Chapter 3
Decker
M y dick is rising from the dead, and I haven't even reached her yet.
She's tapping her foot like she'd rather be anywhere else, and all I want to do is sink my teeth into the soft place where her neck meets her shoulder and leave a mark there for everyone to see.
She reaches up and takes out the ponytail on top of her head as she looks around at the other girls milling about.
Her cheeks bloom pink to match her shoes. I never noticed pink was a beautiful color until right now.
Pink .
I repeat the word inside my head. It's not just a color anymore, it's her. Sweet and hot and girlish with a softness that's making it hard to think. Maybe white isn’t my favorite color anymore.
Pink .
Behind the bar, Henry keeps glancing over at her, and I snap my hand in the air and catch his attention.
"Yeah, boss?" He smiles and bobs his eyebrows, tipping his head in her direction like we're on the same page.
Instead of taking the five steps I need to get in front of her, I shift right, lean over the slick black-granite bar, and jab a finger into Henry's chest.
"Go down there," I growl, motioning with my eyes for the opposite end of the bar.
"What?" He rubs behind his ear and frowns. His eyes flick sideways toward her again, and my head starts to buzz and pound.
"Don't fucking look at her again. Get the fuck down to the other end of the bar before I introduce your ass to the unemployment line. Go!"
He eyes me quizzically, but his feet are moving where I told him, so I refocus on the little doe that has my dick ready to shoot off without even a touch. I slip the Polaroids into my shirt pocket and straighten up.
Her wavy auburn hair and silver-gray eyes are already burned into me like a white-hot brand. I've never had this kind of reaction to a woman. I want her right fucking now. I want to shut the fucking place down and pin her under me until she surrenders, and my cum is dripping from her.
This from a man who'd accepted he might never feel this again. Now I'm sixteen again, raging hormones and a hard-on I can't will down. The rest of the room falls away, and I've got tunnel vision. This tiny, luscious cherub is in my crosshairs.
My fingertips are tingling where I held her picture. I know that's fucking strange, but rational thought has packed up and left. I need her alone, and I need her to know who she belongs to.
I turn toward the two other girls waiting for their chance, standing a good six feet away, and tell them there will be no interviews tonight. They both give me a nasty snort, but I don't give a shit. I'm already turned around, eyes back on her.
Allister comes up from behind and taps me on the shoulder.
"What?" I snap.
"Hey. I was going to take care of them." He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Just letting you know, that group from last week? The douche patrol? They booked the VIP room again. Tonight."
I grit my teeth, trying to drag my focus back to the work. "Fine. You tell those fucks if they lay one hand on one of my girls again, I'll dismantle them one testicle at a time. They live in my backyard, think their shit don't stink, they can take that Guido bullshit back under eight mile."
"Fine by me." Allister's eyes are questioning, but he knows me well enough to back off. "I'll deliver the message."
I grab his wrist before he leaves. "And if anyone hears any more blowback about whatever the fuck went down last week — something about someone's wife getting offed — I want to fucking know. Could be balls and liquor talking. Could be real. I don't care how expensive their suits are."
"Clear."
Allister wanders off, snapping at a couple waitresses chatting it up with Henry instead of tending the restaurant tables.
But this girl isn't what usually walks in here. From the way she's dressed, she's from the right side of the tracks. The kooky way she's put it all together has me chuckling. Her sweater is cashmere, and she's clutching a two-thousand-dollar Burberry coat.
The other two girls slip out the front door, and the little doe looks like she's about to jackrabbit right behind them. But I'm on her in two long strides.
"Er, hi." She looks up and greets me with an impish smile.
"Hi. Follow me," I grumble. I can't have her standing out here where anyone can look at her. I fight off the urge to take her out to my car and drive her home. To my home.
Home.
What the fuck? I want her home, and what I mean by home is in my bed, under my roof, with my cum dripping out of her.
Something is either very wrong with me or very right. Or else there’s a very real possibility someone slipped me something, because my ears are hot, and my skin is prickling.
"Where are we going?" she asks without moving, and her voice hits somewhere deep, somewhere I haven't felt in years. "That other giant, bald man said we would do our tryouts out here."
She lifts a hand from where she's clutching her coat and points at the back wall. Her voice catches, and I turn to look at her face.
