Page 1 of Free Me

1

Blake

“Jesus,Blake,youlooklike you’re about to pass a kidney stone. We’re here to have fun and let off some steam. Lighten up.” Gilbert’s cut-glass British accent slices through the loud music, and I clench my jaw.He’snot having any issues relaxing. His large body is sprawled over the bar stool, legs spread, scrutinizing the crowd like a buyer at a livestock auction.

My stomach roils and I take another sip of my Blanton’s. An upset stomach and bourbon are probably not the best combination, but a drink is about the only thing that’ll get me through this evening. Maybe lots of drinks. Coming to Club Cake was Gilbert’s idea and I’m just along for the ride. Oh the glamorous life of a book publisher.

“At least lose the tie. People will think you’re a poorly disguised undercover cop. You’ll scare off the hors d’oeuvres.” He openly ogles the sea of twinks and otters writhing shirtless on the dance floor, salivating over them like they’re oysters on the half shell.

I remind myself yet again that Gilbert Fox is a bestselling author, and regardless of his arrogant, self-indulgent personality, he’d bring millions of readers with himifwe can get him under contract at Hibernian Press.Thatwould give us the necessary financial footing to launch the boutique imprint I’ve wanted for years. It’s also why I’m wasting my evening sitting on this uncomfortable bar stool, putting up with his arrogant ass as I’m jostled and eyed by men half my age and pummeled with bass beats so loud they feel like actual blows to my chest.

Not that I’d be sleeping if I weren’t stuck here. Long hours at the office, or reading manuscripts at home into the wee hours, are normal parts of my day. There’s a lot that goes into running a publishing house, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I adore what I do. However, spending an evening at the club with this obnoxious oaf instead of at my desk is a new level of self-torture I don’t care to repeat anytime soon.

“Gilbert, I don’t seem to be impacting your ability to attract attention.” I gesture to three shirtless men hovering close by, openly eye-fucking him. To be fair, he’s six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with thick, wavy brown hair and a rakish smirk that draws both men and women like steel to a magnet. I might even consider him attractive if he’d never opened his mouth.Andif we weren’t working together. That’s one lesson I didn’t need to learn the hard way. Never mix business with pleasure. It’s a recipe for disaster.

Gilbert takes a sip of his scotch and scans the crowd like he’s unimpressed with the offerings. “Yes, well, it’s all in how you play the game, Grasshopper. Feign disinterest and they fall at your feet.” He smirks as if he’s sure it will happen. “Right where they should be.” Then he winks at me. He literally winks, like it’s our little secret. What an ass.

And did he just make a ’70s TV reference? That I understood? Jesus, I’m too damned old for this. We’re probably the only two in the room who watchedKung Fueven close to when it aired, or understand the original Grasshopper reference. I drag my hand through my hair and eye my half-full drink. How long do I have to stay and babysit? The clubbing and hooking up thing was fun when I was in my twenties and mildly entertaining in my thirties. But I’m in my forties, and Gilbert’s in his late fifties. When does clubbing become pathetic and sad? I have a sinking feeling we’re there.

Not that I’m judging. Okay, maybe I’m judging a bit, which I shouldn’t do. Why do I care if half-naked bodies want to press themselves against other half-naked bodies and get off in dark corners?

Just as I think that, the overhead lights sweep the crowd, illuminating two bodies pressed against each other in a booth. It’s obvious one guy has his hand down the back of the other guy’s pants, and neither seems concerned the entire club can see them. I guess not everyone is all that concerned with finding those dark corners.

“Hey, beautiful.” Gilbert’s posh accent cuts through the ambient noise as one of the bare-chested twenty-somethings drapes himself across Gilbert’s body like a toga. In seconds, they’re in a lip-lock, with hands roaming everywhere. I exhale and slump against the bar, hoping this means I can get out of here soon. If they scurry to the bathroom and get off quickly, maybe I can convince Gilbert to leave after. If they head out together, I’ll pay the bar tab and go home and unwind. Either way, I win. What I really don’t want is to sit here and watch Gilbert continuously troll for twinks.

The music drops a few decibels, but before I can be grateful, the DJ’s voice comes through the speakers. “Hey, hey, it’s our lucky day! I spy a beautiful face we haven’t seen here at Club Cake in quite a while. Maybe if you all make her feel welcome, we can get her up on stage to dance for us.” Whoops and whistles come from the crowd, and the DJ laughs into the microphone. “Baby girl, you know I have to. We can’t let you sneak out without a dance. Come on people, let her know how much we love her!” The music switches toButtonsbyThe Pussycat Dolls,and the whistling gets louder.

Other dancers exit the platform as a few muscular men boost a lithe, long-haired, platinum blonde onto the stage in an obviously choreographed lift. Her black, pleated miniskirt flares out daringly as she twirls around on her strappy heels, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd. As the sensual strains of the intro play, she glides her hands up her skin-tight, ice-blue crop top, her luscious red lips parted in a silent “ah”. The feathers at the cuffs flutter delicately as she snaps her arms over her head on the downbeat, wrists crossed, palms together. The crowd erupts, aaand that’s my cue to leave. Performances like this are usually painful if you’re sober, and unfortunately I still am.

