Page 11 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

My heart races in my chest as I stare up at him for a few moments. Then, when I can gather my words, I say on a whisper, “You gave her three thousand dollars so she’d stop calling me a bitch.”

This time, his jaw clench is accompanied by a sharp breath. “She wouldn’t shut up. So I found a way to make her.”

I swallow, my belly fluttering. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I did handle it.”

Like he did before, with my old catering boss.

He handled my problem for me. I didn’t know what to make of it back then, just like I don’t know what to make of it now.

No one has ever handled things for me before.

I don’t even know what that looks like, someone lending a helping hand, having my back.

Well, it looks like a tall grumpy soccer player, looking down at me with irritated but pretty eyes. Who also happens to be my stepbrother.

“I…” I begin, licking my lips. “I don’t have three thousand dollars.”

He takes in my glistening mouth before saying in a low voice, “Good thing it’s not your money I’m after, then. Just your ability to spread your legs and grind your tight ass in my lap. And from what I remember, you know how to shake it, don’t you?”

My thighs clench without my say-so and I ask, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

He shakes his head once. “No.”

My breath hitches as I whisper, “I could be… I could be your sister.”

I don’t know what makes me say it, but I couldn’t not say it either. As much as I hate our connection, we still have one. Even if he isn’t aware of it.

His eyes flash and something flickers through his features that makes me clench my thighs harder. “But you’re not, are you?”

I shake my head, my eyes still wide and my heart beating crazily in my chest. Then, breathing in deep, “Fine. But not here. There are rooms in the back.”

He studies me for a long moment, sweeping his eyes over my features, before he takes his hand off the pillar and moves away. “Lead the way.”

So I do.

Without wasting another second, I push away from the pillar and head to the hallway in the back where all the private rooms are located.

They’re for the customers who want a more immersive experience, and mostly you have to reserve them in advance.

But I’m sure one of them is likely to be unoccupied.

I find one, but before I can turn the knob, his arm reaches out from behind me and does it for me.

As soon as the door is open, I step inside. Anything to put some distance between us. From his big chest, heated and breathing, his dark stare that followed me all the way back here.

The room is all red. Red booth, a large red table, dim red lights, red speakers up on the wall through which the music is blasting.

There’s a pole in the room too, right in the middle, and I walk up to it.

I grip it and take a few deep breaths as I hear him enter the room too and take his seat at the booth.

When I know I won’t burst out of my skin, I turn around and finally look at him.

“Just so you know, any and all use of camera devices is prohibited. You’re not allowed to take photos or record videos. ”

He keeps staring at me for a few beats after I’ve recited the rule as if from a rulebook, before jerking his chin up at me.

And then there’s nothing to do but set my tray aside—I was still holding it from before—and toe off my heels. I also take off the ridiculous halo and fiddle with my ponytail, tightening the band before starting.

I grip the pole and start swaying to the music.

As much as I love dancing, when I came for my shift, I didn’t know I’d be dancing for him.

I also didn’t know, despite the circumstances, how thrilling it would feel with each passing second.

How exciting. How freeing. But most of all, I didn’t know that dancing for him—my stepbrother—would feel so powerful. Because it does, and I know why.

It’s because of him. Because of the way he is watching me. All mesmerized.

He’s sitting on the edge of his seat, his spine snapped straight, his shoulders taut.

His arms are on his thighs and his fingers are gripping his knees so hard that I can see his knuckles jut out.

And his eyes, God , his eyes are pitch black and intense.

So intense that they’re burning. They’re on fire as he watches me. Watches my moving body.

I’m a muse, so I have to follow a certain dress code.

While I don’t really expose too much skin, I do expose some for good tips.

Tonight I’m wearing a crop top, exposing my belly, and a frilly skirt that goes up to the tops of my thighs.

It’s nothing compared to what other girls are wearing, but the way his stare tracks me around makes me feel naked.

It makes me feel beautiful.

Something, along with powerful, I don’t ever feel.

It’s like it’s only hitting him now, what I’m wearing.

And it’s like he already has a favorite spot on my body that he likes to watch the most. My bare belly and my belly button stud.

I got it when I started the job because some of the girls said it helped with their tips.

And it does. But I’ve never been happier about it than right now.

I make my way over to him and stand between his thighs. As I bend over and put my arms on the backrest, aligning our faces together. I watch his jaw clench and his nostrils flare. I watch his lips part slightly, very slightly, as if he’s breathing me in as much as I am him.

As if now he’s the one who’s waiting for a kiss.

Then, looking into his eyes, I close the distance between us.

I get to an inch from his mouth before I change directions, slide my soft cheek against his prickly jaw, feeling it clench harder.

And God, I have to brace myself against the sensation.

I have to stop myself from rubbing my cheek up against his stubble repeatedly so I earn a bruise from it, for me to admire later.

I reach up to his ear and whisper, “You’re a giant asshole, but no one has ever bothered to handle anything for me before and I have enough manners to say thank you.

For saving my ass not once but twice. And you’re right, I don’t have a right to butt into your life, and I shouldn’t have spilled my drink on you.

But, Shepard,” he tenses when I say his name, and I pause for a second because I always wanted to say it to him, to test it out on my tongue when he’s around before continuing, “I’m still not going to give you a lap dance. ”

I don’t give him the time to react to what I just said, I simply do it. I knee him in the junk, hard. As hard as I can, and then I’m fleeing from the room. The last thing I hear before the door closes is his vicious curse and a groan.