Page 61 of Forbidden Heroes

Ripped muscles and tanned skin hide under those suits and in my fantasies, I’m peeling back the layers, ready to lick every inch of him.

I also know the hunger he has for me. I see it in eyes despite the efforts he takes to try to hide it from me.

The entire two weeks he filled in for my law professor is a blur of information. Two weeks of watching him from the back-right corner were torture and bliss all in one. He was like some old-world warrior thrown into contemporary times.

Fantasies came hot and fast, and all I could do was daydream. So I did. Oh man, did I ever. For those two solid weeks I drank in every aspect of that man down to the polished tips of his shoes and the square set of his shoulders. It didn’t take long to figure out he is former military and after that realization hit so did the fantasies of his playing Tarzan to my Jane and rescuing me from this shitty life like some badass hero. But that’s strictly in my head where it belongs.

I’ve spent more than one class daydreaming about him tying me up with his favored golden silk tie and doing very dirty things to my body. And then doing them all over again come morning. In my fantasy he takes my virginity slow and sweet and then claims every inch of my body with his mouth and cock hard and fast.

The deep rumble of motors coming up Main Street sends ripples across puddles of water left over from the late afternoon rain, and I climb out of my head and into the alter ego I don around this time six nights a week. Sometimes seven, if I’m lucky. The sound of the motorcycles is so profound I feel it shake the ground beneath my feet as I park my car and head inside.

Overhead, the blue glow of Insomnia’s sign welcomes me. Along the front a thick, red velvet rope hangs between metal poles leading to the entrance, keeping the long line of men and women at bay with huge muscled guys fighting to keep back the rapidly growing crowd at the top of the stairs.

Dark brown eyes sweep over my body as I hit the landing. The doorman means no harm so I let it slide. Every man has their weakness and obviously for Sloan, I’m his. “Evening, Ms. Sugar,” He uses my stage name and welcomes me like he does every night in a gruff voice. It seems that characteristic comes as a requisite of the job.

A guy well over six feet with wicked tattoos webbing arms as thick as my thighs and a deep burly voice to go along with the macho look smiles down at me. Women at the front of the line waiting to get in don’t bother masking their sneering jealousy and I mentally pat myself on the back for having something they want even if it as fake as the boob job on the brunette two heads back.

People always take for granted the walk of life they live. Some easier than others but by no stretch of the mind are these rich and glitzy people living the hard hand-to-mouth life I’ve grown up on. Their white picket fences and nine-to-five lives are worlds better than the worry-filled days of scraping by to live, but I don’t hold their ignorance of my world against them. I’m happy they are happy, only I wish I could find that level of comfort and ease. I fear it may never happen.

None of these people had to hide the fact they wanted better out of life from their parents. I did, out of fear of what my drug addict of a father would do if he ever discovered I wanted to leave him. If he ever found out I applied for Blackthorne University and got accepted, he would have laughed in my face and found a way to tie me to him since I was the only one stable enough to hold down a job that paid the bills.

When I received my acceptance letter, it was a miracle Dad missed the mail that day. He was busy being passed out I guess because the next day he was back in rehab for another long stint and I didn’t hesitate. I packed my bags, took my last paycheck from flipping burgers at a diner and didn’t worry about how I’d pay for college. All I knew is that I couldn’t blow my chance. Something these frivolous, glamorous people don’t have a clue about.

I couldn’t take another nauseous round of watching my father slowly killing himself with his addiction. So I stopped watching.

I’ve worked every single odd dead-end job since hitting town. Now I’m a virgin stripper in a swanky club one town over from school. It's a city that's just big enough for no one to know my face.

Sloan bends to unclip the rope for me, and I rise to press a friendly kiss to his cheek before walking through. He might be a bear on the outside, but he’s a softy on the inside.

“Thank you,” I offer with a light touch to his bulging forearm.

“Anytime, Sugar,” he whispers back with a wink.

A quick glance over my shoulder at the growing crowd tells me I’m in for a real treat tip-wise this evening. And not a moment too soon.

Glitzy, glamorous women in sparkly, skin-tight dresses and spiked heels are mixed among the gentlemen just as preppy and posh as their counterparts. All looking to throw money away if they can get past the bouncer.

And I’m right there to happily take what they no longer want.

A place like Insomnia pulls the wealthier crowd, but it is nothing more than a glorified strip club for the rich and attracts both sexes. I don’t judge. If the rich want to throw away money, I’m not too good not to pick it up.

But I can’t help but wonder what it must be like to be any one of these people. My eye lands on one woman in particular with refined red locks of hair tumbling over creamy shoulders and shining green eyes. Men surround her and for a second I wonder what it would be like to have any man I wanted. One in particular with piercing blue eyes rimmed with thick black lashes.

Panic pierces my normally impenetrable armor of indifference I’ve worked long and hard to build, but I’m caught off guard for a moment. The flash of red and a burst of familiar bubbly laughter tumbles me into a tar pit of bad memories and suddenly I can’t inhale. All I can see is my mother’s red hair covering her face and her lifeless body.

My foot falters on the stairs, but before I make the tragic scene of falling flat on my face a set of strong hands catches me.

I’m pulled into a broad chest, and for a second I let the soft cologne of the strong man chase away the darkness. Out of nowhere the thought of it not being Dean Spencer there to catch me causes my heart to hurt.

I stand and clear my throat, keeping my eyes on my feet the whole time to hide the hideous red I know is splashed over my cheeks.

“Thanks, Sloan. It’s been one of those days. The manager in?” I act as if nothing has happened and shrug off my moment of weakness.

“Don’t worry about it. Go on it, she should be, last I heard,” he answers gruffly opening the door wide. I hope he can hear my silent appreciation for no questions as I disappear inside.

New management has taken over and today’s paycheck failed to arrive as scheduled and no notice of a change. Just another problem I have to deal with.

My gaze rakes over the crowd one more time, but I don’t see the familiar set of blue eyes. Then again, I never do, so why should tonight be any different?

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