His to Unwrap (Club Wyld #7)

Chapter 1 Noelle

NOELLE

“Your secret admirer is back tonight.”

I pause in the act of re-applying my lipstick to meet my co-worker’s eye in the mirror. She’s smirking at me, as I knew she would be.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” I say, as nonchalantly as possible.

Brittney snorts out a laugh. “You’re such a liar, Noelle. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. I’d clocked Roman Clarke the second he walked into the lounge at Club Wyld tonight. Just like I always do. It’s as if my body becomes aware of his presence before my mind can even catch up.

“He’s not my secret admirer,” I say, since it’s useless to try and play dumb at this point.

“He was watching you the entire shift.”

I finish with my lipstick and straighten, casting an appraising eye over my appearance. The rest of my makeup is holding up admirably. My hair is getting a little flat but that’s to be expected after an hour of dancing—and sweating.

The sweating had nothing to do with the hulking figure sitting alone in one of the booths watching me. It’s not like his intense gaze got me all hot and bothered. Not at all.

“Do you have any body adhesive?” I ask, poking at the sparkling Christmas tree tassels pasted onto my nipples. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose one of these.”

Brittney waggles her eyebrows at me. “Then you’d really make Mr. Grumpy’s day.”

I roll my eyes. “Like he hasn’t seen it all before,” I mutter.

The outfit I’m wearing for our performance tonight may show off a lot, but it’s not close to the most revealing thing I’ve ever had on in this place.

In addition to my Christmas tree tassels, I’m also wearing red satin boy shorts and thigh high stockings.

There’s a thick band of ribbon wrapped around my middle, tying together in a big-ass red bow just below my breasts.

I’m like a dirty Christmas present come to life.

And it’s practically demure compared to some of my costumes.

“Here,” Britt says, swatting my hand away as she approaches with a roller of body adhesive. “Stop poking at it or it really will come off.”

I allow her to apply the adhesive and re-arrange the tassel. When I started this job, I would have been aghast at the thought of letting a co-worker touch me so intimately, but you get used to it after a while. There’s not much modesty here at Club Wyld.

Besides, Brittney is my best friend at the club. We bonded over long hours of rehearsals and a shared love of crappy reality dating shows.

Once she’s finished, she looks me over. “Perfect. You’re going to knock his socks off.”

“Britt,” I mutter, annoyed at her refusal to stop mentioning Roman. “He’s just another member here. You know that.”

She shakes her head. “Keep telling yourself that, babe. That man is obsessed. It’s so obvious.”

I fiddle with the bow to avoid meeting her eyes. The truth is, I don’t want to think about the way Roman might feel about me. It makes it even more depressing when yet another night passes without him making a move.

He does watch me more than the other dancers. In fact, he stares at me like I’m something he’d like very much to devour. No matter where I am in the club, no matter what I’m doing, if he’s there, his eyes are on me.

But he’s made it very obvious, over many, many nights of this kind of observation, that he has no plans to actually touch me. And I don’t want to dwell on how much that hurts.

“It’s not like that,” I mumble. “He might like the way I look, but he’s not interested in anything more.”

“Hey.” Britt takes my hands and gives my arms a shake. “I don’t like that tone of voice, girlie. If he doesn’t make a move, that’s his loss. You’re a fucking catch.”

I manage a genuine smile. Every woman should have a hype-girl like Brittney. When I first started this job, there would have been no way I’d get through the first few nerve-wracking weeks if it wasn’t for her encouragement.

“Break’s almost over, girls,” Dave’s voice calls from the door to the dressing room. “Anyone need anything?”

“I could do with a massage if you’re offering,” Ilsa, one of the other dancers, calls back.

“I’ll book you in with one of the masseuses,” he replies drily, and Ilsa grumbles. Lots of the girls here are constantly trying to get into the gorgeous dance manager’s pants, but he insists he won’t ever mix business with pleasure.

That’s a thought that always makes me laugh. It seems to me there’s no way to separate business from pleasure here at Club Wyld.

“Make sure you’re hydrated,” Dave continues. “It’s pretty warm out here tonight.”

“They have to keep it warm,” Britt mutters. “Too many naked people in this place to turn the heat down.”

I laugh, grabbing us each a water bottle. She’s not wrong.

A few minutes later Dave is ushering us all back down the hall to the lounge.

There are eight dancers on tonight. A few will be doing choreography on stage, but I’ve been assigned to a platform.

