New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian is back with Edge of Darkness, the latest sizzling, spellbinding novel in the Hunter Legacy series of vampire romances set in the darkly seductive Midnight Breed paranormal story world.
As a survivor of the horrific Hunter program, Breed vampire and former assassin Knox is a solitary man, closed off to the pain of love—and loss. A loner by choice, Knox deals in death and dark justice, expecting nothing in return. Until one snowy night he drifts into a remote town in northern Maine, where a determined beauty enlists his lethal assistance, tempting not only his hunger, but his wounded heart as well.
Lenora Calhoun has lived in tiny Parrish Falls all her life. Owner of the local diner that’s been in her family for generations, Leni’s as stalwart and stubborn as the tall pines that surround her. That unshakable resolve doesn’t sit well with everyone, least of all the most powerful family in the logging town. Leni’s been the target of their animosity for years, but with their escalating threats now putting an innocent child’s safety at risk, she takes a desperate chance on a dangerous stranger—a man who is something more than human. Knox’s deadly skills and turbulent gaze should be warning enough for Leni to guard her heart, yet she cannot deny the yearning he stirs in her blood. For the merciless Breed male is the only man she can trust in a town full of secrets, and where taking a stand could rip away everything she holds dear.
While this novel is Book 3 in the Hunter Legacy series, each story in this Midnight Breed spin-off series can be read as a complete standalone with HEA and no cliffhangers.
*** EDGE OF DARKNESS will be going into Kindle Unlimited a day or so after release and will be exclusive at Amazon for at least 90 days. If you’re a Nook, Apple, or Kobo reader, please be sure to pre-order! ***
The night Heavenly Young gave her innocence to Dr. Kenneth Beckman and Seth Cooper, her world was ripped apart by betrayal and tragedy. She leaves behind everything and everyone to fulfill a deathbed promise and start her life over. But her solitary quest forces her to face her past and question where her future truly lies—alone or in the arms of the two unforgettable men she loves?
After putting his heart on the line—something Seth swore he’d never do again—he’s devastated when Heavenly walks away from him and Beck. Hell-bent on reclaiming her, they chase her down and help her complete her solemn duty. But Heavenly is caught between independence and love, forcing him and Beck to make her a deal. She’ll give them total commitment for eight weeks. If she still wants her freedom after that, they’ll let her go—for good.
After Beck’s reckless mistake implodes the fragile bond he and Seth share with Heavenly, he’s determined to prove they can give her both the adventure she seeks and the devotion she craves. So the men devise a game to break down her barriers and bind her in bliss. But when their dreams are within reach, a demon from Beck’s long-forgotten past returns, bent on revenge that might cost him his life.
Shayla Black is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty novels. For nearly twenty years, she’s written contemporary, erotic, paranormal, and historical romances via traditional, independent, foreign, and audio publishers. Her books have sold millions of copies and been published in a dozen languages.
Raised an only child, Shayla occupied herself with lots of daydreaming, much to the chagrin of her teachers. In college, she found her love for reading and realized that she could have a career publishing the stories spinning in her imagination. Though she graduated with a degree in Marketing/Advertising and embarked on a stint in corporate America to pay the bills, her heart has always been with her characters. She’s thrilled that she’s been living her dream as a full-time author for the past eight years.
Shayla currently lives in North Texas with her wonderfully supportive husband, her daughter, and two spoiled tabbies. In her “free” time, she enjoys reality TV, reading, and listening to an eclectic blend of music.
Shayla Black Book Beauties: http://shayla.link/FBChat
Instagram: http://shayla.link/IG
Amazon: http://shayla.link/AmazonFollow
Jenna Jacob
USA Today Bestselling author Jenna Jacob paints a canvas of passion, romance, and humor as her alpha men and the feisty women who love them unravel their souls, heal their scars, and find a happy-ever-after kind of love. Heart-tugging, captivating, and steamy, Jenna’s books will surely leave you breathless and craving more.
A mom of four grown children, Jenna and her alpha-hunk husband live in Kansas. She loves reading, getting away from the city on the back of a Harley, music, camping, and cooking.
Meet her wild and wicked fictional family in Jenna’s sultry series: The Doms of Genesis. Become spellbound by searing triple love connections in her continuing saga: The Doms of Her Life (co-written with the amazing Shayla Black and Isabella LaPearl). Journey with couples struggling to resolve their pasts and heal their scars to discover unbridled love and devotion in her contemporary series: Passionate Hearts. Or laugh along as Jenna lets her zany sense of humor and lack of filter run free in the romantic comedy series: Hotties of Haven.
Isabella LaPearl is a USA Today bestselling author known for her collaboration with Shayla Black & Jenna Jacob for the Doms of Her Life Series. She enjoys writing sexy, erotic romance. A wife, mother, writer, reader and a love for riding motorcycles.
