late-afternoon blow jobs. The dancers don’t even turn me on anymore. All I see are girls who need a second chance. Girls who need someone to protect them because no one ever has.
The way I should have protected my sister.
And Penny.
But here’s a woman who I want. The second Ben started joking about how her breasts were too flawless to be natural and how he’d be finding out for himself later tonight, I told him he was fired, and I wasn’t kidding. He and Nate exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him look and then I guess Ben clued in, because he asked what was going on between Charlie and me. I decided that I needed to leave before I made more of an ass of myself.
So I bolted.
I don’t know if I can handle knowing she’s doing that in my club daily. A temptation that I might not be able to ignore indefinitely because, dammit, this feeling is as addictive as a heroin high.
Hiring her would be a bad idea.
I acknowledge this even as I glance at the stack of papers sitting on my passenger seat. Charlie’s application, her identification, everything I need to forward to my investigator. Just looking at it, at the photocopy of her face, reminds me of my present discomfort. I adjust myself. It’s a little after eleven o’clock. Even with my normal four hours of sleep and a two-hour workout, tonight will be a fucking long night.
I hit the dial button located on my steering wheel.
■ ■ ■
“It’s been a while,” Rebecka purrs, sauntering through my front door. The woman’s voice has a crispness to it that borders on snotty. Until she’s screaming, anyway.
“I’ve been busy,” I manage to get out around a mouthful of cognac.
“I’m glad you called.” Flipping her hands through her jet-black hair, she adds, “Even though it’s late.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“And you will too, soon.” Blood rushes to my cock with her promise. Sharp blue eyes roam my cabinetry as she steps into the kitchen. “Property value has gone up. I could make you a ton of money if you sold now.” It was her real estate agency that sold this condo to me in the first place. Sometimes I think she keeps coming back as much for the business opportunity as the sex. I think she might just be that kind of woman.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her in a dry tone as I watch her turn and stalk toward me slowly, a teasing smile on those red-painted lips of hers.
Her fingers go right for my pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper. “You do that.”
That will be the extent of our conversation for the night.
In seconds, Rebecka is on her knees with those lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length in. With a groan, I set my glass down. Grabbing the back of her head with a hand, I pull her against me. Normally I would never do that to a woman, but Rebecka likes it.
She asks me to do a lot of things other women might not like.
Things that should give me a few hours of distraction before I have to decide what to do about Charlie.
chapter eight
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
“Charlie Rourke. Twenty-two . . .” Insipid brown eyes slide down my body as he does a slow circle around me. I’m down to nothing but my white thong underwear. He made me undress before any conversation began.
Now, it’s all I can do to pace my breathing and not coil my arms around myself.
With that swollen belly protruding beneath an ill-fitted green-and-white striped golf tee, Rick Cassidy looks like he could be suffering from the impossible: male pregnancy. But it’s not his belly that makes him so unappealing. It’s not even the tuft of hair climbing out the back of his shirt, or his disproportionately skinny legs, or the comb-over, or his misshapen nose, or his porn star mustache.
It’s that phony smile—empty of authenticity, full of bad intentions—that makes my skin want to crawl into my bones. He’s everything I pictured a strip club owner would be. “You’re what . . .” Coming back around to face me, he
The way I should have protected my sister.
And Penny.
But here’s a woman who I want. The second Ben started joking about how her breasts were too flawless to be natural and how he’d be finding out for himself later tonight, I told him he was fired, and I wasn’t kidding. He and Nate exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him look and then I guess Ben clued in, because he asked what was going on between Charlie and me. I decided that I needed to leave before I made more of an ass of myself.
So I bolted.
I don’t know if I can handle knowing she’s doing that in my club daily. A temptation that I might not be able to ignore indefinitely because, dammit, this feeling is as addictive as a heroin high.
Hiring her would be a bad idea.
I acknowledge this even as I glance at the stack of papers sitting on my passenger seat. Charlie’s application, her identification, everything I need to forward to my investigator. Just looking at it, at the photocopy of her face, reminds me of my present discomfort. I adjust myself. It’s a little after eleven o’clock. Even with my normal four hours of sleep and a two-hour workout, tonight will be a fucking long night.
I hit the dial button located on my steering wheel.
■ ■ ■
“It’s been a while,” Rebecka purrs, sauntering through my front door. The woman’s voice has a crispness to it that borders on snotty. Until she’s screaming, anyway.
“I’ve been busy,” I manage to get out around a mouthful of cognac.
“I’m glad you called.” Flipping her hands through her jet-black hair, she adds, “Even though it’s late.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“And you will too, soon.” Blood rushes to my cock with her promise. Sharp blue eyes roam my cabinetry as she steps into the kitchen. “Property value has gone up. I could make you a ton of money if you sold now.” It was her real estate agency that sold this condo to me in the first place. Sometimes I think she keeps coming back as much for the business opportunity as the sex. I think she might just be that kind of woman.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her in a dry tone as I watch her turn and stalk toward me slowly, a teasing smile on those red-painted lips of hers.
Her fingers go right for my pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper. “You do that.”
That will be the extent of our conversation for the night.
In seconds, Rebecka is on her knees with those lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length in. With a groan, I set my glass down. Grabbing the back of her head with a hand, I pull her against me. Normally I would never do that to a woman, but Rebecka likes it.
She asks me to do a lot of things other women might not like.
Things that should give me a few hours of distraction before I have to decide what to do about Charlie.
chapter eight
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
“Charlie Rourke. Twenty-two . . .” Insipid brown eyes slide down my body as he does a slow circle around me. I’m down to nothing but my white thong underwear. He made me undress before any conversation began.
Now, it’s all I can do to pace my breathing and not coil my arms around myself.
With that swollen belly protruding beneath an ill-fitted green-and-white striped golf tee, Rick Cassidy looks like he could be suffering from the impossible: male pregnancy. But it’s not his belly that makes him so unappealing. It’s not even the tuft of hair climbing out the back of his shirt, or his disproportionately skinny legs, or the comb-over, or his misshapen nose, or his porn star mustache.
It’s that phony smile—empty of authenticity, full of bad intentions—that makes my skin want to crawl into my bones. He’s everything I pictured a strip club owner would be. “You’re what . . .” Coming back around to face me, he
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