Heated

Chapter Fifteen

Rihanna’s “S&M” blared out of the speakers, all confidence and fire, singing about how good she was at being bad. About sex. Attraction. Excitement and heat.

And there I was, my white-gloved hands sliding provocatively up and down the steel pole, my stocking clad leg hooked as high as I dared for fear of losing my balance, and at least high enough to show off the garter that held the stocking in place.

I’d come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who’d taken the stage during the club’s Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I’d been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn’t let me on the stage.

Now I was nervous that he wasn’t even there, and that all this would be for nothing.

When the lights had first gone up—when the first strains of music had pulsed out—my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I’d moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.

I’d been in and out of enough strip joints to know that as gentleman’s clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.

There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.

The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman’s club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.

Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn’t start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.

The end result, however, was the same. And I’d begun the evening feeling more than a little twitchy.

Sapphire, one of Destiny’s regular dancers who was in charge of wrangling the six of us who’d entered the amateur night contest, had given us a pre-performance pep talk. “If you’re nervous, just draw out the seduction. You’ll want to take it all off eventually—at least if you want a shot at the prize. But you can take your time with the stripping until you find your rhythm. Just keep it hot and sexy.”

Good advice, and though it had taken some time—as in, the entire length of The Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself”—I’d finally managed to kick it up.

I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn’t deny that I was getting into it.

I remembered the heat I’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when I’d stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he’d fought for control.

I drew on the memory of how much he’d wanted me—of how much I’d wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.

And I remembered the way he’d touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?

It had—oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn’t deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.

It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.

But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn’t have the same impact on me. I wasn’t dancing for them. It wasn’t these men who made me want to put on a show.

For that, I had to imagine Tyler.

Tyler, sitting in the dark.

Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.

He wasn’t really there—not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.

So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He’d gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn’t there to see any of it.

It frustrated me that I cared—that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.

I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who was tempted.

He was everything I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.

I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.

I’d spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I’d come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.

Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn’t tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.

I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.

I’d already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.

“Oh, yeah, baby!” an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.

Not bad for a day’s work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.

I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.

Time to step it up a notch.

The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement—and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.

He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.

He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.

He hadn’t even looked at me yet, but it didn’t matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He’s completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.

I continued to move with the music—continued my show for the men—but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.

She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.

As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.

I saw the heat in his eyes—and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.

And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a bitch to dance in.

I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.

And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.

I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn’t touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.

Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.

The men in the audience were holding out bills and, not being stupid, I took a little time to make a circuit around the stage and collect my tips before moving on to the next stocking.

I tried to keep my eyes on the men. To keep that eye contact that I knew dancers used to make sure the tips were stellar. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care about these men or their money. All I wanted was Tyler, but he’d disappeared. No matter where I looked, I couldn’t find him or the brunette, and something hard and tight knotted in my belly.

I felt a little sick, but I kept on, moving in time to some song I didn’t recognize.

I kicked up my other leg, getting ready to start the same show with the other, but as soon as I did, there he was.

I froze as a psych book full of emotions pummeled me. Relief, excitement, desire—and irritation.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as he stepped up onto the stage, to the hoots and catcalls and general grumbling of the men below.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He tossed his jacket over my shoulders, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me bodily offstage. I didn’t shout and didn’t fight back—I was too damn shocked. And from the silence that had settled around my stage, I think the customers felt exactly the same.

“Go,” Tyler said, and it took me only a second to realize he was talking to another girl that I recognized as one of the waitresses. Her eyes were wide, and I had a feeling that she was getting an unexpected promotion. But she scurried up the stairs and wrapped her body around the pole.

The men who’d been looking shocked in my direction turned to her, and I was all but forgotten.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, as he held my arm in a vise grip and led me toward the back. Across the room, I saw Evan standing beside Cole, their expressions unreadable.

I drew in a breath, and hoped to hell this had worked.

I relaxed just slightly as he led me into the employees only area. Tyler said nothing as he dragged me down the hall to his office. He shoved the door open. “In,” he said, that single syllable managing to convey a whole menagerie of emotions.

I complied.

“I’m sorry,” I said, when he shut the door and stalked toward me. “I wanted—”

I didn’t get to finish. His hands fisted around the lapel of his jacket, and he yanked me toward him, then crushed his mouth over mine, effectively silencing me. Not to mention making me forget what the hell I was trying to say anyway.

