24. Brinlee

24

Ican't believe this is happening.

They are still here. All four of them. Sitting at a table right by the stage. With the spotlight and my focus on dancing, I didn't see them before. I thought they'd gone. Did they watch the show?

And I can't believe they called me over for a lap dance. I'm half mad at them, and half… I don't know. Confused. Embarrassed. Unsure of myself.

Kinda sad.

They weren't supposed to be here at all. Let alone watching my show and asking for lap dances. What has my life come to, when the only guys I've ever felt attracted to will pay for me to grind myself on their thighs? An all-time low.

Why did they have to see me like this? Now how will I ever be able to pretend I'm a normal girl? How will I show my face at the Book Café or the library?

Tears prick my eyes as I make my way to them, as slowly as it's humanly possible to walk on my super high heels, in my sexy costume, under my extravagant makeup. Sometimes, I manage to shut out my shame and fear and enjoy dancing here, feeling liberated, free to move and flirt and just be whoever I want to be, but right now, I'm way too aware of the reality outside the club.

These men are from my real life, my real hopes and dreams, intruders in this glittering, fake world, this dangerous world where I need illusion to keep myself sane.

And then their presence impacts me, a physical blow—their faces, their big shoulders, their scents reaching me through the artificial perfumes flooding the club.

Good God.

Objectively handsome, I think, they are objectively gorgeous, but more than that, they seem made for me. I feel, I know we'd fit so perfectly together.

Which is nuts.

And it's just sexual, I tell myself as I approach their table, step by step. Just scents and body types, just lust. Pure and simple.

Yeah, and what else did you think it was?

I almost stumble on this last thought, so vague, and yet I know what my mind is trying to tell me, and no, no, no, not going there.

There's no escaping the four pairs of eyes trained on me, though, dark and intense, the tension in their tall frames, the musk of arousal mingling with their mouthwatering scents.

Arousal. My gaze drops to their crotches as I sidle closer, and yep. They liked it. They liked watching me.

And they obviously like the thought of me dancing just for them.

What are they trying to do to me? Is this a trap? A test? A prank?

It makes me feel slightly sick—but is it because I'm horrified at this development, or because I like it, too?

Christ. What's going on with me? And them? All of us?

"Brin," Sawyer says, his voice a little hoarse as I reach their table.

"Baby Doll," one of the alphas corrects him—Archer. "Come here, Baby Doll." He holds up the wad of cash. "Dance for us."

This is tearing me apart. I need that money. It's a fat wad, and I only have to dance for them. Better them than any other customer.

Better any other customer than them.

My knees feel weak as I stalk past Sawyer. He reaches for me, but I can't. I've known him the longest, craved him the most. I feel the closest to him. I have to start in reverse.

So I choose the blond alpha. Kyrian. I've only talked to him once, and he feels… more distanced than the others, his cool gray eyes watching me dispassionately as I let the imaginary mask fall back over my face, tilting my painted lips into a smile, batting my lashes as I strut, putting an extra sway to my hips.

Don't engage your mind, I remind myself, let alone your heart. This is a job, no matter who you're dancing for. It's a trade. You work for money. You dance, take the money, and go.

That's it. Simple.

Don't make it into anything else. After all, it was their choice to stay, to pay. What possessed them to come here?

I silence the screaming inside my head and walk around Kyrian's chair until I'm in front of him. I bow forward, letting him see my cleavage, then slowly straighten, smirking. I shift my weight from hip to hip, hands on my waist, licking my lips.

It's just the basics for now, and I don't expect any reaction from the man, but he leans forward a little, his breath coming out sharp.

Interesting.

But then I make the mistake of studying his face more and good Lord, he's gorgeous. Cheekbones like blades, eyes like ice-shards, lips like sin, and that powerful body…

Gah, why did I think it would be easier to start with him? With any of them? I step closer and his scent hits me. Leather polish and aromatic smoke, entwined with that deep musk.

Gah.

Another mistake.

Face it, Brin. No matter what you do here tonight, there is no good way. No easy way.

I turn and bend again, my short dress riding up to show him my black lacy panties, and he groans.

That tortured sound… It goes straight to my core, and I clench inside.

This alpha is hot. Why did I ever think him cold and distant?

To buy time and compose myself, I move away from him, dancing around their table to the elegant beta lounging in the chair next to Sawyer.

Roman.

His dark eyes widen when I make my way to him, as if he never counted on being next. Thing is, I have a weakness for beta and omega males. Don't get me wrong, I love alphas, the growly, hulking beefcakes of the world, but betas and omegas look more… normal, somehow. Less over the top.

Though this beta sure is over the top handsome. Uh-oh. I'm in trouble again, escaping from the blond alpha god only to be ensnared by the dark gaze of this graceful Fae prince—and yeah, I may have read one Fae romance book too many lately. He sure looks like one, all elegant lines, broad cheekbones and finely muscled arms, an artist's fingers and a dreamer's mouth.

Does that make sense? No? It doesn't matter. It makes sense to me, and as I dance, doing a little sexy shimmy with my hips, lifting my arms over my head, throwing my head back and grinning like a lunatic, I wonder if I can get away with calling him Cardan, after my favorite literary Fae prince.

Inside my head, of course. Not out loud. Nope.

Though Cardan was a bit of a douche. I bet Roman isn't like that. But what do I know? I strut around his chair, placing one hand on his shoulder—ooh, nice muscle padding there—and I'm gratified to have him twist his head around like an owl to watch me.

