Not to mention a hell of a lot safer for the girls. Whether they danced or served drinks or stood behind the bar as eye candy, I’d changed the place for the better. Not for my own sake or to make my older brother Hollis, the future mayor of our town, look better in the eyes of our community, since we were connected, but for her.
Only for her.
Kitty Ortega.
She’d twisted me up on the inside. Changed the way my brain worked. Living rent free in my head, bringing a thing worse than a feral animal to life inside of me. A savage, ruthless beast. All without uttering a single word. Watching her on stage, knowing other men watched her, coveted what I knew deep down inside was mine, had killed me at first.
But what could I do? Fire her? If I did, it would only force her work at a different, shittier club. At least when she worked for me, I could control the atmosphere for her. Make it better. Classier. Easier.
But as time went by, night after night, watching men get turned on by what was mine, knowing no other fucker could ever touch her but me, turned me on. I got off on knowing these assholes tossed their money away and would never know so much as what it was like to sit next to her.
She was mine.
All mine.
Only mine.
From the moment her feet hit the floor after her time on stage, I summoned her into the nicest, most luxurious private room in the back. That first night I had her join me, she’d started to dance, but I didn’t want her to. I mean, I did, but not like that. I wanted her towantto dance for me and only me.
Instead, I pulled out a book and read.
It was weird, and I’d known that.
I was different.
Always had been.
A quiet kind of man who didn’t use a lot of words and used even less when the woman I wanted was an absolute goddess. Around her, I felt tongue tied. My heart raced, my palms were constantly clammy, and fuck if it took me forever to know which way was up when I was around her.
I’d pulled out a book that night, since I always carried one or my e-reader with me, and tugged on the one thing I knew we had in common. I’d noticed that her locker always had a minimum of three or four books in it from that very first day.
Hell, I’d seen her reading in her car whenever she arrived at the club early. Shit, she was perpetually late because her nose was always stuck in a book, so captivated by the romances she loved she lost track of time on a daily basis.
That first week, I could tell she didn’t know what to do with me. She’d step in, and the soft lighting would turn on, illuminating her. She’d stare at me as soft music played. After a couple minutes of silence, Kitty would find her way to a chair and sit, sometimes looking down at her perfectly done nails or taking in the space.
But my favorite moments were when despite me reading, acting like I didn’t care what she did, I felt her gaze on me. Those pretty, dark eyes sending their heat and curiosity in my direction were as dangerous as a really good scotch.
It was addicting.
I still didn’t know how the hell I managed to keep my hands on the book as I forced myself to read while she watched me. Studied me. I could tell she didn’t know what to make of me.
A week of that had been my own heaven and hell.
Sitting with her. Spending time together. Kitty would ask if all she was going to do was watch me read, and I’d grunt my response. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to her; I just wasn’t sure where to start.
Then she surprised me. My bold, brave girl took the seat right next to me. Every night after, she moved closer and closer. Little by little, she scooted closer and closer until she was snuggled up against me, reading over my shoulder, our bodies touching.
It had been the sweetest torture. My kitten wrapped in all sorts of colorful scraps of fabric all designed to show off her sexy body while I was dressed in suits nearly killed me and drove me insane.
I’d fucked up.
Having Kitty sit that close to me, smelling her scent, feeling the heat of her almost naked body against mine, had been bad enough. But every goddamn day, I found myself distracted from the words on the pages and drowning in those beautiful bedroom eyes of hers.
Little by little, she started to ask me questions.
Mostly about the books I read or ones I’d read in the past. She’d smile, her dark eyes sparkling when it was a book she was familiar with. Gradually, though, she started to ask more personal things. Nothing intrusive. Favorite color. What I liked to play on the radio when I drove. I would answer quickly and tersely because that was just my way.
But I couldn’t make myself not say anything. I liked the sweet way her face would brighten when I gave her more than a one-word answer. Or when something she liked happened on the pages we read.
