Or did I?
I stopped dead in front of my building, forgetting all about cooling down with a slow jog. Hell, forgetting about everything except this one, slim possibility.
It just might work.
A long shot, but it was all I had at the moment—and with a fresh burst of excitement I sprinted up the stairs to my door and hoped like hell that all the pieces I needed would fall into place.
Chapter Fifteen
Rihanna’s “S&M” blared out of the speakers, all confidence and fire, singing about how good she was at being bad. About sex. Attraction. Excitement and heat.
And there I was, my white-gloved hands sliding provocatively up and down the steel pole, my stocking clad leg hooked as high as I dared for fear of losing my balance, and at least high enough to show off the garter that held the stocking in place.
I’d come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who’d taken the stage during the club’s Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I’d been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn’t let me on the stage.
Now I was nervous that he wasn’t even there, and that all this would be for nothing.
When the lights had first gone up—when the first strains of music had pulsed out—my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I’d moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.
I’d been in and out of enough strip joints to know that as gentleman’s clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.
There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.
The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman’s club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.
Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn’t start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.
The end result, however, was the same. And I’d begun the evening feeling more than a little twitchy.
Sapphire, one of Destiny’s regular dancers who was in charge of wrangling the six of us who’d entered the amateur night contest, had given us a pre-performance pep talk. “If you’re nervous, just draw out the seduction. You’ll want to take it all off eventually—at least if you want a shot at the prize. But you can take your time with the stripping until you find your rhythm. Just keep it hot and sexy.”
Good advice, and though it had taken some time—as in, the entire length of The Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself”—I’d finally managed to kick it up.
I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn’t deny that I was getting into it.
I remembered the heat I’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when I’d stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he’d fought for control.
I drew on the memory of how much he’d wanted me—of how much I’d wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.
And I remembered the way he’d touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?
It had—oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn’t deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.
It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.
But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn’t have the same impact on me. I wasn’t dancing for them. It wasn’t these men who made me want to put on a show.
For that, I had to imagine Tyler.
Tyler, sitting in the dark.
Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.
He wasn’t really there—not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.
So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He’d gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn’t there to see any of it.
It frustrated me that I cared—that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.
I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who was tempted.
He was everything I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.
I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.
I’d spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I’d come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.
Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn’t tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.
I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.