Mina

Damn my fair, red-headed complexion, because the flush creeping up my neck and spreading across my face is probably visible for all to see.

I watch him disappear into the crowd, disappointed he doesn’t look back.

The man is beautiful. A perfect specimen of raw masculinity. He’s rough-mannered and tattooed, but damn, he has enough charm to take all the edges off what might otherwise be an intimidating presence.

And wow, that little show of force with the guy who was bugging me? Total turn-on. I’ve always had a thing for heroes.

I turn my head to catch the eyes of the other two dancers on shift tonight and the three of us go into a pre-arranged combination, changing from freestyle to synchronized movement.

Talya and Remy are both a little bit drunk, but we all know this routine so well we could do it in our sleep. Plus, professional or semi-professional dancers like us, with the amount of training in our bodies, can make anything look purposeful and choreographed.

The song ends and our set is over. We get the last hour to play—drinks on the house. That was the deal I worked out with the owner, another huge and quite intimidating man named Sean Green. Fifty bucks each and free drinks in exchange for go-go dancing every Saturday night. Most of the girls on my makeshift dance team would do it just for the free cover and the attention they get up on those boxes.

Me? I don’t know why I do it. Not for the drinks—I don’t do well with alcohol. Just for the sheer joy of creation, I guess. It’s fun to insert real dance into everyday life.

Yes, I’m the type who loves musicals, where people suddenly break into song in public places. I’m the girl who rides her cart down the aisle in the grocery store, resisting an arabesque, choreographing a performance piece in my head for the shoppers I pass.

Don’t worry, I don’t actually execute it. Not that I wouldn’t, if I could talk other dancers into joining me.

I weave through the crowd, pretending I’m not looking for the sexy man-hunk, Raul. There. By the door to the back patio. I head to the bar because I don’t want to be too obvious. I don’t think he’s actually interested. I mean, I’ve given him the signal for weeks and although he gives me smoldering looks, he never actually asks for my number or suggests I hang out after hours.

Total disappointment.

I saddle up at the bar and order a tonic water with lime. It’s my stupid trick to make it appear I’m drinking a gin and tonic or vodka and soda, when really I’m just hydrating. My friends get their drinks and mingle and I pretend to play it cool. A guy comes over to me, but I’m not interested, so I give a polite smile and head to the bathroom.

When I get out, Raul stands there in the hallway.

“Come here, little girl.” He crooks a finger at me. I follow him through the staff-only door, into the storeroom, packed high with boxes of alcohol.

Damn, if a fraternity ever wanted a place to rob, this would be the jackpot.

My heart pounds, face heating even though I don’t know what he wants.

I mean, I know what I hope he wants.

And I shouldn’t hope for it.

From all accounts, Raul is a player. He hooks up with girls and never calls. That’s what everyone says, including his best buddy, the other bouncer, Trey. I’ve been warned off this guy, but I still can’t stop the thrills of excitement fluttering through my body.

Raul picks up one of my hands. Before I have any clue what he’s doing, he spins me around to face a wall and slaps it there. Then he picks up my other wrist and stacks it with the first, pinning both with one powerful palm.

My breath clogs my throat as his hand crashes down on my backside. Like before, he catches the underside of my butt, the bare part below my short shorts.

I gasp, but don’t protest, way too turned on to want it to stop.

He smacks the other cheek, just as hard. “That is for wearing shorts that make every guy in the building want to fuck this juicy ass.”

I’m pretty sure I stop breathing. I’ve never been spoken to in such a rough and dirty manner, but I’m definitely not complaining. My lady parts squeeze and swell, planning a party for whatever else Raul has to offer.

He spins me back around to face him. My butt hits the wall and I lose my breath on an exhale. His hand goes right to the notch between my legs and he cups my mons.

“And the next time you put this pussy so close to my mouth—” He undulates his hand, pressing over my shorts in tandem from clit to anus. I gasp and rise up on my toes. “—you’re going to find out just exactly what I’d like to do with it.”

A shiver of epic proportions runs through me. More like a shudder, only that sounds bad. And what I’m feeling is really freakin’ far from bad. My insides turn liquid, heat pours down my thighs, straight to the arches of my feet. I now understand where the phrase he curls my toes comes from.

He slowly slides the firm contact of his fingers over the fabric just above my slit, which has completely dampened my panties. “Understand, beautiful?”