I turn to give Gilbert my apologies, but he’s engrossed with his boy toy. In a vain attempt to get his attention, I clear my throat. The crowd roars, making it impossible for him to hear anything, even if he wasn’t currently concentrating on sucking the twink’s lungs out through his mouth. I toss two fifties on the bar and turn to go.

That’s as far as I get. One fleeting glance at the stage and I’m caught by the coiling motion of the dancer’s body and the commanding way she holds the crowd enthralled. She rolls her hips effortlessly, arms flowing seductively as she tosses a saucy look my way. I’m sure it’s not specifically at me, but tell that to my thickening cock.

Captivated, my eyes follow her every move. She struts toward the front of the small stage, planting her foot at the edge, closing her eyes as she gyrates sinuously, oozing sexuality. Arching her back, she glides her hands up her torso and into her long platinum hair. Her full, pouty lips open into a sexy “oh” as she undulates her body, then spins away, bending over to slap her palms against the floor. Wolf whistles and cheers erupt from the crowd.

She thrusts her perfectly round, absolutely mouthwatering ass in my direction, and with lightning speed, my body reacts. My heart pounds with the beat, my cock straining against the front of my suit pants. I drag my hands through my hair. Christ. I need to leave. Standing here watching her lean, muscular body twist and bend into even more enticing positions is only making my cock harder, but I can’t take my eyes from her. She’s hypnotic.

As if she knows I’m teetering on the edge of leaving, she drops to her knees, whips her head from side to side, her long hair billowing around her. When she slides effortlessly into a full split and stares straight at me, my resistance is done. I’m caught in her gravitational pull and find myself moving forward, pushing my way into the crowd toward the small stage. My traitorous brain provides all kinds of inappropriate images of that flexibility in my bed. The crowd, of course, goes wild, and she grins, rolling onto her back, thrusting her hips into the air in time with the beat. Thank god the club is dark, because there is no hiding how much my cock is enjoying this.

Before I get too far, the song’s final notes ring out, and she strikes a pose, chest heaving, a wide smile on her face. The crowd whoops again, and she throws her head back and laughs, absolutely carefree and comfortable being the center of attention. In one fluid motion, she rolls to the side and stands, drops into a curtsy, and blows a kiss to the DJ before motioning for a few guys at the front of the stage to help her down. The music seamlessly morphs to a techno beat, and everyone spreads across the dance floor again, the colored spotlights swiveling to pan over the gyrating bodies. Now that the show is over, and I’m standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, embarrassment sweeps through me and I shoulder my way out of the throng of sweaty bodies. Giving one last glance to Gilbert, who now has the twink straddling his lap, I turn toward the door. It’s definitely time to go.

Before I get two steps, someone grabs my hand. I half turn, ready to defend myself if necessary, and stare down into the flushed face of the blonde dancer. Jesus. Up close, she’s stunning, with high cheekbones, exquisite brown eyes, a perfect, classic nose, and full, pouty lips made for… I shut down that line of thought immediately.

Her grin is wide, like she’s on a great high, but her dark eyes are brilliantly lucid. “You’re not leaving, are you?” Her husky, playful voice is like smooth whiskey, warming my insides as my tension eases.

“Yes, actually, I was. It’s been a long day, and I seem to have lost my friend.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder to where Gilbert and his boy toy are playing tonsil hockey.

“Friend?” We both turn to look at Gilbert, lip-locked with his twink, but he’s watching us, his eyes roaming all over the dancer. He crooks a finger at her in a ‘come here’ gesture and my stomach clenches. Is he serious? She rolls her eyes and laughs, pulling me further down the bar. It’s only then I realize we’re still holding hands. “So, he’s that kind of friend.”

“More like a client. And yes, that’s why I was leaving. No need to entertain him when he’s already entertaining himself.”

She laughs. “Buy a girl a drink before you go?”

If anyone asks, I will claim momentary loss of reason, but standing this close, staring into her warm brown eyes, everything else fades into the background and I can’t say no. We find a free space at the bar, and she leans against it. The bartender strolls over and gives my new companion a huge smile. “Hey beautiful. Your usual?”

She bats her absurdly long eyelashes at him. “Oh, Dan, you remember after all this time?”

“You’re unforgettable, babe. Everyone here misses you.” He winks at her, and she laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that promises deliciously wicked things, and I want to hear it again. As she turns her attention back to me, stepping closer, the tension in my body jumps, electricity sparking between us. “What are you having?” The heat from her palms radiates through my dress shirt as she presses her hands to my chest, slowly tracing a path down the length of my body. My lungs freeze, halting the flow of oxygen to my traitorous brain.

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