Love the Way You Lie (Stripped #1) (3 page)

The VIP room is really a miniature of the Grand. And his lap is my stage. His thighs are solid beneath my ass. I’m sitting, legs spread, arms at my side, chin up—totally open to him. It’s dark here, but designed so he can look at my body up close. Except he’s not looking at my body. He’s looking at my eyes, and it almost takes my breath away, the wildness I glimpse in his.

And I need to take this spotlight off me. “So what do you want, Kip? What do you like?”

Dark lashes hide his eyes. “I’d like your real name.”

“It’s not for sale.” And I’m still not sure why I wanted to tell him. It had almost slipped out. He’s like a truth serum to me, and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

“Honey—”

“I’m here because you’re paying me,” I say, desperate to push him away. Desperate to hide. “Don’t forget that.”

He looks at me, and I watch his eyes harden. I can see the branches and brambles that he grows between us, feel the thorns where they push me out. He wants to dislike me. He wants to hate me. I don’t know why, but I recognize the cold, hollow feeling in my gut when he looks at me. And I brace myself.

“You want to know what I like?” His gaze roams leisurely over my body. Then he looks me in the eye. “I want to fuck you, Honey. That’s what I’d like.”

My eyes fall shut. What is that feeling inside me? Relief? Disgust? It feels almost like gratitude. He wants to fuck, like every other guy wants. He’s not here to expose my identity, not here to drag me back. He just wants to get his rocks off.

“That’s not for sale either. I’m here to dance, to shake my tits. To rub them against you. That’s it.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t like how crude I’m being. He knows it’s a weapon I’m wielding, but he’s not injured. He’s fighting back. Oh yes, there is something wild left in him. If he were in the jungle now, I’m not so sure he’d be the boy. He’s much more likely a panther. Dangerous. A predator. “Hands or mouth, your choice.”

“I said no.”

“These rooms aren’t just for dancing. I know that as well as you.”

Yes, these rooms are for more than dancing, but that doesn’t mean I do more. I don’t have to, especially if I don’t like the way the man treats me. That’s a rule Ivan has for us. A twisted form of protection. I start to leave, but his hand squeezes the back of my neck. I grow still.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly.

Fear races through my veins. He’s already hurting me, by holding me here when I want to leave. “Then what do you call this?” I whisper.

“Keeping you. For a little while. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

God. He makes it sound so reasonable. But it’s not. I know it’s not. If it were any other man, I would have twisted away and run out of the booth. I would have been calling for Blue. We’re a long way from the man who told me about poetry and childhood dreams, but I can’t forget that he did. He’s the same man, light and dark, petal and thorn. “Let me go,” I say, my voice wavering, unsteady.

“Hands or mouth,” he repeats.

I close my eyes. My eyes burn with unshed tears. I don’t want to cry. It’s like waving a red flag at men like him. But the hands sliding down my body are surprisingly gentle. Over my abs and down to my…

“What are you doing?” I jerk away, but he’s got one hand on my hip.

His eyes are dark, knowing. “If you won’t decide, I will.”

“I’m not going to blow you,” I say, feeling small, like I’ve lost all control of the situation.

“I didn’t tell you to,” he says, one hand between my legs. The backs of his fingertips brush over my pussy. The thin strip of fabric over my pussy. “I want to fuck you with my fingers. I want to play with your clit until you come. Or maybe I’ll slide my tongue over your pussy until you’re crying loud enough for the whole club to hear, hmm? Your choice, Honey.”

All the air rushes out of me. I don’t know why it’s so shocking. A blowjob is way dirtier than what he’s asking for. But I’ve never had a man want to get me off. Typically they’d fumble around with my breasts, then come in my hands. I should tell him no again, like I did before. Blue would back me up. Ivan would protect me in this.

But there’s a part of me intrigued by what he’s offering. “Why?”

Amusement glints in his eyes. “The usual reasons.”

It’s so crazy I laugh, and my laugh sounds crazy too. “I’m not going to come, you know.”

He considers this as he turns his hand and cups my pussy. He isn’t waiting until we’ve negotiated a price. He isn’t waiting for permission. And I’m letting him.
Oh God.
He finds my clit with his thumb and gently circles.