To say it’s been an extraordinary journey thus far would be an understatement… what a rush! What a thrill to realize dreams and see them go from a seed to fruition. So for all you aspiring Authors, who like me, have a fire inside that burns brightly and demands to be sated by writing… Never give up.
Alphas Confess all, an all-new anthology featuring 10 bestselling authors and benefitting 4 Paws for Ability, is coming September 17th and we have the steamy cover!
Sometimes, all sin needs is a little confession.
And sometimes, those who need it the most have the highest walls, the darkest secrets…the dirtiest desires.
You’re obsessed with what he’ll do to you. How he’ll possess you in every way possible. Every naughty, forbidden way…
These heroes, created by ten of romance’s leading stars, are ready to step out of their shadows and confess all…to you. The wickedness of their world. The midnights of their fantasies. The forbidden fruit of their needs.
Are you daring enough to accept?
Once Upon An Alpha along with 4 Paws for Ability, and ten bestselling authors, bring you this page turning, limited edition, anthology that’s sure to keep you up well past your bed time and craving your own Forbidden Encounter.
4 Paws for Ability is a nonprofit, 501(c)(3) organization whose mission is to place quality service dogs with children with disabilities and veterans who have lost use of limbs or hearing and educate the public regarding use of service dogs in public places.
Lies, a fast paced and sexy standalone filled with the perfect blend of heat and humor from New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott, is coming July 21st and we have the sexy cover!
Betty Dawsey knows that breaking things off with Thom Lange is for the best. He’s nice, but boring, and their relationship has lost its spark. But steady and predictable Thom, suddenly doesn’t seem so steady and predictable when their condo explodes and she’s kidnapped by a couple of crazies claiming that Thom isn’t who he says he is.
Thom is having a hellish week. Not only is he hunting a double agent, but his fiancé dumped him, and thanks to his undercover life, she’s been kidnapped.
Turns out Thom is Operative Thom and he’s got more than a few secrets to share with Betty if he’s going to keep her alive. With both their lives on the line, their lackluster connection is suddenly replaced by an intense one. But in his line of work, feelings aren’t wanted or desired. Because feelings can be a lethal distraction.
Kylie is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She was voted Australian Romance Writer of the year, 2013, 2014 & 2018, by the Australian Romance Writer’s Association and her books have been translated into eleven different languages. She is a long time fan of romance, rock music, and B-grade horror films. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two children and husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around on the internet.
We met when we were three, and have been inseparable most of our lives— that is until I fell in love with her. I knew I had to bury my feelings; our friendship was more important. I was willing to love her from afar, and was doing just that until tragedy struck.
It’s funny how one moment can change everything. All the things I thought I’d never have become possibilities, and all my reasons for staying away from her seem inconsequential. Sometimes all we need is one more day; one more hour; one more moment. Just one more was all I wanted, and I’d prove that Hailey and I were more than just best friends.
Heather D’Agostino is an avid reader turned Bestselling Author of the Contemporary Romance Series The Broken Series, The Shattered Series, The Second Chances Series, The Cook Brothers Series, and Romantic Suspense series The Witness Series.
She attended the University of North Carolina at Charlotte where she received a Bachelor’s of Arts in Elementary Education with a minor in Mathematics.
She currently lives in Central New York with her husband, two children, two dogs, and three cats. When she’s not writing she can usually be found at the dance studio, soccer field, or one of the many other places that she plays ‘Supermom’.
Up until two years ago, I was living large and my life’s priorities were anchored to three things – my NBA stardom, money and celebrity.
I was also a colossal dick.
Until one night turned my world upside down and I suffered unspeakable loss. That event changed the man I was and made me a widowed-single father.
Now I’m a desperate parent trying to raise my special needs son and find him a trustworthy live-in nanny.
Grad student Brooklyn Hayes may be the one, with her single-minded focus on caring for my son and finishing her Master’s degree. She’s the perfect fit for our needs.
Maybe too perfect…with her bright smile, nurturing kindness and gentle touch. Caleb isn’t the only one who’s fallen for her.
I don’t know when or how it happened, but she changed the game for me. Turning my losing streak into a winning second-half.
Sierra Hill wrote her first full-length romance after a corporate acquisition led her to a stint of unemployment, offering her some quality writing time.
She loves writing about the fictional characters that live in her brain who constantly shout for their own love story to be told.
Sierra resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband of twenty years and her long-haired, German Shepherd. She is currently working on her next book.
Thanks for reading and reviewing her books. Keep the passion alive!
Photo: Golden Czermak, FuriousFotog Model: Jacob Wilson Release Date: July 16, 2019
Blurb
Bad Boy AlphaAlert!
Nineteen of your favorite MC authors come together to bring you brand new, never released stories from some of your favorite motorcycle clubs.
