Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
With shaking hands, I reach up to get rid of my halo but when I go to take off my heels, he goes, “Leave them on.”
“I—”
He jerks his chin up at me. “I don’t like the idea of you being a muse. Definitely not a bard’s or anyone else’s. But I like those heels.”
I fidget where I stand. “But the heels—”
“And you like them too, don’t you?” he rasps.
My toes curl in them. “How did you—”
“You wear them a lot,” he says, his eyes penetrating. “You wore them last night when you ran from me.” I open my mouth to say something, but he doesn’t give me a chance. “You wore them the night you ran from me six months ago too.”
My eyes widen. “At The… Horny Bard?”
“Yeah.”
He remembers what shoes I wore on a night six months ago? That’s… I don’t know what that is except I have to fist my skirt and press my spine against the pole to keep standing. Then, swallowing, I blurt, “I love dancing.” His eyes flare slightly as if with interest. “Always have, and I can dance in heels. I-I can run in heels too. But I… I dance better with them off.”
Especially when I’m so nervous, I add silently.
And as if he heard me, he shakes his head slowly. “Not really my problem, is it?”
No, it’s not, and I don’t know why I thought he’d care. So steeling my spine, I say, “Fine. Whatever. If my moves suck, it’s on you. Now—”
“This is a lap dance, isn’t it,” he cuts me off.
I frown, suspicion laced in my tone. “Yes.”
“In a strip club.”
“Yeah,” I state, but my unsure tone makes it sound like a question.
“So I think,” he goes, looking even more intense if possible, “we should do things the right way.”
“The right way?”
His eyes flick over me, slow and deliberate. “Speaking of, aren’t you a little overdressed?”
I think all I do is stare at him for several seconds and rewind his words in my head, trying to make sense of them. Because I do not think I’m overdressed for anything. In fact, I’m underdressed. On purpose, no less. To get more tips, more than I usually make. Because my landlord texted me about the rent. Again. I was a few hundred dollars short last month and I told him I’d pay him the difference in a few days. But it’s been more than a few days, and I haven’t been able to because I had to get Snow her new textbook. And God, school textbooks are freaking expensive. Imagine how expensive they’d be when she goes to college.
So while I convince Snow to look at colleges and search for loan programs and try to pay my rent, I really need to let go of my hang-ups and dress as scantily as possible so I can make bigger tips. Which is why tonight I have on a shorty-short, pleated skirt that comes dangerously close to revealing my ass cheeks, and a white crop top with the thinnest spaghetti straps you could find that leaves my belly bare. Plus knee high socks with lace at the top to complete the look of a slutty schoolgirl you’d want to spank. Or in my case, give big tips to.
So again, no, I’m not overdressed. He’s just a big fucking asshole. It’s bad enough I’m forced to give him a lap dance, now he wants me to do it naked. My stepbrother wants me to dance naked for him. What the…
“Today, Strawberry,” he prods, breaking into my thoughts.
My fists are clenched at my sides, and somehow, I manage to not sound completely unhinged when I say, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Toxic?”
His eyes flash at my nickname for him. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m not a fucking stripper,” I almost snap. “So no, I will not be taking my clothes off, thank you.”
He studies my features, which I’m sure are flushed and heated. “Again, not my problem.”
Of course it isn’t. It’s mine. All of this is my problem. He is my problem. And you know what, fuck him. He wants to see me take my clothes off, fine. I’ll show him.
Without taking my eyes off him, I reach up and around my neck. I loosen the blood red tie I’m wearing—another thing to complete my schoolgirl ensemble—and take it off. I hook it with my finger and, reaching my arm out, drop it on the floor as I say, “There, are you happy now? A piece of clothing has been taken off. But that’s all you’re getting. You don’t like it, there’s the door.”
I expect him to push it. To retaliate, to make my life even more difficult than he already does. But all he does is keep his eyes locked with mine before something very similar to admiration flickers through his features, and jerking his chin up at me, he says, “Fine. This round’s yours. I’m not the most patient man, but I’ll wait.” Then, licking his lips, “Because I know it’s going to be worth it.”