She had met a few of those over the years. As far as looks went, they could do exactly what he was doing to her now. Making her cream. But she had never gotten close to one. Well, except one. But just within a few feet. She had definitely never gotten as close as a lap dance was going to require.
She trembled as she stared at him, her lips parting as she fought to draw in air, her limbs shaking with sudden nerves. She was insane to do this now, today. When she was weak. When she was restless. When her awareness of losing time, losing the opportunity to have the ultimate adventure, was so clear in her mind. When her own independence felt at risk. At a time when her hormones were spiking.
They did that sometimes. They were doing that now.
They were reminding her that intimacy be damned, she needed to be touched. She needed to be held. She needed more than a one-night stand, though.
Then those beautiful eatable lips kicked up in a mocking grin. A cynical dare that had her eyes narrowing and her senses balancing. She heard the music then, the sexual beat, the erotic undertones, and the sensual, sexual core of her soul awoke to it.
She imagined the only bad boy she had fantasized about for years as she let the bad boy watching her spark the memory of the first.
Kell. Tall. Broad. Bad. She remembered him. Eyes as green as emeralds. His unsmiling countenance, his air of wicked knowledge. The way he made her wet with just a look.
Just like the bad boy across the room was making her wet. Making her feel. Assuring her she was alive.
Emily began to move. Gripping the dancing pole, she stared back at the arrogance in this man’s expression, the mocking curve of lips that she remembered, though she knew they weren’t the same. The full contours she wanted to nibble, and she set out to seduce—a memory—
THAT WAS NOT A KINDERGARTEN schoolteacher. This wasn’t the eighteen-year-old he had danced with or the young woman he had stayed carefully out of sight from over the years. But it was definitely Emily Stanton.
When she walked out on the stage, the breath had punched from his chest with a force that left him dazed. She was dressed like a teacher. The slim black skirt and white blouse buttoned modestly. Heels made her taller, but made her legs sexier. Legs that could wrap around a man and hold him in place as she arched to him. Legs that had his back aching to feel them tightening there.
As she stood there, poised like a frightened doe, his lips kicked up in a mocking grin. The innocence was a damned good effect. Almost good enough to believe.
The narrowing of her eyes surprised him, but her movements shocked him. With seductive skill, her arm lifted, her hand gripping the metal pole beside her, and her body began to sway to the music.
Beneath his jeans, his cock was throbbing with joy as she began to move against the phallic symbol she gripped. Leaning her back against it, her features flushed, her eyes gleaming with sensual awareness, one hand lifted to the first button of her blouse.
His mouth went dry at the hint of cleavage. Breasts a man could get lost in. Fill his hands with. His hands itched with the need to be filled.
The hard techno beat of the music throbbed with sex. It pulsed and pounded around them, swayed with her body and stroked over his nerve endings. For God’s sake, he was almost panting.
She was supposed to be a prim and proper little social miss. The daughter of a United States senator. A kindergarten teacher.
She was a provocative little hellion who knew how to get nasty. She was making him crazy.
He shifted in his seat, trying to make room for the hard ridge of his cock as it swelled to fill the confines of his jeans and demanded more room. If it could howl, it would have brought the building down with the sound of its hunger.
His teeth clenched as he forced himself to sit still, to appear relaxed. He was anything but relaxed.
The second button came free and his mouth watered. Her fingers played with the third, and just when he thought he would see the tantalizing flesh beneath she turned her back to him, leaned against the pole and undulated. From her ankles to her shoulders she moved against the pole and his abdomen tightened.
Shit. He was going to come in his jeans.
She turned, and the button was free. Beneath, he glimpsed the sinfully red lace of a bra.
Take it off, sweet darlin’. Come on, give us just a taste.
She played with the next button, released it as she braced her legs apart, and let her hand slide past the edges of the shirt as she gripped the bar behind her and arched her back for him.
Oh mercy, just a bit more, eh?
The last button slipped free, but the little tease turned again, shimmied around the pole, and sweat popped out on his forehead as her fingers went to the button at the side of the skirt.
He forced himself to leave the dark glasses on. Not to lean forward. Not to open his pants and show her just how appreciative he was as she began to unwrap every birthday and Christmas present he could have ever lusted for.
This was his greatest fantasy. Innocent, proper, eyes gleaming back at him with certain hunger, face flushed with damp desire, and he’d bet her pussy was wet. He’d bet his last dollar on it. Her nipples were sure as hell hard.
“Have mercy . . .” he breathed as the skirt fell slowly down her curvy thighs, leaving her dressed in French-cut lace and a bra that was more thought than actual covering.