Page 13 of How to Get Lucky
She works for the club, and that means hands off.
Hands all the way off.
Because of the Do Not Do List.
It’s a code that matters to me. It’s one I want to abide by and honor.
“Just on a contract basis, but yes.” Excitement trips through her tone, the same enthusiasm I heard when she first spoke about her professor, the sign that she loves what she does. “I’m going to be working on a new female dance show for Edge to start out on Wednesday nights. The partners that own the club have had so much success with the male revue, they want to see if they can bring the same fun and energy with female dancers, but not in a revue style. No stripping—sort of like background dancing. Think more Cirque du Soleil than Spearmint Rhino, but still a little sexy,” she adds with heat in her eyes.
This is all news to me. I’m surprised Archer hasn’t mentioned it. “Sounds interesting,” I say.
“I have some ideas I’m so excited about, and you’re great with music. I always like to make sure I’ve got the perfect music, and it’s good to work with experts. And you seem to know just the right songs for the right moment. I have some epic moves planned and some super-sexy numbers, and the whole thing is going to be fire.”
“Sure, sounds great,” I say, doing my best to stay enthused.
Because, hey, this is good. It has to be good. The better the club does, the better I can do. Besides, working with London could be . . . fun.
Challenging too, since I’d probably be turned on the entire fucking time. But sure, fun.
“Would you be willing to help me out? I can pay you,” she says, her voice pitching up, maybe with nerves.
I shake my head, dismissing that notion. “I’m happy to help.” I’m not going to take money from her, especially since she’s an employee too. I need to help. I should help.
The smile that lights her face almost makes my disappointment worthwhile. She looks gorgeous like this. Happy, animated, pursuing her passion.
Maybe we can simply hit pause on the kissing.
Pick it up where we left off once her contract is up.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve been looking for the right person, and you’re perfect. So perfect I could kiss you.”
Well . . . maybe one more for the road.
“If you insist,” I say offhand, like she won’t really take me up on it.
“Do you want me to insist on it?” The question comes out both flirty and shy.
Like she wants the kissing and the work project.
All I want right now is another kiss.
And it seems we’re on the same page, since she sets her glasses on the table and leans across it. And I’m leaning right back, and in the next hot second, our lips press together.
This is no butterfly kiss.
No earlobe nibble.
It’s full-on. No holds barred.
The waves lap lazily on the shore as our lips crash together, a hungry, needy kiss.
I should stop. Really, I should.
But fuck stopping.
This will have to be our last kiss, so I'm making the best of it.
I take charge, caressing her cheek, sliding my thumb along her jaw.
Deepening the kiss even more.
My tongue slides between her lips, and she parts for me, and this is all there is. The waiters, the couples, the beach itself all slip out of focus as my world narrows to only her.
The taste of her lips.
The feel of her kiss.
The soft little sigh she makes as we slow things down.
Then a sweet, almost shy murmur.
Which is funny because London doesn’t seem shy.
Except sometimes she does.
This woman is full of contradictions and complexities, and I want to explore them.
I want to uncover them with her, be the one to learn everything she likes, and then give that to her, do that to her, for her.
Except I can’t.
I have to remember that.
That was one last kiss.
She sinks back in her chair, and I do the same, and we look at each other like What’s next?
But what’s next is work.
I need to stay the course. I’m about to tell her there are rules, since she might not know, but she speaks first, exhaling deeply, like she’s both relieved and delighted.
“Thank you for saying yes. My brother is going to be so thrilled.”
I blink, trying to connect the dots between the work project and her brother.
“Why would he be excited?”
Another grin comes my way. “He runs the club.”
The ultimate record scratch rends the air, and the whole place goes silent.
I’m imagining things. She can’t possibly have said that.
Not the guy who signs my checks. Not the guy I genuinely look up to. Not the guy who’s awesome to work for.
I must have heard her wrong. “He runs the club?” I ask, in a voice that barely sounds like my own.
