Page 32 of Her Defiant Heart (Damaged Hearts 1)

What’s that supposed to mean? “True confession, I’m a terrible dancer.”

“You don’t strip?” He appears surprised.

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t have any rhythm.”

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you can dance just fine. Plus, with breasts like these…” He reaches out and actually cups them, as if he’s weighing them in the palms of his hands. He doesn’t even look me in the eyes. He’s too entranced with the rest of my body, and I find that insulting. “…and that fucking spectacular body of yours, I’m surprised.”

I’m frozen, trying to calm my shaky breaths while his hands are still wrapped around my breasts. It’s weird, having a stranger touch me like this. An older man who’s actually paid a lot of money to touch me. It’s one thing to let a teenager paw at me, or to let Rhett have me last night. That I was willing to do.

But this moment…is strange.

“You have perfect nipples,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over them. They harden from his touch and I want to close my eyes in mortification, but I don’t. “Such a pretty pink.”

“T-thank you?” I don’t know how to respond. This is incredibly awkward.

He leans in close, his mouth near my ear as he murmurs, “I bet that pretty little pussy of yours is just as pink. Am I right?”

Greg steps away before I can say anything, setting his drink on the end table next to the couch and pulling his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. “I have a song I want you to dance to. Let me find it.”

I’m still shell-shocked by what he said to me. I can run right now if I wanted to. Just—throw open that door and bolt out of here. Fuck the ten grand. I know Don would want to murder me and I’d probably lose my job, but do I really want to go through with this?

“Take off the skirt,” Greg commands, his soft voice holding the slightest edge. His gaze is still locked on the phone as he speaks. “I want to see you dance in your panties and shoes and nothing else.”

Looks like I’m going through with it.

I take off my skirt and fold it with shaky hands, setting it on the counter just behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Greg scrolling through his phone and making his song selection. He turns up the volume as the music starts, some kind of jazz instrumental tune that’s heavy on the piano and saxophone. I swear my knees are knocking together and I grab the water bottle that sits

nearby, taking a giant swig from it. Really, I thought the water would help calm my buzzing nerves, but now I feel like my stomach is sloshing around.

“You ready?” Greg asks.

I turn to face him, watching quietly as he sits on the couch, the phone still in his hand, his finger pressing against the side so that the volume turns up. I swallow hard, crossing one foot over the other to stabilize myself. The expectant expression on his face tells me I need to get to it. I need to start dancing.

After all, seven thousand dollars is on the line.

Clearing my throat, I rest my hands on my hips and then slowly start to move. I run my hands over my body and twirl around on my heels, surprised I don’t go tottering over. The music kind of sucks, but I’m getting into it. My muscles are loosening, I’m shedding my inhibitions and I tell myself I might actually be enjoying this little dance.

Then again, maybe I’m not.

I finally look at Greg, surprised to see him sitting there so impassively, the phone still in his hand, and I wonder if he’s recording me. He’s observing me like he might watch a janitor mop the floor. One arm is stretched out across the back of the couch, the other one clutching the phone, his expression impossible to read. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s never seen anything so boring in all his life.

The music is still going but I stop dancing, my arms hanging at my sides as I glare at him. He sits up straighter, his shrewd gaze meeting mine. “Why’d you stop?”

“Why aren’t you enjoying it?”

Those brows lift again. For some odd reason, the gesture reminds me of Rhett—the very last person I should be thinking of right now. “Who says I’m not enjoying it?”

“I can tell.” I wave a hand at him. “You look bored.”

“Well, I’m not.” He sets the phone on the couch beside him and leans back, crossing his arms in front of his massive chest. For an older guy, he’s actually very big. Muscular.

Intimidating.

“Okay.” I drawl the word out, like I’m full of doubt, which I so am.

“And who said you could stop?” He’s still glaring at me. “Keep dancing.”

I’m annoyed. Not embarrassed or nervous, but full-blown, I-see-red annoyed. It was the way he said that, like he’s in total command of me. “You’re not my boss,” I mutter as I try to reestablish my rhythm.

---