“They’re for reading.”
“Oh no no no no. They’re naughty professor glasses and they’re foralways.”
“You know,” she starts, and traces a finger just above my belt along my bare skin and it prickles. “I’m not the only one with a sexy job. I do believe you have a special talent that makes you rather desirable with the ladies.”
Oh...“Guys too.”
“I’d like to see you dance for me, Jonah.”
Heat rushes through my body at her first command, but I suddenly remember I haven’t danced like that in over six months. “I might be a little rusty,” I say, and pull at the back of my neck.
“That’s okay,” she smiles. “I’ve also been dusting off some old skills recently.”
A flashback of that night in my living room when she sang and played the mandolin makes my insides all fuzzy and warm. Knowing that she shared that vulnerable moment with only me renews my cocksure attitude. But it’s more than that—now there’s a new feeling swirling beside it: the urge to submit to a powerful woman.
I’ve never wanted to dance for someone more.
“Can I have a moment alone to practice?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll wait in the den down the hall. Come out when you’re ready.”
When she shuts the bedroom door, I run through my old stripping playlist and am pleasantly surprised to see my muscle memory is alive and well.
I hook up to the bluetooth speaker1 in the den, which is just a small, informal living room up here on the second floor. When I emerge, Renée has drawn the curtains and dimmed the sconces. The den is decorated like the rest of my house, with warm red and cream tones, sandstone work, wood elements, and cozy leather furniture.
The music I selected thrums low through the space, softer than the club speakers I danced under, but somehow it hits harder. Maybe that’s because she’s the only audience tonight. Just her. No lights, no crowd, no stage—just the woman who accidentally walked back into my life eight months ago.
It wasn't an accident, if you ask me. It was fate.
I nearly choke when I round the couch and see she’s no longer wearing the cute, long dress she was in fifteen minutes ago when she left me in my room topractice. Blood rushes to my dick and it’s suddenly a struggle to remain in performance mode, because CHEESE AND RICE, SHE’S HOT. She’s wearing a skin-tight, short-as-hell leather dress, with lace and mesh at the sides that showcase her wide, beautiful hips. The deep V neckline converges into a gold zipper that travels all the way to the hemline.
Holy smokes. Has she been wearing that the whole time?
I came out of my bedroom like a jaguar on the prowl, but she just threw the Uno reverse card and now I’m her willing prey—her boy toy she can do what she pleases with. I know I’m lucky, but I never thought I’d bethislucky.
She crosses her legs, and there’s heat smoldering in her stare like coals. Her posture is so elegant in the way it always was when she lectured, except now she’s relaxed. Watching me. Enjoying me. Not pretending not to.
I move with the beat, letting it sink into my soul the way it always has. I didn’t know that night she came into the club would be my last time dancing. I hung up the fireman costume, packed away banana hammocks, and said goodbye to breakaway shirts.
But I’m dancing once again, andonlyfor her. If I would have known she wanted this, I would have worn something a little sexier than jeans, an undershirt, and a button up.
My shoulders dip and I let my long sleeve drop. I roll my hips like I did onstage, but slower, sweeter—a little less performance, a little more devotion. She notices the difference. I can tell by the tiny tilt in her head, the subtle softening of her seductive mouth.
“Still got it,” she purrs, barely loud enough to hear over the music. Her praise hits deeper than any applause or screaming crowd ever could. I push my palms against my groin and thrust in rhythm to the music.
I grin—probably too wide, too eager—and slide my hands down my chest in a practiced line that once got me ridiculoustips. But here? I don’t care about tips. The greatest payment is the way her eyes follow every inch of my body, like she’s studying or devising a plan. Renée looks at me like she owns the view. And I love that.
I bite the hem of my undershirt and expose my abs before leaning over her. I quickly rip open her crossed legs, and plant one hand on the couch back. I roll my hips and rub my jean-clad erection into her chest. And because she knows she owns me, her firm, little hands slide anywhere she pleases. Through the valleys of my hips, up my chest, until she’s toying with my nipples.
“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
Baby?!
I push my face into her neck and run my tongue along that column of creamy freckled skin. “I am your baby. I’m yours.”
She stuffs a hand into my hair and tugs. She licks my cheek—branding me, sending another jolt of hot pleasure straight into my balls. Then she releases me as fast as she claimed, pushing me off her with a sadistic smile. “Keep going.”
In the club, customers might playfully demand something from me, but it was always my choice to agree or decline. But with her, right here, it doesn’t feel like I have choice—and that imaginary power imbalance consumes me in lust.
