Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
I strode past him, trying and failing to ignore the heat between us. He was right about everything, of course, but that didn’t change a damn thing. “I’m not a conquest,” I said, as I passed him.
“Who said you were?”
“It’s in your eyes.”
“You know what else is in my eyes?”
“What?” I faltered, looked back, searched them.
“The vitreous body. Don’t ever say I didn’t teach you anything,” he quipped.
I turned and made for the door, just to take a goddamn break from the scent of his cologne and the intense pull to touch him. My foot hit the leg of the coffee table, and I yelped, tumbling forward. The too-classy-for-me carpet rushed up to meet me.
Jax flashed forward, caught me around the waist and righted me. “Careful,” he said, breathing on my ear, still holding me close. “Don’t go falling for me now.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Chapter 9
Jax
The inside of my office screamed “rich as fuck” at the top of its voice. Wood-paneled walls, leather furniture, a carpet of rich red, and a desk long enough to serve three men rather than one. Fuck it, I was worth three men.
This room was clean, simply because I hardly ever sat behind this desk. It was one of many “private offices” in one of the many clubs I owned in Miami. Club Queen was the flagship, so I spent more time here than in any of the others, but it still didn’t feel like “my” office.
I came to check on the girls, to make sure my manager, Maurice, had everything under control, and to vet new girls if necessary. Other than that, I was out buying property, traveling, meeting with other executives, finding new business opportunities.
My phone pinged, and I checked it. I’d already finished my meetings for the day—this was yet another reminder for the conference call I had planned with potential investors tomorrow.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Usually, I’d be amped for a meeting. Work was all I did. Work, eating, fucking, sleeping. The usual shit. But today, I couldn’t summon up any excitement at the prospect of yet another business meeting.
The men were fucking goobers, but that wasn’t what bothered me.
None of it technically bothered me.
It was her.
I’d learned long ago that women were trouble. All the ones I’d encountered either wanted money or sex. A sugar daddy. Riley didn’t want anything to do with me.
Very fucking weird.
My uncle, the OG strip club owner, had told me that women were timesucks, moneysucks, every kind of suck except the one you wanted. He’d said it in front of my aunt too, and that had ended in another fight.
Their relationship had been the only proof I needed that love and emotion was a farce.
I swiped my thumb across my phone’s screen and rid myself of the alert. I opened up a text and typed one out.
“I’m picking you up tonight.” I sent it to Riley, then locked the screen again.
I had to fucking have her.
Sleeping down the hall from her was absolute torture, and that little pizza date last night had done nothing to assuage my need. Knowing her hadn’t turned me off.
My cell pinged, and I lifted it again.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied. “I’ll grab a cab and get there myself.”
“No.”
A second passed, followed by another annoying ping. Man, why couldn’t they make message tones that were pleasing to the ear?
I opened Riley’s response. “We’re roommates. I don’t need you to pick me up like you’re my daddy. I’m fine.”
Her daddy? I laughed under my breath. Regardless, I’d be at that dance studio this evening. Riley was… special? Shit, I was whipped after nothing but one night of pussy and another of pizza. Killer combination.
I had to quit thinking about her. I stowed the phone in my pants pocket and tapped my fingers on the edge of my desk.
“New dancer,” I muttered. “We need a new dancer.” That was what I’d focus on. I had to get another girl, because Tina, god bless her, had gotten pregnant and decided that her slightly effeminate boyfriend Rich would build her a house, buy her a crib, and transform her into the perfect Stepford housewife.
Thoughts of Tina’s pregnancy brought me back to Riley. How she’d had her one desire denied by the person she’d thought she’d loved. And how she’d look in one of the tight corsets the strippers at Club Queen wore.
Swinging around the pole, lifting herself, bending, displaying her ass.
No men in the room, of course. Just me and her. A scotch and a cigar. And slowly, ever so slowly, she’d strip off the corset, drop it to the floor. She’d touch herself, drag her fingers over her puffy nipples, down her sternum, over that toned belly to the glittery G-string beneath.
And she’d shimmy, work her body out of it.
“Fuck.” This was the opposite of productive.