Page 16 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“Let me choose the song,” I say, extending my hand to his.

Hesitantly, he passes me the phone I type in Saygrace, You Don’t Own Me and press play.

This is the kind of song to crank up as a man dances for you. It’s richly scored. Building from a minor key to a spirited chorus and it feels like the perfect anthem for Liam to humiliate himself to.

“Do you have any pointers as a professional lap dancer?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

I swill the whiskey in my glass. “Slow everything down,” I say. “Imagine that with this dance you’re trying to make me orgasm.”

Liam cocks an eyebrow.

“And keep good eye contact,” I say.

By the way he blushes, I’m now sure he doesn’t recognise me from this morning’s raid.

Liam exhales deeply, his head lolling forwards as he looks down between his splayed legs. He throws back the rest of his whiskey and pushes the glass table towards the other sofa. He gets up as the chorus of the song begins to play “ah ah ah“. He takes his hand to his tie and loosens it. He rolls his muscular shoulders as he slips off his jacket.

He trains his eyes on mine as if he’s a bullet and I’m the target. He begins to unbutton his waistcoat and tosses it on the sofa next to me. Next, his fingers unbutton his shirt from the top. He takes the palm of his hand and works it down over his hardened pectoral shelf.

He rubs back and forwards between his chiselled abdominal muscles. If I didn’t hate him with every fibre of my body and dream about all the various ways I could see him behind bars, I would allow myself to be the slightest bit turned on right now.

He stops his hand just above his belt. The song pumps harder as the chorus echoes. “She’s the baddest thing I ever want. I’d love to take a shopping, give her anything she wants.‘

Liam tugs at his belt, moving the leather strap out of the loop and pulling the prong from its buckle. He stops moving and stares at me. I swallow hard.

“Keep moving,” I caution.

The belt falls to the floor, and he runs his thumbs around the top of his trousers, weaving his hips in the figure of eight motion. I imagine he’s been inspired by all the dances at the club. He takes his hands up, runs them through his hair, down his jaw, along his neck and down the sides of himself, his hands reaching for the button of his trousers. He unbuttons and pulls down the zip. The trousers crumple to the floor.

Now he’s standing before me in just his Armani boxer shorts. I can’t help but salivate a little. The curve of his shoulders flows into the curve of his biceps and his muscular forearms to his huge hands. The veins on top of them look beastly.

My eyes work from his hands to his boxer shorts, which reveal the outline of his cock. It’s wide and hard. He is still working his hips, trying to follow the beat of the music as he thumbs the waistband of his black boxing shorts. He takes his finger and runs it along his lip. I can tell he’s nervous, but he’s also enjoying it.

I sit back on the leather sofa, folding my arms, studying his treasure trail.

He begins to pull at his boxing shorts working them down his huge solid hips, but the music comes to an end. He straightens up.

“That’s all you’re getting. You’ve never taken your panties off for me.”

“And I never will unless you finish the dance,” I say, smiling at him wickedly. Nerves and excitement heat my body. At this moment, I feel completely alive. And then it hits me: I want to lick those muscles. I want to make him tilt his head back and moan.

“Then perhaps we are going to play an enjoyable game of I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he replies.

He pulls his boxers back up. The waistband snaps in place. He walks over to the whiskey decanter on his chrome top kitchen island. He pours himself another whiskey and brings the decanter back to the glass table. He takes a seat next to me.

“So where would you like to go for dinner?” he asks, pushing a stray hair behind my ear. His touch sends daggers through me. Harry would be horrified to know I was here with him like this.

“I’m not thinking about eating right now,” I say.

“Then what are you thinking about?” I allow my eyes to travel down his body to his boxer shorts. I lift my chin to meet his gaze and as I do, he moves towards me, boxing me into the sofa. I fit perfectly against his body. I’m soft everywhere. He’s hard and I feel his breath on my lips. The tip of his stubble moves across my skin. I shouldn’t let this happen.

He presses his lips to mine in a much too tender way that makes me think he is the kind of person who rescues injured birds and feeds them with a syringe.

His lips tug at mine to open. As they do, the heat of the whiskey on his tongue burns my mouth.

I part my lips on a soft moan. He takes advantage and slips his tongue in, kissing me deeper. His hand is gripping my wrist. He pins my arm to the sofa and then pins the lower half of my body with his, trapping me.

Pure adrenaline is cursing through every vein of my body and straight to my sex. I tell myself I’m doing this to find a lead. To finally have an answer to the question that’s haunted me for twenty years. As his tongue circles mine, I press back. I can’t help myself at this moment, I want nothing else but more of Liam O’Shaughnessy.

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