He twirled me around, then slammed us both up against the wall in a violent, wild claiming.

The kiss burned frantic and hot and had my head spinning and my body humming, although that might have had more to do with the fact that he’d spread the jacket wide and his hands were over my breasts, touching and stroking as if he couldn’t get enough of me.

I knew damn well I couldn’t get enough of him.

I closed my eyes, my body melting beneath him, as my mouth claimed him, as our tongues tasted each other, teased each other.

He robbed me of thought, of reason. And as I stood there, trapped between him and the wall, I could barely remember my name, much less why I’d come to Destiny. In that moment, he was my entire world, and even as something in my mind screamed for me to get a grip, to remember that he’d conned me—that he was a criminal—all I wanted to do was lose myself forever in this moment.

And then he pulled back, leaving me gasping and, dammit, very turned on.

“I already said no,” he said. “So why exactly are you dancing on one of my stages?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak quite yet, so I concentrated on buttoning his jacket before lifting my head. “I came to negotiate,” I said. “But a negotiation is only as good as the information on the table.”

He moved to the small sofa where he’d fucked me, then sat down, his arm stretched along the back. “This isn’t a negotiation,” he said.

“Everything’s a negotiation. You’re a businessman.”

“And you’re a cop.”

“I negotiate all the time. Plea bargains. Immunity deals.” I smiled prettily as I settled myself behind his desk. “You know all about immunity deals.”

He chuckled. “And there’s the cop,” he said. “Control. Confidence. Determination. It was always there, but now it’s in context. So tell me, are you good at what you do, Detective Watson?”

“Yes. I am.”

“I believe you. You were good on that stage, too,” he added, with a bolus of heat seasoning his voice. “Sexy. Confident. A woman with a mission.”

“I was on a mission. I want to dance at Destiny. And now I’ve proved that I can,” I rushed to add when he opened his mouth to reply. “I can dance, I can satisfy the customers. I can blend. Bottom line, I can be one of these girls.”

“I’ve no doubt that you can.”

I cocked my head, wondering at his game. “Really?”

“I’m more interested in why you want to.”

“I told you. I want to find Amy.”

“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful, and he stood up, then moved to stand behind the chair I was sitting in. He put his hands on my shoulders, then slowly slid one down, over the material of his jacket to brush my chest.

My breath hitched as the stroke of his fingers on the swell of my breast sent fresh desire coiling through me. “There’s something I want you to see,” he said, bending down so that his mouth brushed against my ear.

I trembled, squeezing my legs together as I imagined his hand traveling lower and lower.

But that wasn’t what he had in mind. Slowly, he withdrew a card from the interior pocket of the jacket, letting it trail teasingly over my nipple before he pulled it fully out and tossed it on the desk.

He brushed a soft kiss over the top of my head, then moved to sit on the edge of the desk, his thigh right beside my hand. “Take a look.”

I picked it up, then saw that it was a postcard from Caesar’s Palace. It had a Las Vegas postmark and was addressed to someone named Darcy, care of Destiny.

D—

Couldn’t say no to Vegas!

XXOO

Amy

“I talked to the girls today,” he said. “Most didn’t know where she’d gone, but apparently she told Darcy she’d been offered a desk job here—Chicago, I mean.”

“So she changed her mind at the last minute,” I guessed. “Probably a guy involved—and sent Darcy a postcard so she’d know.” All in all, it seemed clear cut. Though it still bugged me that she hadn’t gotten in touch with Candy, too.

“You’re welcome to talk to Darcy tomorrow. She worked the lunch shift today, so she’s already gone. But I don’t really see the need for you to play undercover operative. Unless you’re thinking about it in a bedroom role-playing capacity, in which case we can keep negotiations open.”

“Funny,” I said, turning the chair slightly so I could see him better. “But I still want to dance.”

“Why?”

Because I wanted to learn the truth about who Tyler was and what he did. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I turned to a different truth. “Because I liked it.”

“Did you?” He slid off the desk and put his hands on the arms of his chair, caging me in. He pushed it back, giving him room to kneel in front of me.

My pulse kicked up in anticipation of his touch, but all I said was, “Tyler.”

“I liked the way you looked up there,” he said, then moved his hands to rest them on my bare knees. “I liked the way you looked at me.”

“All those men,” he continued, his voice low and intimate as he gently spread my thighs, making me just a little crazy. Making me just a little wet.