He trails callused fingertips down my pussy and back up again. Slow. Focused. He seems to be making a study of me, mapping out my body. I’ve never had anyone go this slow, this careful. Never had hands so large be gentle.

“I wanted to touch you since I first saw you walk onto the stage. Whether I have to pay or not, whether you return the favor or not, I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to finger this pretty cunt until you gush all over my hand. I’m going to keep going until you’re slick with it, until my jeans are damp with you, until the scent of your sex is in the air.”

I stare at him, somehow shocked, as if I’ve never heard these dirty words or witnessed these dirty acts. And I haven’t—not the words in that order. Not with my body reacting, getting tight and wet for him. I think I actually might come for him.

“No,” I whisper.

His fingers don’t stop stroking me. If anything they slip in deeper. “That’s what I want around my dick. Not your hands or your mouth. I want the juice from your pussy. When you’re wet and coming, I’m going to dip my fingers inside your pretty pussy. I’ll cover my dick with your juices, just like it would be if I fucked you bareback.”

I could imagine him then, cock heavy with arousal, glistening with my wetness. His cock would be large, like his hands and his whole body are large.

In the end it isn’t his blunt fingers against my clit. Not even the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes. What pushes me over is the clean, earthy scent of him. I lean close, pressing my nose to his neck and breathing in deep as I come.

I stay there, pressed into every hollow place in him, somehow finding solace in the hard angles of his body. He is a mountain, and I am the shadows that fill every nook and cave around him.

Reality comes back to me, along with embarrassment. And confusion. I’ve never come in this room. Never in this building. God, I haven’t even masturbated in forever—so worn down from hiding, so shamed by the place I’m hiding in, this strip club.

I’m hiding in him now.

How did he do this to me? One hour ago I had never seen this man, never imagined getting turned on in this dank room. Never sought comfort against rough, whisker-ticklish skin. He’s changing me, teaching me to want more than survival.

Dangerous.

“Okay?” he asks, voice gruff.

Maybe he can tell I’m emotional. But if he thinks I need to feel dead inside to do my job, he’s wrong. Lola is the strong one, the one who performs without feeling a thing. Candy does it too, even if she needs drugs to manage it. But I’ve never been able to find that numbness. I feel it all—every insult, every grope. Every cock. And now I would feel his thick cock too.

That doesn’t seem like the worst thing.

“How do you want me?” My voice trembles, but that doesn’t stop him.

His fingers are cupping my pussy, unmoving, letting me recover. Now he dips his finger inside, where I am the most sensitive and wet. Then he lifts his hand to my mouth. One stroke, painting my lips with my arousal, heating up every nerve ending. His head dips, and I know what’s coming next. But I don’t turn my face away. I don’t tell him kisses aren’t for sale.

I let him taste me on my lips. He licks the wetness, a slow swipe of his tongue that makes me gasp. My lips part, and he takes full advantage. His tongue pushes inside, opening me. His hand at the back of my neck is my only anchor while his mouth claims mine.

It’s almost too much. Too intense.

“
How do you want me?
” I’m demanding this time. I need to know. Because I need to stop this strange intimacy that only increases with every murmured word and tender touch.

“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”

My eyes widen. How does he know?

Maybe he’s not really that perceptive. Maybe all the men that come through here can see I’m terrified, but they don’t care as long as I make them hard.

“How do you want me?” My voice is hoarse, pleading.
This is all I have to give. Take it.

His jaw tightens. “I want you like this. Spread open. Waiting for me to do whatever I want to you.”

His hand returns to my pussy, and I feel relief. Disappointment too. It hurts that he’s stopped kissing me, because for some reason I liked it. And I know, most likely, it won’t happen again. Not tonight. Not ever again. But it’s for the best. I shouldn’t get used to this.

He pulls more wetness from my core and paints my nipples—first one, then the other. I shiver under his touch. It’s more like shaking, really. Because I know what comes next, the same thing he did to my mouth.

He pulls me up so my breasts are in front of his face. He licks the wetness off my nipple, sucks me until I moan. Then he gives my other breast the same treatment.

