Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 111435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
So yes, I was used to the male gaze. I made money off it. And I was never, ever impressed by the owner of that male gaze until right fucking now.
I was still dressed in clothes from work. Granted, not the teeny G-string or the nipple tassels I wore when I was actually working, but what I wore in and out of the club was what I considered somewhat of a uniform. What I wore everywhere, actually. My clothes made no secret of the fact that I was a stripper. They were always tight, short and revealed of all of my assets.
Tonight was no different.
My skirt was black, as were the boots that finished mid-thigh, showing only a sliver of my tanned legs between the two. The heels on my boots were high—very high— though I’d been dancing on stage in much higher heels for the past few hours. I’d been doing this long enough that I barely had feeling in my feet any longer. Beyond that, I needed the height. Without them, I felt small, vulnerable. The same way I felt without my tight, revealing clothes. They were, in a sense, my armor. I showed a lot of skin, but it distracted from other things.
My cropped tank exposed my midriff, skimming over my D-cups, showing ample cleavage. My arms were exposed, tattoos scattered over them. Not full sleeves, more of a mishmash of things that meant something to me. Memories, moments. A large butterfly on my inner elbow done in watercolor. Script running from my shoulder to my wrist. Little things. They suited me. Or at least I thought they did.
I was used to people looking. Men looking. Women, more often than not, turning their noses up at me, dismissing me as a ‘slut’ and hating me for whatever reason. Maybe because their husband was staring too long or too obviously, perhaps because they had a whole bunch of internalized misogyny or had some self-confidence issues. Of course, sometimes they were just bitches.
Despite the stares, the attention—almost always negative, because let’s face it, the male gaze is always fucking negative—I couldn’t leave the house without looking like this. Without my heels, my exposed skin, my hair ‘done’, my makeup fierce and my nails long, never chipped. As my Aunt Victoria always said, “life is gonna throw some shit at you, honey, no escaping that. No changing that. But you can make sure you always look good while life fucks you over.”
This man with the honeyed gaze was redefining the fucking male gaze, and I swear, I blacked out a little before I realized I was staring back at him, slack-jawed. My eyes darted to the sofa, expecting to see my patient either unconscious or gritting his teeth, trying to look tough in front of his hot doctor. Instead, he was glaring. At me. As if I hadn’t potentially just saved his life. Or made the stab wound worse depending on how accurate Grey’s Anatomy and YouTube were.
His glare doused all the fire from his friend’s scrutiny. Every single ounce of it. My blood chilled. My entire body did.
It was an effort, a great fucking effort, to tear my gaze from his, but I managed it, and when I did, the man with the honey eyes was looking between the two of us grinning. Fucking grinning as if his buddy wasn’t trying his best to kill me with his glare.
“Can I get anyone anything?” I asked, wringing my hands while watching Sarah work on the bleeding man—how did I still not know his name?—on my sofa.
It would have been rude to ask them to move so he didn’t stain the cushions I spent far too much money on, wouldn’t it? Yeah, it would.
“A soda? Beer? I could make a quick cheeseboard? I don’t have bleu, which is a controversial cheese, but personally, I don’t think a board is complete without it. I do have a creamy Camembert and a lovely Wisconsin sharp cheddar, though,” I continued, babbling because I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
Did I really just offer to make a cheeseboard while a woman was performing battlefield surgery on top of my hundred-dollar cushions?
Yes, yes I had.
The man with the hazelnut eyes smirked at me, my ovaries feeling that smirk. “As much as I love a creamy Camembert and a sharp cheddar, I’ll have to take a raincheck on that one, darlin’. But trust me, I’ll hold you to it.”
I swallowed roughly. The man’s voice was silky caramel, but something else too. Something that didn’t heat my blood but chilled it instead. As attractive as this man was, as quick as he was to a sarcastic quip, he was dangerous. Really fucking dangerous.
Just like the other two.
Well, not like the guy bleeding on my cushions. He was something else entirely. The large, hulking, older man shook his head once. I guessed that was a no, so I guessed it would’ve been considered rude if I walked to my freezer, unearthed my bottle of Teremana—because “The Rock” was all-around awesome, and he made epic tequila—and slammed four shots.