“Watching you. Wanting you. And you wanted me.”

“Yes. Oh, god, yes.”

One hand began to gently stroke my thigh, teasing me, but moving no higher than where the hem of the jacket brushed my skin. With his other hand, he reached for the jacket, and cleverly flipped open the top button.

“That’s your opening offer, isn’t it?” He popped the other button open. “The deal you came to negotiate? I let you dance at Destiny, and you let me touch you?”

He used both hands now to push apart the lapels of the jacket, revealing my breasts, my abdomen, and those pretty silk panties. “Isn’t that like making a deal with the devil?” he asked, as his hand trailed down, making me tremble, then over the panties to find me so very, very wet.

“Or maybe you just like playing with the bad boys,” he said, as he slipped a finger deep inside me.

I arched back, gasping.

“Hook your legs over the chair’s arms,” he ordered.

“Tyler, no—”

“Do it.”

I did, and he lowered his mouth to my sex, using one hand to pull the panties and G-string aside, and the other to tilt the chair back until it seemed like I would fall. I was head-down, completely at his mercy, open and wide and essentially helpless.

And I was desperately, hopelessly, turned on.

He ran his tongue the length of me, and I shook as a storm of sparks rocketed through me, the sensation all the more spectacular because of the way the chair rocked with my arousal.

“This won’t work,” Tyler said.

“No,” I moaned. “Don’t stop.”

But he was opening the desk drawer, pulling out scissors. “I need both hands to keep the chair from toppling,” he said, then cut the panties right off me before tossing the scissors onto the floor with a metallic clank.

I laughed, the sound a burst of shock and pleasure. He met my eyes, his grin mischievous and deliciously sexy. “You taste good,” he said, then once again sank between my legs.

His hands stayed on the chair, so that he was touching me only with his mouth. He teased me, licking and sucking, playing and tormenting.

And with each touch, each stroke, the pressure inside me built and built.

I was open to him—wide and open and I wanted this. Wanted whatever he had to give. Wanted to lose myself in whatever pleasure he could share, whatever wicked, sensual torment he could devise.

In that moment, I think I would have done anything if only he would swear that this feeling would never stop.

Little tremors shot through me, making my body shake, the chair tremble. Precursors of an explosion that was close, so close, so close—

And then the world shattered, the chair rocking, my body clenching. I cried out for him to stop because I didn’t think I could take it anymore, but he was relentless, taking everything from me, pulling every drop of pleasure out of me, taking me so high I was breathless, then crashing me back down to earth again where he scooped me into his arms.

“Wow,” I murmured, finding myself curled against his chest, my body bare against his shirt, the jacket hanging open around me. “Wow.”

“Very wow,” he said, as he carried me across the room and laid me on the couch. “I may have to put one of those chairs in every room.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t object.”

“Tell me you liked that,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the sofa beside me.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“I knew you were a cop, Sloane. I knew you were a cop, and I fucked you. I played you. And you were so damn pissed at me.”

I squinted at him, unsure about this change in direction. But his expression was still soft. Gentle.

I propped myself up on my elbow. “Yes,” I said. “I was.”

“Would you have preferred me to have you removed from the party? To have never touched you? Never put my tongue on your cunt, my hands on your breasts? Would you rather I’d never made you come, and never felt you explode in my arms?”

“No,” I whispered, my body hot and needy.

“Or what about the waiter? Do you regret that? Sitting bold and naked and open and turned on, so desperately aroused, not because of him but because you knew that watching you made me hard?”

I wanted to lie. So help me, I did.

But I couldn’t bring it to my lips. “No.”

“I know it,” he said simply. “I know you.”

I tilted my head to him. “Tyler,” I said, not even certain what I wanted, what I was asking. I simply needed the sound of his name on my lips as some sort of proof that this was real.

“Shhh.” He gently pressed his fingertip to my lip. “I started out just watching you. I must have watched the damn security video a dozen times. Then at the party. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, even though I knew what you were. What you are.”

He stroked me gently, and I closed my eyes, rolling on a wave of pleasure so intense I thought I would surely drown in it. “By everything I know, you are not the woman that I should want,” he said, as he trailed his finger over the wound on my hip. “Detective Sloane Watson, with just over a week of medical leave remaining. A cop, of all things. And I find myself in the unexpected position of wanting you desperately. Of wanting to stoke this fire that rages between us, hot and wild and so very combustible.”