I swallow. “Yeah.” My pussy clenches.

His fingers delve under the crotch of my shorts, into my panties and I mewl. “Baby, you wear these shorts to Eclipse again, I’m gonna take you back here and spank this juicy ass so red every guy watching you dance will know you’ve

been claimed.”

He jerks his head back and shakes it, as if he’s surprised by what he just said,

but his fingers glide, glide, glide over my slit. I moan softly, my gaze staying at the level of his chest.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he commands and I obey without thinking. Dancers are by nature obedient creatures. We’ve spent our lives molding our bodies and minds to do anything and everything a director or teacher asks of us. Any dancer who doesn’t gets weeded out fast. There are always ten more waiting to take your spot if you’re not willing to give five hundred percent.

He holds my gaze as he screws one finger into me.

I whimper, not out of pain, but out of need. I’m not a virgin but I’ve literally never been so turned on in my life. My nipples poke against the tight fabric of my shirt and my pussy is sopping.

I writhe against his hold on my wrists, grind down to take his finger deeper. He leans his head down by mine, so we’re temple to temple. “You okay,

angel?”

It’s a little late to be double-checking for my permission, but I appreciate the ask. “Yeah,” I breathe.

“Good.” He shifts and wedges a second finger inside me.

I buck my hips, rising up on my toes.

“You’re dancing for me now, aren’t you, baby?” “Oh God,” I moan.

He’s worked both fingers deep inside me and now he stops moving. Just stops!

“Wh-what at are you doing?”

His grin is all shades of sexy. “Just making sure you really want it.” I roll my hips. “I said I did.”

He pumps slowly. Too slowly. “Say it nicely. Tell me who you’re dancing for.”

“You. I’m dancing for you,” I cry, growing desperate for release. “You want more of my fingers, angel?” “Raul,” I pant.

His eyelids droop.

One part of me gets pissed. Is he making a fool of me here?

He must sense my resistance because he says, “Nah, fuck it. I should be begging you. I can’t wait to watch you go over the edge, beautiful.” He pumps his fingers in and out until my shimmying legs are ready to give out. “Come for me, Mina. Show me what you’ve got.”

I have no idea what he means by that, but, again, my body follows his command. I give into his skilled torture. The moment my muscles start to squeeze his fingers, he shoves deep and waits, letting me tighten and ease in

waves of pleasure and release.

“Aw, fuck, baby.” He leans his forehead against mine as he eases his fingers out. “That was even better than I imagined.”

I’m not sure what he means, since I’m the one who got off, but it still inspires a giddiness that revives me from the relaxation coursing through my muscles.

The doorknob rattles and Raul jerks away, releasing me and tugging down the hem of my shorts just before the door swings open.

One of the bartenders bustles in, then stops when he sees us, throwing us a curious look.

Raul steps in front of me, as if to shield me from scrutiny, and I appreciate the gesture, late though it may be.

“I’d better go find my friends,” I murmur. It’s not that I want to leave Raul.

Wait—yes I do.

Embarrassment takes over, along with the realization that he’s probably brought dozens of girls back here. That’s why the bartender doesn’t seem surprised.

I push past Raul toward the door.

“Wait, angel. Just wait.” He catches me around the waist.

I go still but I don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low so only I will hear. “I definitely didn’t mean to make you feel used or cheap.”

I’m not sure if that’s how I was feeling, but now that he’s named it, a sick feeling spreads through my belly.

“Hey, I really I have to go,” I insist.

Raul releases me. I sense his reluctance, even though I refuse to meet his eye. I just want to get out of there.

I’m the only one of my friends who didn’t drink tonight and I’m the one making the bad decisions.

“Just wait. Can you give me a second?”

I slip out of his reach. “That’s okay,” I mumble, without looking back. “We can talk later.” I bolt from the storeroom before he can say anything else. I sense him behind me, but I don’t look back, just beeline it for the bar to find my friends and get the hell out of here.

What was I thinking? Apparently all it takes is a couple slaps to my ass and I’ll let a guy to anything to me.

Damn. I need to tell my friends never to let me be alone with Raul. Ever.

Especially not when I’m ovulating.

Danger zone.

I find Talya and Remy just as the overhead fluorescents come on, signaling the club is closing. The crowd gives a collective groan and people scurry out like cockroaches caught in the sun.

“Come on,” I urge my friends. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.”