Читать книгу Get Your Sexy On - Kimberly Kaye Terry - Страница 8

Unlike the other dancers, this one never looked at any of the men who whistled and called out to her. She wasn’t dancing for the ogling men, but for herself.

Mac was intrigued by her casual, absentminded sexiness. As though she didn’t give a damn what the ogling, horny bastards at the club thought as they watched her sinewy body wrap around the pole, dancing as though she were alone in the room.

Throughout the two-week investigation, Mac had witnessed several degrees of skill from the strippers at the Sweet Kitty. From the burgeoning, awkward attempts by the neophytes, much like the stuck-up heiress he’d rescued, to the jaded, yet proficient, skills of those who’d danced for years.

None he had seen were like this woman. None of them had played with his mind, had given him hot dreams at night, cold showers in the morning, like she had.

Everything about her was different, from her slow, hypnotic moves, to the sensual, rhythmic music she moved her body to, or the way she never glanced at anyone in the audience while she danced.

She danced to a slow rhythm that really had nothing to do with the music, a beat that only she could hear. It made a man long to be the only one she was dancing for. Made him long to have her wrap her beautiful body around his, have her look in his eyes, seeing him, no one else but him, as he stroked into her hot, creaming pussy, until she cried out his name.

Blindly Mac reached inside his jacket and pulled out his money clip, his eyes never leaving the stage.

At the end of what felt like an eternity, but was only the five-minute length of the song, Mac felt as though he were coming out of a fog.

Sinful glanced around once the song ended—as though she shared the same dim fog of unawareness with Mac as the music faded away, blending into the next song—and then slowly stood.

In that sexy backhanded way of hers, she casually scooped up the pile of bills scattered on the stage. She was hunched down, gathering the money, when her gaze connected with Mac’s.

Mac’s heart loudly thumped, audible to his ears, his nostrils flaring as she came close to him. One slender arm reached out, palm outstretched, and he looked down at his own hand, a twenty-dollar bill held between his fingers.

He hadn’t been aware he’d taken the money out. When she came close, he inhaled deeply, picking up on her scent, despite the cloying perfume and smoke in the club, and closed his eyes briefly. He opened them when her fingertips touched his, and an electrical current passed from her to him.

He glanced at her face. In the dim light, he saw the red flush darken her smooth brown skin, her eyes widen in awareness.

Her small pink tongue darted out and laved the lower, full rim of her lips as they stared at one another.

When she noticed the new dancer on the stage ready to perform, she was the first to look away. With one final, hesitant look his way, she gracefully left the stage.

Mac felt inexplicably shaken, wondering what the hell had just happened between them. He shook his head, as though to clear it, and turned to see his partner, Kyle, staring at him, mouth slightly open, his expression puzzled.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

With a noncommittal shrug, Mac pretended nonchalance, picked up his shot glass, ignored the way his hand shook, and took a healthy swallow.

The fiery burn of the whisky easing down his throat didn’t do a damn thing to ease the painful throb in his pants. Or erase the memory of the dancer’s hot body working the pole the way he wanted her to work him. Nor did it erase the electric charge they had generated when her soft hand touched his.

Impatient and irritated, he glanced around the floor once again for a glimpse of Damian Marks or Carlos Medeiros.

“Let’s get the hell out of here. They’re not showing tonight.”

As Mac stood to go, throwing down several bills to cover their tab, he noticed Marks enter the club. Mac slowly sat back down.

“Looks like one of them decided to make an appearance,” Kyle said, and sat down as well.

Mac watched as Marks strolled through the club, stopping every so often to speak to a customer, before he walked closer, approaching a table to Mac’s far left, where a group of four men dressed in business attire sat.

Mac signaled for a waitress to come and ordered a Coke.

“No more alcohol tonight,” he told Kyle when he raised a brow at his choice of drink. “I need to keep my wits together.”

“Yeah, I think they all flew south after that last dancer.” Kyle laughed.

“Go to hell,” Mac mumbled, his attention on Marks. Before, when he walked through the crowded club, stopping occasionally to speak, he’d had his normal swagger, arrogance clinging to his thin frame like the cheap suit he wore.

With this group, he was all smiles, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat as he spoke to the men, Mac thought. He didn’t sit at the table with them, although there was an open seat. After several minutes, one of the men said something that wiped the smile off Marks’s face.

“Damn, I wish I could hear what they were saying,” Kyle said, watching the exchange as well.

“Whatever it was, it knocked that stupid-ass grin off Marks’s face,” Mac said, grunting.

“Think they’re connected with Medeiros?”

“Probably. We’ll follow them when they leave, get a make on their transportation and run a check.”

“I gather we’re not going home very soon, after all.”

“No. I think we’ll be sticking around for a while. We just may come up with something more interesting than returning a runaway.”

“Man, we ain’t making no money hanging around here,” Kyle groused, but Mac ignored him.

The image of the dancer’s sensual glides against the pole flashed in Mac’s mind. Marks wasn’t the only reason he wanted to stick around the Sweet Kitty for a few days more.