So I do what he says.
I guess I’m a better listener than I thought. Or maybe he’s just a better daddy than mine ever was.
EIGHT
CAMDEN
The womanon my lap shifts and rests against my chest with a sigh. It’s mind-boggling how perfect she is. And I almost screwed it all up by being vulnerable.
I blame Cora for that. She’s been complaining for years that I never open up, and here I am, dangerously close to telling my whole sad life story to a woman I just met.
I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me, period.
I wasn’t the only one who opened up. Though it’s no consolation. If anything, her truth made my heart ache more painfully. How could someone like Savannah exist and not know love? That gnawing question makes me almost delusional enough to believe that I could be good for her. That I could be worthy.
Almost. Because when I push away the longing and cling to good sense, I realize how ridiculous it is. Loving means being vulnerable, and I don’t know the first thing about being vulnerable. Nor do I want to.
Hannah appears at the bottom of the steps, her brows arching when she notices Savannah on my lap. When she smiles like she approves, my hackles rise. It shouldn’t bother me. I want her to approve of Savannah. I want to win the bet.
And yet that thought feels all wrong.
I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me, period.
The words call to something deeper inside me. Tempting me to try to fill a role I never have before. One that isn’t selfish.
Daniel appears behind Hannah, and she leans back, whispering in his ear. He scans the room, and when his attention snags on us, I have to hold back a growl.
“You okay?” Savannah murmurs.
I rub the soft skin on the inside of her knee, hoping to soothe her in the same way her soft voice soothes me. “I’m perfect. Do you need anything else?”
She smiles up at me, her expression filled with far more trust than I deserve. “Nope.”
Fuck. I want to kiss her. I tuck my chin and brush my nose against hers, but before our lips meet, the music shifts, the beat sultry, the lights dimming further.
The show is about to begin.
I nod toward the pole positioned in front of us as a woman leans up against it, her hip tilted out, both hands above her, one wrist on top of the other.
This isn’t meant to be like a strip club. These dancers are here to perform a tastefully seductive show. The moment the woman only a few feet away starts to move, undulating her hips in time with every other dancer in the room in choreographed precision, Savannah gasps.
“They’re amazing,” she whispers, the green of her irises dark as she watches, rapt.
I don’t give the dancers even an ounce of my attention unless Savannah points out a move. They don’t hold a candle to her.
Within minutes, she squirms on top of me, like she’s turned on.
There’s no hiding how hard I am, and I know she can feel it. With every second that passes, she gets a little more daring, rolling her hips and sinking deeper against me.
I’m not the only one who notices, either. The dancer closest to us locks eyes with Savannah and drags her hand down between her bare breasts, showing her just how much she’s enjoying the attention.
Maksim Loob and Bobby Dean, two of our best players, are sittingacross the room, watching the dancer from the opposite angle, though their eyes drift to Savannah far more often than I like.
Normally I’d have my hand up her skirt. I have a healthy sexual appetite, and I don’t mind being watched. Don’t mind sharing either. But with Savannah, I’m consumed by this hot, desperate need to protect her. I want to cover her up. Hide her from all the prying eyes. So when the dancer drops to her knees and crawls slowly toward us, I press a kiss to the pulse point below her ear. “Don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
Her pulse races and I swear she whimpers. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
The dancer kneels at our feet, focus fixed on Savannah, her bare chest heaving and lust in her eyes. “May I touch you?”