And I can’t say anything. Can’t demand to know how he wants me. He dips his fingers one more time, deep inside me, pulling out all the wetness he can find. I clench around his fingers and hear his breath catch.

He doesn’t put my arousal on my body, not this time. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckles his pants and pulls himself out. He’s as hard as I imagined. As big. As slick at the tip. He runs a fist down his length, mixing my arousal with his precum over his cock.

I can’t say anything, but I don’t have to.
How do you want me?
I know how he wants me, and I slide to the floor. The floor that’s cold and dusty and damp at the same time, unforgiving against my shins. I’m more comfortable here. Safer. Because this
is
for sale. And I have the upper hand now. Sex is a battlefield, and this concrete floor is my country to defend.

“What’s your name?” His voice is low—and desperate? That can’t be right. He doesn’t need anything from me. He could have gone to a bar. With that hard jaw and hard body, he would have had his pick. Any girl would have hopped on the back of the motorcycle I suspect he has. And yet he’s here.

He can pay for my mouth. He can even pay for my orgasms. He doesn’t get my name.

“Honey.”

He laughs, a little coarse, a little bitter. But his eyes, they understand. They’re almost soft, tender as they look down at me kneeling. “Pretty little liar.”

But when I lean forward to take him in my mouth, he pushes me away. He fists his cock, fucking himself, still slick from my pussy. He’s taking himself fast and hard—almost like a punishment.

He took his time with me, but not with himself. Now he races himself to the finish line, fist and hips at war until he tenses and comes, spilling into his own hand while I kneel before him and watch.

He collapses back onto the chair, still sprawled but truly relaxed now. Not tense or wary. Not carefully banked power like I felt before. Now he is an animal in repose, a lion spread across a rock, bathing in the sun—even if the rock is a creaking wooden chair, straining under his force. Even if the sun is the flicker of fluorescent lights from the edges of the velvet curtain. It’s still primal.

Still beautiful.

His eyes are closed. His head falls back.

And for some reason I almost tell him my name. I form it with my lips and tongue, but he can’t see. I don’t know why I’d ever tell him…except that I want someone to see me here. To know me here. So that I don’t have to feel alone.

But he isn’t here to know me. He isn’t here to save me either.

Alertness breathes into him again. His expression is sated and…grateful. “C’mere,” he says on a grunt.

And before I can do what he says, he lifts me into his lap. He tucks my legs over the side of his and kisses me—slow, languid swipes of his tongue against mine.

I push away from him, staggering back. I don’t have my balance yet, but it doesn’t matter. I shove aside the velvet curtain and run. He hasn’t paid me, but I don’t care.

“What the hell?” Blue asks, grabbing my arm.

But I break free and keep running. I don’t care what happens behind me. I don’t care about Kip or the fact that I’ll never see him again.

It’s better if I don’t.

I read my mother’s diary until the day she left. That’s how I knew about her affair with the guards. More than one, although it was the last man who got her killed. She thought she loved him.

And she was planning to leave my father.

In that diary I saw her ticket to Tanglewood, West Virginia. There were two words scrawled on the ticket—
The Grand
. I’d never heard of it then, but it became a kind of North Star for me. As a teenager I had to stay with my family.

And when I’d finally run, I’d known just where we’d go.

I just hadn’t known it was a strip club until I arrived.

A
stranger looks
at me from the mirror.

Black thong and red lipstick. They’re my costume, but sometimes it feels like I don’t need them. I’ve been hiding long enough that it feels more natural than honesty. My green eyes and black hair and pale skin are a costume too. I use them to disguise myself when I strip—just another set of tits and ass. How deep does that costume go?

Is there anything underneath?

I’m not sure anymore.

Lola crosses the room toward me. I watch her in the mirror, even when she perches on my vanity table. She wears some kind of red-leather strap bodice that shows more skin than it covers. It looks sexy and almost alien. “What happened?” she asks.

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. That’s Candy’s routine. I know something’s eating you. And I know you left early last night. Some guy get fresh?”

Yeah, some guy had gotten fresh. But it had happened before and never affected me like this. It’s a good sign that she doesn’t know what happened though. It means Blue probably collected the money and made excuses for me. I’ll owe him one now. “I wasn’t feeling well.”