He rubbed his mouth, considering. “He seems happy enough for now so all is not lost…wait one—f*ck
ing—second.” He dug his fingers into the back of the sofa and an image of him doing that to her hips assaulted her brain. Holding her in place for his pleasure. “You’re trying to detour this conversation from what’s important, Ms. Strickland.”
“You’ve had your hands on my ass and I ground my lady lips into your dick. I think you can call me Emma.”
Shock enlivened his grim features. Had she really just said “lady lips” out loud? This was not their standard repartee around the office.
“Emma,” he gritted out with tremendous effort. “Explain to me what’s going on.”
Well, I’m sure you’d love to hear about my coked-up sister who virtually sold me to her loan shark to pay off her debt. Or the fact that I’ve been the only mother she’s ever known and I failed her big-time. How the last three months have zapped every jot of energy from me and turned me into this.
She’d spent most of the last seventeen years ensuring Daisy never got a chance to become familiar with the inside of a courtroom, from overseeing every piece of homework she turned in to feeding her home-cooked meals, trusting that the family that eats together keeps its troublemakers out of jail and crack houses. But it wasn’t enough.
The clammy film coating her skin was ever-present, impossible to wash off. Shame. Shame at how she had screwed up as her sister’s guardian. Shame at how Brody was looking at her right now.
“I have a few debts”—true—“and I usually work here as a cocktail waitress”—also true—“but I’ve always wanted to dance”—half true, what girl didn’t?—“and the opportunity presented itself.” Was shoved down my throat.
“You chose to do this?”
Indignation rose, swift and sharp. “Why shouldn’t I choose to do this? Is there something wrong with doing this?”
That stymied him. He opened his mouth. Closed it before he shoved his other foot in.
“Every woman who works at this club is choosing to exercise agency over her body and gift the world with her beauty and talent.”
Pure disbelief greeted that. “And the dancing? Was that your gift to the world? Because if so, I hope you kept the receipt.”
She shrugged. “So, I’m new. I just need to practice, that’s all.”
“Practice? You mean you’re going to be doing that again?”
Very likely yes, because there was no way any of those dance moves had come close to getting her out from under Ray. She shuddered inwardly at the image that threw up.
“A girl’s gotta do.”
“Emma.” The way he said her name, a husky exasperation, sent warmth curling through her blood. “Tell me what’s going on here. Really. This isn’t like you.”
He had no idea. So grinding on a guy—on her boss—in public was not her thing but she had to admit she’d felt a brief surge of power like the Emma of old. That bad girl fighting to break free of her skin. Get down and dirty.
She might be a crappy stripper, but she was an excellent bad girl.
Emboldened by his disapproval, she went on. “You don’t know me, Mr. Kane. PA by day, T & A by night.”
He growled, actually growled. She had read about that in romance novels, but never thought she’d hear someone do it. That throaty sound seemed to propel him a breath-robbing closer. Or perhaps it drew her in. White-hot emotion swirled in those gray eyes. She swallowed, not quite believing the words hurtling from her scrambled brain to her mouth.
“Next time I might try my hand at the pole.”
He growled again, and this time there was no doubt it was…indelibly sexual.
“If you need money, we’ll sort something out.”
No way. She refused to take charity. She may as well open her legs right now. Brody might make a better creditor than Ray, but the upshot was the same: some guy with his boot on her neck and his hand up her skirt.
“It’s not just about the money.” It is. “This is my way to express myself.” My skanky self.
“For f*ck
’s sake, take an art class. Learn to play the guitar.” He cupped her jaw, a sensual display of intimacy that warmed her from the inside out. “There are a million ways you can express yourself, Emma.”
Oh God, she really should not have given him permission to say her name, because he owned her when he pushed out those two little syllables.
“I want to express myself through dance,” she insisted. Keeping up this charade of self-expression was admittedly ridiculous, but she’d committed and couldn’t see a viable way out.
He closed his eyes and for a moment she had a brief flash of what it would be like to watch him sleep. After she’d worn him out “dancing.” Thick, velvety lashes, beautifully sooty, framed those silver-gray eyes like a work of art. When his eyes fluttered open again, she could see he was trying his utmost not to strangle her. His concern was touching, though she’d much rather he was touching her where she was most concerned.