chapter 3 #2
Turning, I keep my hands over my breasts, hiding them from him. Every moment of a dance is a moment to get the audience reengaged, to invite them to be curious.
But he looks plenty engaged.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as I slide my hands from my boobs to my neck, then twist my body, letting my nipple piercings catch the dim red lighting as my hair slips over my shoulder.
Then I’m on my knees on the floor, crawling toward him, clad in nothing but my tiny blue G-string. I part his thighs and slink up between them, rubbing my hands over the hard-on straining against the zipper of his jeans.
He’s breathing harder now, pupils dilated as he watches me. But he doesn’t reach out to grab my tits or shove his thumb into my mouth, like so many others do—and get kicked out for. Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, obeying my rules, looking but not touching.
And for some reason, as I’m on my knees before him, I almost wish I did extras, almost wish I had it in me to fuck him right here on this velvet couch.
But I don’t do extras. Not even for pretty rock stars with dimples in their cheeks.
The song ends, and I ease myself off the floor and into his lap as the next one starts: “Free” by 6LACK.
And when I press my naked breasts against him, feeling his broad chest and pounding heart beneath my palms, I feel myself get . . .
Turned on.
When I dance, I feel powerful. Confident. But it doesn’t make me horny—at least, not very often. It’s a job, and I’m an actress. A fantasy. A mirage in the middle of this endless fucking desert.
But my body is betraying me right now. And I don’t understand it.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
I move one of his hands to my waist—slightly lower than I usually would. “Mirage.” My eyes meet his, and I blink slowly. “What’s yours?”
In the past, when I’ve asked celebrities who they are, they’ve gotten offended, like I should know who they are. But this guy doesn’t miss a beat, like he doesn’t expect me to recognize him.
“Sebastian.”
“Sebastian,” I repeat. My lips pull up on one side. Riley’s going to lose it when I tell her I danced for someone in LGC. “And who are you, Sebastian?”
His brown eyes flick down as I run my fingertips across my nipple piercings, then quickly meet mine. “I . . .” He blinks. Then those dimples appear in his cheeks again. “I don’t have a fucking clue.” He laughs that boyish laugh, jostling me in his lap, making my tits bounce.
And it makes me laugh.
And worse, it makes me want to kiss him.
I’ve been writhing in his lap, slow and sensual, but I lose my focus, my gaze going to his mouth. He’s got a dark shadow of a beard, and I reach out to trail my hand across it, feeling his stubble against my palm. His eyes flutter closed, just for a second. Time slows down around me.
And I almost do it. I almost lean forward and press my mouth to his.
I want to. Just one kiss.
But that would be breaking all my rules, stepping over the boundaries I’ve etched in stone.
I don’t kiss, and I don’t fuck—not even for rock stars.
I just dance.
If this were anywhere else, anywhere but the club, I would. I’d wrap my fingers around his neck and crush my lips to his. I’d drag my teeth along his throat and pull him down on top of me, just to feel his weight between my thighs.
But this isn’t anywhere else. And right now, I’m not even Remi. I’m Mirage.
And in many ways, I’m not even real.
Which means this can’t be either. It never is.
So I push those desires down, and Sebastian’s eyes open again.
The dim red light in the private room glows over me, my body casting a shadow across his face.
I resume my dance, trying to regain my focus.
It’s not often that cracks appear in my armor, and I quickly patch them up, ensuring none of my real skin shows through. I don’t do vulnerability here.
As the song ends, leaving us in momentary quiet, Sebastian looks up at me through dark lashes and says, “Why Mirage?”
I settle my weight onto his lap. He’s still hard, but not in a demanding, uncontrolled kind of way—more like his cock is nicely asking for permission to fuck me. But still, I resist.
I turn his question over in my mind. Most men never ask questions like that; they’re here for the fantasy, not the real woman who exists underneath it.
It’s the curtain we all agree should stay firmly closed, lest the illusion fall apart.
But Sebastian is already grasping at it, trying to pull it aside.
“Because a mirage isn’t real,” I say. “It shows you what you want to see.” I shift in his lap, just a bit, making him draw breath. “But it stays just out of reach.”
Very slowly, his other hand finds my waist, exactly where I told him he could touch me. His thumbs press into my hip bones, and he says, “You don’t feel like a mirage to me.”
When his dark gaze flicks to mine, my heart hits hard, one erratic beat in my chest.
Something in his gaze feels . . . searching. Like maybe he’s not really here for the fantasy. Maybe he’s not looking for a mirage.
And if that’s true, this is dangerous.
Because I can only ever be a shimmer in the desert. Something you chase but never catch.
Suddenly, I find myself sliding out of his lap, his hands dropping away from my hips.
Usually, I’d keep a client in a private room for as long as possible. Last summer, one of our girls was back here for eight hours with a client—the longest in Caliber’s history. But something pushes me away from him.
Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, or the curiosity I feel in his tone.
Giving him a quick smile, I bend to pick up my top, then slip it back on.
“Time’s up, Sebastian.”
He frowns, and I swear, those big brown eyes are more tempting than a puppy’s eyes. Then he stands, nodding once. “Okay.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet. “What do I owe you?”
Usually, I’m one hundred an hour. But Sebastian has only been back here for two songs.
Still, I know he’s got money, and I’m here to make money, not fall for pretty eyes and dimples.
“Three hundred,” I say.
And he doesn’t even hesitate. He pulls three crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, then pauses briefly before pulling out a fourth.
I try not to react as he offers me the money.
Four hundred dollars for two dances? That’s the most I’ve ever made for such a small amount of work.
And I already feel guilty about lying to him; I wasn’t sure he’d actually go for it.
Maybe I was trying to bait him into getting upset, into showing teeth under his pretty smile, as if to prove to myself that he’s nothing special, just another client who thinks they’re entitled to me, my body, my attention.
But I guess I’m wrong.
“Thank you,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. The movement flexes his biceps, and I catch sight of that tattoo again.
My time with him is over. I should turn and walk out, then immediately go drink cold water and try to get my head on straight before finishing what’s left of my shift.
But I find myself asking, “What’s your tattoo of?”
His eyes widen a bit. “Oh, this?” Turning, he shows me the tattoo inked into his upper arm.
It’s hard to make out under the red lights, and I dare to step a little closer. I can see now that it’s a compass, but it’s pointing east.
“Don’t compasses always point north?” I ask, touching the needle with one fingertip, feeling the heat of his skin against mine.
Sebastian gives me a small smile. His dimples don’t show this time. Then his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Sometimes you’ve gotta wander in circles for a while before finding your true north.”
Looking up at him, I get that feeling again: the desire to step closer, rise onto the toes of my platform heels, and taste his lips.
But he leans around me to reach for the door. And as soon as it swings open behind me, the thump of music from the club creeps in, reminding me of who I am.
Mirage.
Not Remi.
And I need to get away from this guy before I forget it.
He makes that easy, stepping around me, careful not to touch my body with his, even though my skin tingles for another taste.
“Bye, Mirage,” he says as he eases out into the hall. Then that same small smile flickers across his lips. “See you in the desert.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m standing there with cash in my hand, but for some reason, I don’t feel good about it.
And I have no fucking idea why.