I much prefer it, to be honest. I can get lost in the music and do my thing without having to worry about my steps or keeping pace with the other girls.

“You sticking around after?” Britt asks.

“Thinking about it. You?”

“Not sure yet.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I guess it depends on who’s playing tonight.”

We reach the lounge and separate. “See you after,” she says, then nods to the corner where I know Roman is sitting. “Make sure you give lover boy a good show.”

I wave her off and turn in the direction of my platform, then nearly stumble on my five-inch heels when I see who’s sitting right below it.

Roman has moved.

I give him a smile, which he does not return, before climbing up onto my personal mini-stage.

I try to ignore the pounding of my heart and the intensity of his stare as I take my place.

The lights lower slightly and the background music grows a little louder.

I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. Then I start to move.

I’ve always loved dancing. As a kid who had to move around a lot, dancing felt like the one thing that stayed constant. No matter where my father’s job took us, I could usually manage to find some kind of dance class. And when I couldn’t, I would watch instructional videos on YouTube for hours.

I hadn’t intended dance to be a career. I have the complete wrong body type for it—too short, way too curvy.

Those curves had come in handy at my last job waitressing at a nightclub.

Showing a little cleavage seemed to be the magic bullet to acquire more tips.

One night my boss begged me to fill in for one of the cage dancers—apparently, she’d quit last minute to come work here at Wyld.

That same dancer saw me performing when she came in to get her last check, and had immediately recommended I apply here as well. I did it on a whim, not knowing that Club Wyld would completely change my life.

Turns out I had a dancer’s body after all. So long as the dancing took place in a high-end sex club where plenty of Doms liked their women with big hips, thick thighs, and a round ass.

It’s a little difficult to get myself into the right headspace at the moment, though.

Not when I know Roman Clarke is so close by.

I swear I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, even with my eyes closed.

I turn slightly away from where I know he’s sitting, hoping it will make it easier to focus, but now all I can think is that I’m shaking my ass in his direction.

Get it together, Noelle.

The music is sultry with a throbbing beat and a dark, soulful melody.

I keep my eyes closed and slowly feel myself get lost in the sensuous rhythm.

Hands above my head, I twist and gyrate on the platform, then drop into a low squat before arching my back and curling back up.

There’s an appreciative murmur from the patrons in this area, even a smattering of soft applause.

I try not to wonder if Roman is one of them.

But when I do my next spin, my eyes lock right on his, and the pretense of ignoring him is obliterated.

He’s watching me, all right. He’s not smiling. Not clapping. Not reacting at all. He just sits there, arms crossed over his huge chest, watching me.

I know I should look away. I know I should pretend he’s not there.

But I can’t help myself. My eyes stay locked on his as I dance.

His gaze is so intense it makes it hard to breathe, makes me feel off-balanced.

But somehow, that off-balanced sensation heats my blood even more.

I imagine we’re the only two people in the lounge.

Or, better yet, that I’m doing this dance for him behind the steel door, where most of the truly depraved things happen in this place. Would he touch me, if it was just us?

I run my hands over my bare stomach, my hips, down my thighs, and pretend it’s his hands. They’re so big, calloused and rough like a working man. His fingers dwarf the sturdy glass tumbler of bourbon clutched in his hand. What would those big hands look like on my body?

I’m getting wet, just from picturing it.

Just from dancing for this silent, stoic man.

Because that’s what I’m doing—I’m dancing for him.

I don’t give a shit about the rest of the club, hell, the rest of the world.

I just want to exist here in this wordless staring match with Roman Clarke.

I want my dancing to bring him pleasure.

God, I want my body to bring him pleasure.

It comes as a shock when the lights brighten again and I realize the music has changed, the sensuous dance beat replaced by a low jazzy rendition of some Christmas carol.

The dance is over. My shift is done.

I can’t look at Roman as I make my way off the platform. My cheeks are on fire—could he sense what I was thinking about up there? That I’ve been fantasizing about him for the last twenty minutes? That the thong under my dance shorts is most definitely soaked at this point?

Could he possibly know that I was dancing only for him?

I force myself to look up when I pass his seat and my stomach drops when I see it’s empty. He left as soon as my dance was finished and a quick glance around the lounge shows no sign of him. I sigh, that familiar rejection flowing through me once again.

Maybe we hadn’t just shared the connection I’d imagined. Maybe he watches other dancers the same way he always seems to watch me—hell, maybe that’s just his expression.

Maybe it’s all in my head.