I step through the velvet curtains. Past a group of college guys. A business meeting in a booth. A bachelor party by the stage.
The groom’s friends toss bills on stage. A short dancer bends to gather them. Offers her leg. Taps the garter.
The groom slips a five into the lingerie.
He’s shy. Embarrassed.
She goads him. Smiles that customer service smile. She has to convince him she likes him. Part of the job.
No doubt he believes it.
We are idiots. The lot of us.
After she pries tips from the men, she stands. Saunters to the pole. Slides her blue hot pants to her ankles.
She’s wearing a bright blue thong and patent boots.
No lacing.
Brown hair.
A wig, maybe. It’s possible that’s Eve. Technically.
It’s possible the details she offers are fabrications.
But I can tell.
There’s something about the dancer. She’s not Eve.
My gaze flits to the other stage. A blonde in a schoolgirl skirt.
She’s too far away. I can’t make out her features. Still, I know. There’s something about her posture, her outfit, her aura.
Not Eve.
She must be at the bar.
It’s against the leftmost wall. Crowded.
Mostly younger men. The type with something to prove. A few men alone. One in a full suit. Another in sweats. One in scrubs.
Maybe that’s him. The doctor trying to buy her. Maybe he’s smarter than he looks. Here with a six-figure check and a hotel key.
There’s nothing remarkable about him. Grey hair. Light eyes. Wrinkles that say neither shriveled geezer nor distinguished gentleman. The scrubs are fine. They don’t hide his beer belly. They don’t make him worthy.
My fingers curl into fists. I see it—that arsehole falling to the ground from a solid punch.
Fuck. It’s not him.
There are plenty of bastards in scrubs.
This arsehole probably wears a suit.
Or maybe he’s some young man who wears jeans in his time off. Maybe he’s handsome and worldly. Maybe he’s going to make her come all fucking night.
The blond dancer greets the older man. After a short back and forth, she pulls him out of his stool. Leads him through red curtains. An hour in the Champagne Room? Or a semi-secluded lap dance?
Strip clubs aren’t my thing. Too obvious. Not enough left to the imagination. And when the action starts—
I don’t need a naked woman grinding in my lap if I’m not allowed to touch her.
I suppose it’s an exercise in discipline. A skill I need to hone. There’s a reason I’m no longer in the military. But right now—
“Can I get you something?” A loud voice cuts through the house music. I’ve never heard it before, but it’s familiar all the same.
That’s her.
Eve’s berry lips part as she repeats her question. “A drink? You can take it to the stage. Or stay.” She motions to an empty spot on the bar.
There. On her forearm. Nolite Te Bastards Carborundorum.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down. The quote from The Handmaid’s Tale. Her favorite book.
My eyes stay on her tattoo. Crisp black letters on a ribbon. Surrounded by lush petals.
Beautiful.
Exactly what I expect of her.
“Sir? Something to drink?” Her voice stays soft.
“You have Fever Tree?” My eyes stay on her forearm.
It’s bizarre. I’ve imagined this moment a million times.
Usually, it involves me ripping off her clothes and pinning her to the wall.
Never me standing slack-jawed, unable to take my eyes off her tattoo.
But, fuck, it’s beautiful. Her. Another way she reveals herself to me.
I need that. All of it.
Her laugh fills the air. Draws my eyes to her lips. Shoulders. Tits.
My balls tighten. I force my gaze to her face, but that does nothing to help matters.
Deep teal hair that falls just past her chin. Dark makeup lining her grey-green eyes. Purple-red lipstick.
She’s beautiful. And young. And she screams stay away, arsehole. Even in the sheer black frock.
“Fever Tree?” Her eyes find mine. Her dark lips curl into a smile that lights up her entire face. “The tonic water?”
“Is there another Fever Tree?”
Her laugh grows deeper. Fuller. “The premium tonic water? Here? Do we really look like that kind of place?”
“A man can dream.”
Her eyes flare with something. An appreciation. “I’m afraid your dreams are staying that. We have—I’m not even sure. But it doesn’t come in a glass bottle.” She grabs a plastic cup. Fills it with a splash of something clear and sparkling. “I doubt it’s up to your standards.”
My fingers brush hers as I take the glass. It’s electric. A pull I can’t deny.
I’ve been with a lot of women since I moved to New York. But I haven’t felt this.
My entire body buzzes.
My images of her snap into focus.
Her blue-green hair falling over her eyes. Her dark lips parting with a groan. Her soft body tangled in white sheets.
Her lips parting with a cry equal parts agony and ecstasy. That cry that means I need you in a way I’ve never needed anyone.