Love–
Life with a biker is an adventure full of twists and turns. When love is involved, MC men never back down from what they want—they fight for it.
Loyalty–
Loyalty is the foundation in any motorcycle club. Break it, they break you. There isn’t a line they won’t cross to protect who or what they claim as their own.
Mayhem–
These men live a life made by their own set of rules. Chaos tends to always find them. You cross them, the consequences are swift.
Hold on for the ride as this talented group of authors come together to bring you an anthology like no other.
Your favorite clubs, new clubs, and everything in between can be found in this collection filled with suspense, action, adventure, romance and so much more!
***
All profits from the Love, Loyalty & Mayhem: A Motorcycle Club Romance Anthology will be donated to Bikers Against Bullies USA.
BAB USA is a national not-for-profit organization created by bikers to raise awareness and empower the community to fight the terrible effects of bullying on young people through education, community outreach and fundraising. https://www.bikersagainstbulliesusa.com
Lara Adrian’s New York Times and #1 international bestselling Midnight Breed vampire romance series continues with Break the Day, an adrenaline-laced, passionate new novel of paranormal adventure.
After a shocking betrayal nearly killed him and the people he cares about the most, what Breed warrior Rafe wants more than anything is revenge against the insidious brotherhood called Opus Nostrum. But to achieve that goal, he must turn his back on the Order and infiltrate a dangerous gang with ties to Opus. Risking everything to redeem himself and carry out his deep-cover mission, Rafe will let nothing stand in his way–least of all his desire for one of the loyalists he should despise, a mysterious, dark-haired beauty named Devony Winters.
But Devony has secrets of her own to protect, as well as a personal duty she will do anything to fulfill. And as a daywalker passing herself off as human to the gang she’s been embedded with for months, the last thing she needs is a dangerous former member of the Order unraveling all her hard work. Her plans depend on keeping Rafe at arm’s length, but if she surrenders to the dark need he stirs within her, it will be her heart that pays the ultimate price.
LARA ADRIAN is a New York Times and #1 internationally best-selling author with nearly 4 million books in print and digital worldwide and translations licensed to more than 20 countries. Her books have been named among Amazon’s Top Ten Romances of the Year, and have also been nominated by readers multiple times as finalists for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Romance of the Year. Reviewers have called Lara’s books “addictively readable” (Chicago Tribune), “extraordinary” (Fresh Fiction), “strikingly original” (Booklist), and “one of the best vampire series on the market” (Romantic Times).
Writing as TINA ST. JOHN, her historical romances have won numerous awards including the National Readers Choice; Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice; Booksellers Best; and many others. She was twice named a Finalist in Romance Writers of America’s RITA Awards, for Best Historical Romance (White Lion’s Lady) and Best Paranormal Romance (Heart of the Hunter). More recently, the German translation of Heart of the Hunter debuted on Der Spiegel bestseller list.
With an ancestry stretching back to the Mayflower and the court of King Henry VIII, the author lives with her husband in New England, where she is working on her next novel. Visit Lara’s website and sign up for new release announcements at http://bit.ly/LaraAdrianNews
If he hates me for what happened 8 years ago, just imagine how he feels now…
Do I feel bad for accidentally hooking up with the one who broke my heart?
… No.
Should I feel bad for extorting him for a job that I need?
… Probably.
But like I said, I need the job.
Life’s kind to some people.
Exhibit A: Devon Leo
Hot, brooding loner in high school → hot, brooding billionaire tech tycoon who’s an international mans!ut.
Exhibit Me: Skylar Kay
Your everyday average nobody → college dropout, moonlighting stripper nobody who’s drowning in debt.
The least he can do for breaking my heart is give me a job.
Yeah, the one I blackmailed him for.
I just didn’t think the job was for a position under him.
I’ll have to be careful not to get under him. Again.
Because this time, his reputation isn’t just on the line.
My heart is.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Skylar
A slow, synth beat starts to thump, muted, from the speakers all around the dim room. I was hoping for something a little more upbeat since I’m running on three hours of sleep, and the velvety couches lining the walls of the VIP Room are starting to look like plush black clouds at this point of the night. If I strain my ears, I can hear the enthused and muffled whomp-whomp-whomp in the main room where everyone’s hunting — for money or attention.
The VIP Room is just quiet enough for the patrons sparsely spread throughout the area to converse with the dancers whose time they’re procuring hourly. Of course, some of them aren’t really looking for conversation.
Like Bill.
The pudgy, leering man sitting in front of me looks up hungrily as I lean forward to fill his vision with my heavy breasts. Even though they’re taped down securely, I’m still paranoid that the thin, elastic straps of my black, lacy bikini are going to snap, leaving me with no more than black, lacy pasties with sad, dangly tentacles.