Her gray eyes are rimmed with black, and they shine wet. She brings her loose hand up to push her hair behind her ear, and I want to bury myself into her neck and mark her right here, so every other motherfucker around knows to stay away.
She's also starting to look scared as fuck.
"I'm the owner here." I take a breath, steady my voice. "Decker Lawrence. You can call me Deck. And you are?"
I don't dare shake her hand because I may never let go. So I shove my hands into my pockets, discreetly shifting my hard-on behind my zipper so it's less visible from Mars.
"I'm Maribelle, but everyone calls me May." She's fighting a smile, trying to be so serious, but her smile is what I want. I want to be the one to put it there. She clicks her heels together, and my eyes dart down to the crazy pinkish-purple glittered shoes.
They're perfect for her. I’m going to buy her a thousand more pairs. Or a million. I’ll buy every pair they can make.
"Well, Pink." Shit. I stammer. "I mean, May..."
I can barely form a fucking clear thought.
She's looking up at me with those wide eyes, lashes batting, and I damn near come undone. I clear my throat, then knuckle down and get my shit together.
"You're looking for work, right?"
"Yes." She straightens up and puts on her serious face, which is sexy as hell just because I know she's trying to impress me.
"I have been reading about your club in the paper.
I saw that you are hiring dancers who can work night hours.
That schedule works for me, so I'd like the job, please.
I can start tonight." She bites the inside of her cheek and looks me right in the eye.
I stifle the urge to laugh. She’s serious as hell. This girl has my balls already in her hand. And I wish that wasn't just metaphorical.
"Okay." I swallow hard.
"But I want to make one thing clear, Mr. Lawre… Deck ." She licks her lips and pulls her shoulders back, and my eyes lock on the fullness of her sweater. There’s a heartbeat before she speaks again. "Excuse me! I'm talking to you."
She's mad.
Fuck, she's going to make me cum in my fucking pants.
"What's that?" I keep my game face on, dragging my eyes kicking and screaming from her tits because she's all business.
"I will dance , but I will not do other things. You know, with the men." She glares at me, her cheeks flushing in the dim light.
I gather myself together. This girl means business, and I respect she's willing to talk to me like that. I hate she's had to think about shit like that. What the hell is a girl like her doing here in the first place?
"Yeah? Okay, anything else?"
"Yes. And… the music. I don't like that music they're playing." She wrinkles her nose like she's smelling something awful.
The standard thump, thump of house music fills the massive space, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at her. Any other place, any other audition, she would have been eaten alive by now and tossed out the door.
"You don't, huh? What kind of music do you like, May?" I can't fight the grin anymore, lips pulling back over my teeth.
Staff members are moving around us, shooting sidelong glances my way. They think I've lost my mind, standing here chatting and grinning like a fat kid eating cake.
I want to get her out of here and back in my office, but I don't want to scare her either.
"I like happy music. Like 'Stayin' Alive' and 'I Want Candy,' oh!" Her eyes twinkle like she's just found a quarter on the sidewalk. She's practically singing the titles. "I like that song 'Push It,' that's a good stripper song, right?"
Her excitement makes her shift up onto her tiptoes. I can fucking see her lips moving with the silent words.
Ah, push it. P-push it real good.
Does she know it's 2016? Those songs are older than she is. I know them well. I've got a decade plus on her, but her enthusiasm is making me want to let her dance.
But not for them.
Not for the guys who are paying to come in here.
For me. Alone. Where no one else can see her.
The bar is filling up this time of night, and she's drawing glances from some swinging dicks.
"If you want to talk about the job, we'll have to do so in my office.
" I shift a half-turn and extend my arm toward the hallway.
Her eyes dart from my face to where I'm gesturing, then they narrow, but she steps forward. "Right this way."
I fall in next to her, my head swiveling around to make sure no one else is dogging on her.
I may be losing my fucking mind, because I don't even want eyes on her. The thoughts going through my head would get me fucking arrested. I haven't thought about a woman like this before. And I mean not ever.
I take a deep draw of the air above her head. Sweet. Like cotton candy. It's latched into me deep.
We reach the hallway door, and I step forward, opening it and ushering her down toward my office without a word. We're both silent, but we're having a conversation here. She just doesn't know it yet.