God, he smells amazing, too, and ignoring it isn't going to work. I bet by now my panties are drenched, but I keep dancing.

Next up is my little ‘sex-routine.' I nudge his legs apart and put my hands on his chest, then I roll my hips as if riding him.

"Fuck," he breathes, swallowing hard, the slight Adam's apple in his throat moving. He lifts his hands, then clenches them into fists as if just remembering he isn't allowed to touch.

And I want him to touch me.

Bad idea…

So I quickly pull away, straightening and trying to get my bearings. Sawyer is gazing at me, but I can't bear to look into his eyes, can't bear this at all, so I turn to my last refuge:

The dark-haired alpha who called me to their table.

Archer.

I think I see a flash of hurt going over Sawyer's face, but I can't deal with it right now. I'm hanging on to my sanity by a thread as it is.

To reach Archer, I have to go back around the table, walking past Kyrian whose hands are now clenched in his lap, his gaze like knives on me. He's like a wild, untamed animal, beautiful and savage. My heart is in my throat and my panties definitely soaked as my leg brushes against his.

He murmurs a curse.

At my approach, Archer doesn't move, his gaze watching, measuring, analyzing my every move. If Kyrian is a wild animal, Archer is an apex predator, danger lurking in his blue eyes.

The dollars flutter, loosely held in one hand.

Is it a play, a game, or is he serious? He wants to be a customer? Is that what he thought would be best to do, after I sent them away? Is he the sort of man to feel his macho pride hurt and seek to hurt me in other ways? Embarrass me? Demean me?

It hadn't crossed my mind until now, and cold sweat pours down my back.

He waits, not moving a muscle, for me to take another step.

I take it, gritting my teeth. There's no backing down now. I bet my boss is watching me, ready to cut my pay if I create any trouble with the customers, and I need that money. God, how I need it. The lure of the dollars in Archer's hand is in fact enough to get me moving again.

That cash is why I'm here in the first place. They are the intruders, not me. I'm just doing my job to pay the bills. So I take another step, and another, until I'm standing in front of him.

The low table with their untouched drinks is at my back, Archer before me. I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place.

The lines of his face are harsh and yet harmonious. A classic alpha. The sharp square of his jaw fits perfectly with his lean cheeks and strong chin, the fine lips and the Roman nose, the high forehead and the short dark hair. A classic statue of a man, an ode to masculinity, and yet that predatory light still shining in his gaze turns him from a man into a tiger ready to pounce.

I'm frozen, a deer caught in the headlights, and he's still sprawled there, one hand—the one holding the cash—carelessly resting on a muscular thigh, the other arm draped over the back of his padded chair.

He nods at me. "Dance," he says. I have to read his lips, the music is too loud, filling my ears. "Dance for me, Baby Doll."

Breathing is hard. His scent is powerful, as powerful as his body. He's shed his jacket, his light blue shirt stretching enticingly over his shoulders and biceps, over his broad, muscular chest. It matches his eyes, it matches the morning sky, a contrast to his dark scent.

But his low, deep voice galvanizes me, gets me moving. I let my hips sway, let my hands roam over my body, sliding them up my sides, then under my boobs, presenting them to him. I find my rhythm, tearing my gaze from his chest, his face, his thick thighs, good God, he's hot, to stare at a point over his head, pretending I'm dancing on my own, like I do when nerves assault me.

I pretend I'm facing the mirror, rehearsing my moves, that I'm not surrounded by people—or facing the four men who have been living rent-free in my fantasies since I met them.

Move that ass, Brin.

I tilt my head and cant my hips to the side.

Then I lift one foot and plant the tip of my strappy sandal on the chair, right between his spread legs. It forces me to look down, not to do any damage to the package there—and I keep my eyes down as I use that leverage point to bend forward, sliding my hands through my hair, licking my lips.

Working it.

I slide my hands back down my body, then along my thigh to my knee, down my calf to my foot. A flicker of movement from him. He's watching.

Good.

I lean back a little, step closer, until I'm standing pressed to the chair, his thighs casing my body. I sway my hips, flick them right, then left. Toss my hair, smile, bend and circle my hips.

Are you watching the show, alpha? You wanted this. So here I am.

I steal a glance at his face. His expression is shuttered, eyes-half-closed. Is he indifferent to me? But then he lets out a controlled breath, and I can see the tension in his strong frame.

His gaze moves from my knee up my leg to where my dress has ridden up. I drop my foot back to the floor and dance between his thighs, undulating my body, lifting my hands, spearing my hands through my hair, throwing my head back.

"Goddammit," he growls, his indifferent fa?ade finally broken—and it wasn't until now I realized I'd done my best to shatter it. I wanted to see his mask slip, his hands tremble, his control crack.

He lifts his hand. He's not supposed to touch me. Is he so far gone? Have I broken him so perfectly?

But he lets the money in his fist flutter to the floor and grabs his crotch instead with a groan I feel deep in my belly.

All the arousal, all the built-up, the tension gathering in my core as I danced before them, flares, and I clench. Not a release, but a presage to one, and… this has never happened to me before.

From dancing.

From being close to anyone.

With a gasp, shocked by my body's reaction, I stumble away, my feet going from under me?—

Strong hands catch me, pull me back, landing me on something—something warm and solid.

Glancing up, I realize with a start that I've landed squarely in Sawyer's lap.

The exact place I'd done my best to avoid.

His scent wraps around me just as his hands land on my waist—not allowed, but this is Sawyer—and I'm gone.