Page 2 of His to Unwrap
That’s a thought that always makes me laugh. It seems to me there’s no way to separate business from pleasure here at Club Wyld.
“Make sure you’re hydrated,” Dave continues. “It’s pretty warm out here tonight.”
“They have to keep it warm,” Britt mutters. “Too many naked people in this place to turn the heat down.”
I laugh, grabbing us each a water bottle. She’s not wrong.
A few minutes later Dave is ushering us all back down the hall to the lounge. There are eight dancers on tonight. A few will be doing choreography on stage, but I’ve been assigned to a platform. I much prefer it, to be honest. I can get lost in the music and do my thing without having to worry about my steps or keeping pace with the other girls.
“You sticking around after?” Britt asks.
“Thinking about it. You?”
“Not sure yet.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I guess it depends on who’s playing tonight.”
We reach the lounge and separate. “See you after,” she says, then nods to the corner where I know Roman is sitting. “Make sure you give lover boy a good show.”
I wave her off and turn in the direction of my platform, then nearly stumble on my five-inch heels when I see who’s sitting right below it.
Roman has moved.
I give him a smile, which he does not return, before climbing up onto my personal mini-stage. I try to ignore the pounding of my heart and the intensity of his stare as I take my place. The lights lower slightly and the background music grows a little louder. I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. Then I start to move.
I’ve always loved dancing. As a kid who had to move around a lot, dancing felt like the one thing that stayed constant. No matter where my father’s job took us, I could usually manage to find some kind of dance class. And when I couldn’t, I would watch instructional videos on YouTube for hours.
I hadn’t intended dance to be a career. I have the complete wrong body type for it—too short, way too curvy. Those curves had come in handy at my last job waitressing at a nightclub. Showing a little cleavage seemed to be the magic bullet to acquire more tips. One night my boss begged me to fill in for one of the cage dancers—apparently, she’d quit last minute to come work here at Wyld.
That same dancer saw me performing when she came in to get her last check, and had immediately recommended I apply here as well. I did it on a whim, not knowing that Club Wyld would completely change my life.
Turns out I had a dancer’s body after all. So long as the dancing took place in a high-end sex club where plenty of Doms liked their women with big hips, thick thighs, and a round ass.
It’s a little difficult to get myself into the right headspace at the moment, though. Not when I know Roman Clarke is so close by. I swear I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, even with my eyes closed. I turn slightly away from where I know he’s sitting, hoping it will make it easier to focus, but now all I can think is that I’m shaking my ass in his direction.
Get it together, Noelle.
The music is sultry with a throbbing beat and a dark, soulful melody. I keep my eyes closed and slowly feel myself get lost in the sensuous rhythm. Hands above my head, I twist and gyrate on the platform, then drop into a low squat before arching my back and curling back up. There’s an appreciative murmur from the patrons in this area, even a smattering of soft applause. I try not to wonder if Roman is one of them.
But when I do my next spin, my eyes lock right on his, and the pretense of ignoring him is obliterated.
He’s watching me, all right. He’s not smiling. Not clapping. Not reacting at all. He just sits there, arms crossed over his huge chest, watching me.
I know I should look away. I know I should pretend he’s not there. But I can’t help myself. My eyes stay locked on his as I dance. His gaze is so intense it makes it hard to breathe, makes me feel off-balanced. But somehow, that off-balanced sensation heats my blood even more. I imagine we’re the only two people in the lounge. Or, better yet, that I’m doing this dance for him behind the steel door, where most of the truly depraved things happen in this place. Would he touch me, if it was just us?
I run my hands over my bare stomach, my hips, down my thighs, and pretend it’s his hands. They’re so big, calloused and rough like a working man. His fingers dwarf the sturdy glass tumbler of bourbon clutched in his hand. What would those big hands look like on my body?
I’m getting wet, just from picturing it. Just from dancing for this silent, stoic man. Because that’s what I’m doing—I’m dancing forhim. I don’t give a shit about the rest of the club, hell, the rest of the world. I just want to exist here in this wordless staring match with Roman Clarke. I want my dancing to bring him pleasure.
God, I want mybodyto bring him pleasure.
It comes as a shock when the lights brighten again and I realize the music has changed, the sensuous dance beat replaced by a low jazzy rendition of some Christmas carol.
The dance is over. My shift is done.
I can’t look at Roman as I make my way off the platform. My cheeks are on fire—could he sense what I was thinking about up there? That I’ve been fantasizing about him for the last twenty minutes? That the thong under my dance shorts is most definitely soaked at this point?
Could he possibly know that I was dancing only for him?
I force myself to look up when I pass his seat and my stomach drops when I see it’s empty. He left as soon as my dance was finished and a quick glance around the lounge shows no signof him. I sigh, that familiar rejection flowing through me once again.