He traced his finger along my collarbone, then over my side, along the curve of my waist, following my silhouette all the way to my hip.

“I want to burn with you, Detective. And, Sloane, you should know that I make it a point to get what I want.”

He smiled at me, slow and easy and full of confidence. “So this is the deal I’m offering you. While you’re on medical leave, you’ll dance at Destiny, you’ll have free access to the club. But during that time, you are mine.”

“Yours?” I repeated.

“Completely,” he said. “With everything that entails. To pleasure. To punish. To tend. I won’t hurt you and I won’t scare you. But I will use you,” he added, as he slipped his hand between my legs and slid two fingers inside me. “For my pleasure and for yours.”

I squeezed my legs around his hand, my body clenching tight, drawing him in farther.

“Agree, and you can dance at Destiny. Say no, and you walk away tonight.”

“I’m at a disadvantage here. I’m naked. Your fingers are inside me.”

“You’re the one who took off your clothes, Sloane. That was your move, remember? I’m only playing the game. And now it’s checkmate.”

He thrust deeper inside me, and as he did, he leaned forward to lightly bite my breast. I gasped in surprise, but also in pleasure.

“I know you like risk,” he said, and there was seduction in his voice. “You like excitement. And, my darling detective, you like the way I make you feel.”

I licked my lips. After what I’d done with him, I could hardly argue.

“You came freely to my room. You stripped when I told you to. You stood naked in a window while I touched you.” His voice, low and hot, swirled around me, teasing and tempting. “And tonight, you took off your clothes in front of other men, but you thought of me.”

I’d been holding his gaze, hot and hard and defiant. But at that last, I looked away. God help me, he was right. Even now, I was having to fight the way he made me feel, the way he heated me up, so that every cell in my body burned for his touch.

But the truth was, I didn’t want to fight it. I liked the way he looked at me. Liked the fact that my nipples got hard when his gaze dipped to my breasts. Liked the fact that the tone of his voice could make my body weak with longing. I’d known lust before; I’d known attraction. But until Tyler, I’d never experienced this wild burning, this desperate, uncontrolled passion that left me hot and needy and alive.

I felt a bit like Pavlov’s dog—one look from him, and my body was primed. One touch, and I all but exploded.

It was unfamiliar and a little unnerving. But I liked it. Christ, how I liked it.

“If I told you to go back to that chair right now, you’d do it.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but I saw the challenge—and the mischief—flash in his eyes. “You’d sit in that chair and spread your legs. And if I asked you to touch yourself—to stroke and tease while I got hard watching your body grow wet and slick, so desperate to sink myself inside you that I couldn’t stand it anymore—if I told you to do that, I think you would.”

My mouth went dry, my body limp.

“Tell me the truth, Sloane. Would you do that for me?”

“Yes,” I whispered, because I already knew he would see a lie.

“Then take the deal.”

“You told me you don’t date the girls who work at the club.”

“I break all kinds of rules, Detective. But not in this case.”

I looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to date you. I’m going to fuck you.”

A shiver ran through me, one I didn’t even bother to hide. “What exactly do you have in mind for me?” I asked.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be as fun.”

I licked my lips. “Before, you talked about pleasure and passion and even a little fear.”

“I remember.”

“Did you mean it? Or were you trying to shake me because you knew I was a cop?”

“But you are a cop. You must know all about the impact of adrenaline. Of fear. How it heightens sensation, even the sensation of pleasure.”

“I don’t want to be tied up—”

“No,” he said, and the word was infinitely gentle. “I won’t. But I will take you to that edge, Sloane. And if you are willing, I’ll take you over.”

Our eyes locked. I’m not sure how long I stayed lost in the clear blue of his eyes. Then he spoke, softly but firmly. “That’s it. That’s the arrangement. Take it—and make me a very happy man.”

“Arrangement?” I repeated. “That sounds so polite and proper.”

“Are you suggesting I’m neither polite nor proper?”

“Not at all,” I said, then grabbed his collar and pulled my lips to his. “I’m saying flat out that I hope you’re not.” I kissed him hard, then leaned back. “When I agree to something, Mr. Sharp, I go all in.”

His brow quirked up. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”

He stood, then gave me his hand and helped me up. Slowly, he closed the jacket that I still wore, carefully fastening each button. Then he went to his desk and picked up his phone. “Greg, bring me Ms. Watson’s shoes. I imagine they’re still by Stage Four.”