Page 19 of Gilded Fake

And what does he want?

I know he doesn’t want to fuck me. He made that clear in the locker room. Is he here for revenge? What is left for him to take?

I finish the first song on the pole and strut to the edge of the stage. His expression is unreadable, his smoky blue eyes watchful, and I want to scream that I can’t figure him out the way he’s figured me out so easily. My knees wobble, and I feel clumsy and foolish, like a kid wearing her mom’s heels for the first time. My heart is hammering so hard I can’t think straight, drowning out the drumming of rain on the roof overhead and the strains of the next song as it begins.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, gyrating my hips as I stand over him, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if I’ve lost all sense of rhythm with a single look from him.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“I work here,” I say, grasping onto the thread he gave me, the clue.

He doesn’t like it.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” I ask, smiling down at him as I run my hand down my chest, my abs. I turn to the beat, caressing my hips, rolling them sensuously and giving Colt a good long view of my ass. I’ve filled out a little without the pressure of weekly weigh-ins and calorie counting, without anyone to tell me that I can’t eat ice cream or French fries, but none of my clients have complained.

I flip my hair and turn to look at him over my shoulder. He crosses his arms and sits back, scowling up at me. “You shouldn’t be taking off your clothes for money.”

“What else am I going to do?”

“You should have told me you needed a place to stay,” he says. “I would have helped.”

I snort. “Because we’re such good friends.”

“There are four empty bedrooms at my house.”

“Oh, so I’m going to live with you?” I ask, going to my knees in front of him. “I’m sure your girlfriend would have something to say about that.”

“Fuck Dixie,” he says. “Come home with me. I’ll give you a place to live.”

“I have a place to live,” I say, toying with the strings of my thong.

Colt eyes my fingers, and I feel that sense of power start to return. He may not want to fuck me, but I turn him on. I gyrate slowly, rising onto my knees and then sinking back, my hips moving up and down.

“You don’t need to do this,” he says.

“What if I want to?”

“You want to be a stripper?”

“Your friends didn’t seem to mind.”

His gaze snaps to mine, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What friends?” he grits out.

“Rylan.”

“Rylan is not my friend.”

“You sat with him at lunch.”

“He sat with me,” Colt corrects. “If he was my friend, I wouldn’t have gotten him expelled.”

“I thought you might be responsible for that,” I muse. “Why’d you do it?”

“Because he didn’t treat you the way you deserve.”

“And how’s that?” I ask, slipping my fingers into my panties. I can barely touch myself without sending a tremor of white-hot lust straight to my core. Usually I do it to tease and feel nothing, but with Colt watching…

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