I wasn’t supposed to be itching at the chance to see Jordan strip down. But I considered this a secret perk of the job.

“I have to go back there,” she said, leaning in to speak into my ear. She jabbed her thumb toward a door that stated GEMS ONLY. “You can hang around. Get a drink if you want. Just try not to look like Bodyguard Ken, okay? Be friendly. Don’t stare like a Neanderthal.”

I flexed my jaw. “I’ve been to a strip club before.”

“Just thought you might need a refresher.” She pasted on a fake smile and patted my shoulder. “And who knows, maybe you could try to have fun? If, you know, it’s not too much of a risk.”

She winked at me before she disappeared into the back room, leaving me secretly amused and distantly horny. I appreciated her wit, as well as her ass—not that I’d ever let her know that. I rolled my shoulders back, scanning the room to understand the layout a little better. Between all the butt cheeks and gyrating bodies, this place was sensory overload. I roamed the main room, pausing to watch whatever erupted around me—one girl giving a surprise lap dance to a solo gentleman; a busty waitress who trailed a finger along my bicep while purring about snacks.

The main stage lay silent and dark. Jordan’s shift was only five hours, which was plenty of time for me to get a feel for how risky this job was. While she was in the back getting ready, I strolled as much as I could of the thousands-square-foot club. I made note of all the exits and entrances to private areas—the champagne rooms, which were partially visible to passers-by with low, backless couches around a central, tiny stage, and the VIP lounges, which were fully closed off rooms that I couldn’t look into. A few different bars stretched along the perimeter of the main area, decked out in glossy wood and glittery, brightly colored floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed to the brim with liquor bottles.

I mapped out the bathrooms, even peeked into the women’s restroom just to make sure there wasn’t an unexpected point of egress. I’d killed almost forty-five minutes by the time I returned to the main area—all my notes and questions for later logged on my phone—and plopped down into an overstuffed leather chair facing the stage. Almost all the other chairs were full, not to mention the uncounted men roaming the club floor. The place was far more bustling than I’d expect for a Sunday, but apparently horniness never slept in a city like New York.

The music shifted then, going a bit quieter. Spotlights flooded the main stage. Someone was about to perform.

Please be Jordan.

I needed to see her as much as I didn’t want to. In the deepest part of me, somewhere between my balls and my gut, I already knew the truth. Jordan could ruin me. She’d break me apart and show me something new. Something I didn’t fucking want or need in my life.

A different, lower-tempo electronic music filled the club, with modulated moaning forming part of the background. Out of nowhere, someone began sliding down the silvery pole. Huge, translucent heels were strapped to her feet. Creamy thighs led to the sharp V of a black bodysuit.

Jordan descended the pole in a slow, calculated spin. She dropped her head back as she lowered, a spray of lush curls cascading below her. Her body was all lean muscle and sensual curves. I’d seen women wearing bodysuits before, but there was something special about what Jordan chose for tonight’s performance. I coughed into my closed fist as she touched the ground in her sky-high heels. Her bodysuit was cut scandalously high. Smooth, creamy skin glinted everywhere I looked under the bright lights of the stage.

As expected, Jordan was pure perfection.

She sank to her knees, gripping the pole above her head in a needy, submissive pose. Electricity snapped through the air, and it seemed like every man in the room was transfixed by her, leaning in closer. My cock twitched as I watched her. Fuck.

Her full lips were painted deep burgundy. Every inch of her looked provocative and sexy. She arched her pelvis toward the audience, gyrating in a slow, sensual move that made my fingers curl and my cock go from thinking about it to hard as a rock. I sank back in my chair, hardly daring to blink as she mesmerized the audience with every movement.

Jordan traced her tongue along the outline of her lips along with the music, dragging one hand down the front of her skin-tight suit and between her legs. Men drifted closer to the stage, hollering as she mimicked pleasuring herself—a little too well. Dollar bills began flying as she responded to their encouragement. Then the music tempo switched, and she popped to her feet and began scaling the pole.

She spun and humped and damn near fucked that pole, legs spread and tongue out. Everyone with cash crowded the stage, showering her in a rainstorm of money. A genuine smile broke through on occasion as she winked at someone.

I knew that hard-ons and titillation was the fucking point of a strip club—I just didn’t expect to get hard pretty much immediately upon seeing the crease of Jordan’s pussy through her bodysuit. This didn’t bode well for our protector/client relationship. In fact, it made me hope Jordan made good on her promise to take the recommendations and fuck off afterward.

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to withstand working alongside a stripper as sexy as her.

A waitress approached me as I watched the show. I ordered a root beer—drinking on duty was a no-no, as a rule, but especially in a situation where even slightly lowered inhibitions could lead to me saying or grabbing something I shouldn’t.

Other strippers milled around, trying to engage individual members of the audience. I only had eyes for Jordan. While she was in the room, I couldn’t spare the attention. This could be my one chance to see the show.

Jordan made the pole her bitch. I’d seen my fair share of pole dancers, but her performance could only be described as Cirque du Soleil with less clothing. For her final move, she did a backbend off the pole and onto the ground. The entire club lit up with cheers as she held up the peace sign with both hands and strutted down the side staircase and onto the club floor. She was a celebrity, swarmed by men. I surged to my feet just as the club security stepped in. I was supposed to be her friend, not her bodyguard. I smoothed the front of my shirt and sat back down.

I watched as Jordan coyly entertained a middle-aged man. Couldn’t tell what he said, but it must have been good because she followed him, hand in his, to one of the champagne rooms. A few other guys followed, all of them eyeing her like fresh meat.

I tapped my closed fist against my mouth, unsure what to do with the conflicting urges inside me. Fucking the client was obviously the biggest faux pas in the personal protection business. Especially as I was aiming to start my own company and begin raking in the millions as the boss, instead of the day-to-day grunt.

But what about when Jordan’s express work goal was making men want to fuck her?

I’d fallen into the trap. Luckily, I was strong. Desiring from afar was one thing. I’d certainly never act on it.

No matter how much I couldn’t get the vision of the tight V of her pussy out of my mind.

I took a sip of my root beer, adjusted my pants, and headed for the champagne room. Over the half-walls that encircled their semi-private area, I saw the men gathered around her on the couches while she shook a champagne bottle then uncorked it, laughing hysterically as the cork popped and bubbly sprayed her guests.

“Can I lick it off you?” one man asked.

“I want to see you lick it off yourself first,” she purred. He obeyed, looking like he was in heaven. “You’re a good boy, huh?”