Page 39 of Promiscuous Lies

See, his friend gets it.

I bring my heels together and pulse a few times before sensually standing up again. I sway my hips as I walk to the pole and climb it, gripping my legs around it and flicking my hair over my shoulder. When my feet hit the floor again, I’m about to readjust my grip and position, but I’m grabbed around my waist and pulled backward.

“Hey!” I scream as I’m flipped over a broad shoulder.

“I warned you. Do I not pay you enough that you have to resort to dancing again?” Dutton says as he carries me out. I kick and scream as he drags me off the back of the stage. I’m having serious déjà vu right now. I take a glance back at the audience, who seem baffled. The twins appear to be the most stunned of all.

When we reach the backstage area, Paula looks mortified and shocked. She can’t speak as he charges us toward his office.

“I’m a woman; we love money,” I say as I kick and elbow him. Okay, I knew this would piss him off a little, but this is some stupid macho shit.

He enters his office and slams the door shut behind us. As he slides me down over his shoulder and onto my feet, he snaps, “Cover up. And you aren’t allowed to find the nearest weapon and hit me with it. Do you understand me?”

The moment my heels touch the floor, I shove him hard enough that he has to take a step back. “I don’t hit you,” I seethe, fuming. I know I antagonized him, but I didn’t think he’d literally drag me off mid-performance.Again.

“No, you just grab things and chuck them at me,” he replies. And although his tone is neutral, I can tell he’s livid beneath the surface. It’s evident in the way his blue gaze turns shades darker. “You enjoy pushing your luck, don’t you?”

I scoff at him as I turn away and move to his desk. I scan the items littering the surface, contemplating what I might enjoy throwing at him. “You just cost me heaps of money,” I accuse, leaning against the desk and crossing my ankles. He can’t help but look now that we’re in private, his gaze roaming up my legs appreciatively.

“I don’t appreciate you displaying the gifts I give you to other men.”

“I thought this was for work,” I say sassily.

He kicks up a humorless smirk as he crosses the distance between us. He’s in my space, looming over me with a hand on either side. I have the urgent desire to grab the stapler and smash it over his head. I don’t like how he fills my space and consumes me. But my core floods with an entirely different type of urgency and need.

Fuck my treacherous body.

Sometimes, I wonder if I do these things because I want to see his reaction.

Because I want him to want me.

And that’s toxic as fuck.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want in tips for that little stunt out there, but you only show your body and lingerie tome.”

He opens a small box on his desk, barely moving around me, and then sets a stack of freshly printed bills in my hands.

That heated liquid sensation churns in my stomach. I try to do everything I can to push his effect on me away. Is it because I haven’t seen him for two weeks that the magnetizing pull feels intensely epic tonight?

“Aww, you love me. Shall I call you sugar boss?” I taunt, fluttering my lashes.

“No.”

Tension ripples between us, and I can’t move, don’t want to move, because I’m scared of what I might do. There’s a good chance I’ll grab for him.

I hated it when he first started texting me. I ignored most of his messages, but now I find myself laughing at his responses and know that the relationship with Dutton is anything but a professional one.

“Okay. Now that I’ve made my tips, I’ll just go home.” I try to move past him, but he doesn’t budge. I fall back against the desk and notice how tightly he’s holding the edge as if doing everything in his power to restrain himself.

“You’re not going home in that,” he growls. I daringly dip a gaze to the front of his pants because I can feel the effect I have on him. He’s on his fucking last nerve, and it rattles me with desire and need I haven’t felt for averylong time. Well, not since we were in the back of his car.

I think about the orgasm he gave me, and my pussy starts greedily throbbing.

“I’ll wear my jacket,” I tell him. “I’ve done it dozens of times.”

“Posie.” His voice is like gravel, and a vein bulges in his neck.

“Yes, boss?” I tack on the “boss” because one of us needs to say it. This is to remind us of the precarious situation we’re clearly putting ourselves in. And I’m not entirely sure I have the self-control or desire to push him away. After all, Ienjoygetting under this powerful man’s skin. I love defying him in every way. And all I’ve been thinking about for the last month—no matter how much I try to deny it—is how I can get beneath him again.

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