Page 19 of Watch Me

“And you haven’t even touched her yet. This will be fun to watch for more than one reason.”

“I’m so happy you’re amused. You can fuck off now.”

“Ten-four.” Del claps me on the back. “I’ll finish making the arrangements with the other employees. The room should be ready. All you need to do is meet Shanna at the door.”

No, what I need to do is please her, not just by lighting her senses and firing up her fantasies, but by endearing myself to her. I’m not sure how to do that, but I need to figure it out. Because my gut is telling me not to let Shanna out of my life.

10

Shanna

With a shaking hand, I shove the door open and enter the cool, air-conditioned space of Sneak Peek. At night, the club still has that golden shimmer. But instead of the homey warmth it conveyed during the day, a shimmering glow now illuminates the club. It sparkles and glitters like old Hollywood, except this classic glamour provides the backdrop for today's beautiful people to have dazzling sex.

Del and Alejandro have created a perfect ambiance.

Just past the club’s front door, wall-to-wall bodies gyrate to a suggestive techno beat. Couples grind, imitating sex vertically. In fact, one couple against the wall, shielded by the man’s long leather duster, probably is having sex. They’ve got a few onlookers, and no one seems to be complaining.

The bar beyond is crowded with people drinking their liquid fortification. Several men crowd around a woman who’s downing a shot as if they're waiting for her to give one—or several—of them a sign that she's ready for more personal action.

The whole place oozes sex.

I so don’t belong here. Sex has never been my thing. I’ve had it, of course. A college boyfriend was my first, but he didn’t have much experience. Nor did he understand my dancing. We spent the relationship fighting because he assumed I was sleeping with my partner at the time, which I wasn’t.

A few years later, I had a one-night stand after a wedding. Stupid—and awful. Downright bad sex.

Jonathan…utter disaster—right on the dance floor we practiced on for years. I clung to him out of desperation. He took my body as if he was exorcising some demon. The whole episode lasted less than ten minutes. And created twelve months of pure havoc.

By tonight’s end, if I'm not careful, I’ll be adding Alejandro to my short body count. I said I wouldn’t have sex with him. But…will refusing to let loose in a club like this rouse my blackmailer’s suspicion? I can’t let this opportunity slip past me without making the most of it. I have to ferret out this asshole before the California Dance Star.

But if I’m honest with myself, that's not the only reason I’m contemplating surrendering to Alejandro. He lights me up in a way I've never experienced. Maybe I can enjoy him—and myself—just this once.

Then again, do I really have the will to resist such a sinfully sexy man, especially when he lures me with an offer to fulfill my secret exhibitionism fantasy? He makes me feel desired and understood, accepted even. Admitting that is uncomfortable, but even when Alejandro annoys me, he turns me on. Maybe the chemistry between us is worth exploring.

And maybe I’m out of my mind.

Crossing the room, I'm conscious of male eyes following me. God, why did Alejandro send me this sheer halter top, held in place by nothing more than two little bows, and a matchingwrap-around skirt? Why did he insist I wear a skimpy outfit in shades of soft creamy-gold that blends with my skin?

“Hi,” a voice whispers in my ear. I turn to find a guy with dimples and incredible blue eyes visually eating me up. “Want to dance?”

He’s attractive. Who am I kidding? He’s gorgeous. And the way he stares makes me hyperaware of my body—and his desire for it. But to dance with him? Touch him?

The thought of getting physical with this guy—with most any guy—isn’t quite as tempting. For me, that’s typical. Something inside me always shies away.

Except with Alejandro.

“I—I…”

“She’s spoken for tonight.”

Alejandro. I recognize that deep, slightly accented voice caressing the back of my neck. And the tingle that shimmies up my spine when he wraps his arm around my bare midriff in a gesture meant to lay his claim.

Dimples shoots me a brief look of regret. “Sure, Mr. Diaz.”

“She’ll be around later, in the chrome room.”

That information perks Dimples up. He rakes me with a lingering glance. “Sweet. I’ll definitely be watching.”

Before I can protest, Alejandro urges me forward, to an employees-only entrance, and shuts the door behind us. The decibel level goes down about a thousand percent.

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