Page 36 of Worth the Trouble

“Stop thinking about it and relax for five seconds.” Rome tips his head back and lets out a dark chuckle.

Once more I’m not sure if he’s laughing at me or genuinely amused, and as much as I feel like I can read him sometimes, there are moments like this where it's impossible.

To hide my frustration, I bring my drink to my lips and take a sip that goes straight to my head. The vodka drowns out my thoughts, and as much as that should unsettle me, it’s strangely relaxing. I set the glass on the table beside the couch and try to ignore the tension in my neck.

“So is this what you do with your free time when you’re not touring? Sit around drinking and watching women take their clothes off?”

“Sometimes.” Rome shrugs. “Why? Judging?”

He smirks as if challenging me with his question. Rome isn’t the type of guy who hands over control, and his verbal sparring is just one of many ways he maintains power in any conversation.

Sitting up straight, I plant my hands in my lap and don’t miss that he watches the slit of my dress slowly fall open to bare one leg. When his eyes flick back up to meet mine, I can’t help but smile at how I’m able to draw his attention in a place filled with beautiful women.

“Just curious."

I’m not sure what about my statement confuses him, but his eyebrows knit, and his mouth pops open the slightest. But before he can say anything, the music kicks up in the room and movement on the stage draws our attention. A single beam of light glows over the pole, keeping the rest of the room cloaked in darkness, as a woman walks out in lace that is sheer enough that there’s almost no use in her undressing.

She grabs onto the pole and does an initial spin to get her bearings, stopping long enough to look over her shoulder and wink at us before moving into her routine. Her red hair sweeps her pale skin, and she reminds me of a siren who calls out to sailors the moment before wrecking their ships. She kicks her legs overhead and wraps them around the pole, one straight out like an arrow as she spins.

And spins.

And spins.

Her movements are fluid, and for some reason I find myself thinking about what Pauline said as the woman twists around, landing only long enough to slip off her top to put her full breasts on display. She moves like her body is one with the pole, with the air, with her heartbeat. Seductive and sure, no hesitation. And I find myself jealous of the freedom I feel in her dance. Not because she’s so beautiful that the man beside me hasn’t taken his eyes off her, but because she embodies everything I’ve longed to feel my entire life.

My chest tightens with my racing heart. It’s pounding so hard I feel the hammer of it under my ribs. Squeezing and thinning the air. My thoughts are fogged from vodka and sin.

Rome leans in and I’m hit with the spice of his cologne, setting me on edge. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, trailing his fingers along the path of skin as he does it, before whispering in my ear.

“Ready to run yet?”

I almost screamyes. Between the alcohol, the music, and this club, I can’t think straight. But add in the feel of Rome’s fingers on my skin and his breath tickling my neck, and something deep in my belly feels on the verge of snapping.

So I shake my head, swallowing hard.

I don’t have to look at him to feel him smile. The small huff of a laugh crawls my skin, and I feel his excitement radiating. He’s playing with me, seeing how far he can push, and for some unknown reason, I want to be his toy to mess with.

Rome snaps, and it’s loud enough to make me jump, which he soothes by pulling my hair back and resting his arm over the back of the couch behind my shoulders.

The redhead stops spinning, planting her feet on the ground, and walking toward us. She’s watching Rome, and I’m fully ready to ignore whatever kicks up inside me at the thought of her grinding all over him in front of me, but he tips his head, and she moves in my direction instead. Rome doesn’t move his arm, or pull away, as the woman stops in front of me.

I turn to face him and realize just how close he is because it puts us almost mouth to mouth with me looking up at him. His eyes watch mine, skipping to my throat as I swallow, and to my chest as I feel my breath racing.

He lifts his hand and traces his fingers down the side of my face, tucking my hair behind my ear before continuing the path downward, along my neck and stopping in the center of my chest, right between my breasts. His touch is barely a graze, but it might as well light a path of fire along my skin.

“Let go, sweetheart.” He smiles, but it feels serious. Almost as if Rome wants to watch me come apart for him just to play in the mess.

As he moves his hand, the stripper starts to dance over me. Her hands running along me, and her breasts brushing my chest as she bends forward, before turning around and gliding her body down mine. It’s sexual in a way I’ve never felt, but I don’t break my stare on Rome. I can’t. Something about the way he watches—he absorbs.

I can’t escape him.

The stripper arches her back against me as she takes my hand in hers, lifting it and planting it on Rome’s thigh. Like we’re all one, and she’s reading what I need so deep I’m scared to unearth it. She trails my hand along his leg and my belly warms with every inch she moves it upward.

Rome swallows, and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more connected to someone because the tension written on his face is the same as the fire ripping through me. Every inch my hand moves along him, the pressure builds, and I want the freedom from the release.

My hand trails dangerously close to parts of him I don’t let myself think about, when I realize she isn’t stopping. I’m about to pull away, but Rome beats me to it. He plants his hand over the stripper’s. And I’m thankful and disappointed at the same time.

I’m not sure I can handle where this is headed, even if my body wants it.

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