but somewhere deep inside me, I know I ought to be nervous. I'm revealing myself. I'm being bad, getting my naughty on. It's scary stuff, and yet I'm really not scared.
On the contrary, I want it to go on and on. I'm on stage--a real stage--and I'm not only dancing for an audience, I'm dancing for Wyatt.
I tell myself that the only reason I can do this is because there's a good cause behind it, but that's just not true.
It's everything. It's the way the music fills me. The way the audience watches me.
Mostly, though, it's the heat in Wyatt's eyes. The desire I see on his face. The memory of his touch.
I remember everything--and I'm fantasizing about even more. I don't want this feeling to end. This exultant thrill. This wild ride.
I look out into the dark of the club, and the men at the nearby tables seem to fade away. I'm seeing only Wyatt now.
I slide my hands over my hips, my waist, my breasts. I do that, and I imagine it's his touch. His seduction.
I'm dancing for him, and only him.
I'll get the job, I think. I'm certain of it.
But as I look in his eyes, I can't help but wonder if that's really a good thing. Because now I'll be seeing him every day.
And in the end, that's just going to hurt all the more . . .
7
She was driving him crazy.
The way she held his eyes while she moved, so bold and flirtatious, as if she was just daring him to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
Daring him? No, strike that. She wasn't just daring him, she was throwing down a goddamned gauntlet. But was she challenging him to claim her? Or was she goading him that he couldn't have her?
Damned if he knew. Right then, Wyatt was certain of only one thing--his body was tight, his cock was hard, and he wanted to be somewhere other than here. Someplace without other people.
Someplace with a bed.
It was the dancing that did it. Because Kelsey Draper and her dancing had always been his downfall. After all, that was what had started everything all those years ago. He'd seen her dancing to a bouncy pop song, her interpretation elevating the music and lyrics. He'd seen passion and precision, sensuality and seduction. She'd enchanted him. Cast a spell over him.
He'd seen the magic in her, so much larger than the quiet, subdued girl he'd met before. The Kelsey he'd watched dancing had surprised him. She was vibrant. Alive. Unexpected.
He'd fallen hard, and then she'd broken his heart.
He wouldn't make the same mistake again.
He might want her--hell, he did want her. For his bed. For his show.
But he da
mn sure wasn't going to trust her. He'd already learned that lesson, and he really didn't need a refresher course.
As he watched, she dropped to the floor, then used one hand to rip open her shirt before letting it fall down her arms. She writhed on stage, her seductive movements making him ache inside, all the more when he imagined taking it further. Her wrists bound not with a tattered blouse, but with silk ropes. And not just her wrists, but her legs as well. Red ropes, the only color in an otherwise black and white image. Her body twisting, and the audience unsure if she was fighting the bonds or reveling in her own rising passion.
She was exactly what he needed for the show. The complete package. Hell, he'd known that from the moment she'd walked into his studio.
So why was he hesitating?