I say ‘bikini,’ but it’s the kind you’d never wear in public unless you want to scandalize parents at the public pool and become a budding teenage boy’s first wet dream. The kind that would never survive a cannonball, and the one that makes your nightmare of seeing your bikini pieces floating up right next to you come true. More like a skinny dip-kini.
“Destiny.”
Bill holds out a few Andrew Jacksons, and I push my hip toward him so he can slip it into the side string of my thong. He takes his time, his dry fingers grazing roughly against my skin, taking advantage of the one opportunity during our time together that I let him touch me. After all, he’s more generous with his tips when I let him brush a feel or two during our hour.
Lowering my voice to a sultry hum, I purr, “Stay for a little longer, Bill.”
He chuckles in that not smooth way — the sound gutturally choked by his bubbling lust.
“Can’t tonight, baby.” He lowers his voice, trying to sound seductive. “Unless you want to come home with me.”
He arches his brow with a cheesy smile as his fingers touch his wallet.
It makes me feel dirty. Very, very dirty. And not in the sexy way.
For eight hours a night, a few nights a week, my sensitive bitties of skin are slapped on with cash like I’m a papier-mache project. I’m basically rolling around in money, and if you mix in a little paste, you can make a cash cast out of me. But let me tell you, the whole ‘rolling in dough’ thing is an idea that’s only appealing to be entertained theoretically.
I mean, money’s pretty gross if you think about it. You never know where it’s been. Stuffed in wallets, forgotten in pockets, hidden in shoes or bras, dropped in gasoline-laden puddles on the street, handled by greasy, pizza-oiled hands, rolled to snort coke, slid into a stripper’s asscrack.
The first time I went home with a huge stack of tips, I did it. I spread out a bed of green and laid down on it. It’s really not that exciting. But go ahead and try. And if you’re more like me than you are Ebenezer Scrooge, you’ll find out that carpeting your floor with money doesn’t make it any softer.
It’s still cold, hard cash. In a cold, hard world.
I fight the urge to scrunch my nose, instead lowering them to watch my manicured fingers walk up his white dress shirt, his suit jacket lying forgotten next to him to minimize the layers between us. “You know I can’t go home with customers.”
Can’t, won’t, don’t want to. What’s the difference? In the end, it’s not going to happen.
Some of my clients are sweethearts. Just lonely ones. But some men, like Bill, wave around their money using the carrot-and-stick approach. The cash being the carrot, and the stick being… well, their stick. When I say I don’t provide those services, they don’t back down.
They raise their offer.
Bill’s eyes travel over me as he continues fingering his bulge. The wallet, of course. It’s not the only thing bulging in his pants, but at least he knows which of the two I’m interested in, period.
The lines in his shoulders relax as he gives up for the night and leans back against the couch. His doughy cheeks pull back into a smile.
“Shame,” he drawls pointedly, hinting at how much I’m missing out.
Considering that chipmunk sized tent he’s pitching, I’m pretty confident I’m not missing out on much.
But I hood my eyes seductively and pout a little bit. “You can always stick around for a little longer. You know how much I love spending time with you.”
Ten months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could make a man empty his wallet just by changing where and how I look at him.
I still remember my first day at Starlette when Sage, the strip club’s house mom, pulled me back from making my awkward rounds waddling around the floor. It was my first wearing six-inch fuck-me heels when I’ve only ever worn two-inch-high Mary Janes for church.
She pursed her lips and said, “Honey, if these men wanted to look at a woman who looks as miserable as you do out there, they’d go home to their wives.”
She made a science out of flirtation and laughed when I whipped out my trusty pen and paper. Gave me a big “mhm, you do that” when I said I’d go research all about ‘the art of seduction.’
Even now, Sage likes to joke that her greatest accomplishment to date is turning “Sunday School Skye” turn into “Devilishly Dazzling Destiny.”
Flashing a toothy, hopeful smile, Bill changes tactic. “Then how about dinner? Tomorrow night?”
I’m obviously not going to get him to stay another hour tonight. Lowering my voice huskily, I brush back his hair with the lightest of touches. “Dating is against the rules. But you’ll be the first to know if that ever changes.”
My own rules. Nothing against the other dancers who do date their customers. Believe me, I heard some of the cute love stories shared in the back, and even I’ve dreamed about a sexy, respectful millionaire who can’t resist me after a crotch grind, a motorboat, or an hour of very fulfilling conversation in the half-nude who wants to get to know the real me. And then I remember my clientele includes… well… Bill and his ilk.
No offense. Bill behaves (most of the time), and some of my regulars are nice. But even if I were interested in any of them (which, spoiler alert, I’m not), my stomach doesn’t get all fluttery with butterflies when they’re talking about their wives and kids. A club isn’t exactly ideal breeding grounds for a relationship… or breeding.
That doesn’t mean I don’t pretend I want them. I do. I pretend hard.
Winking at Bill, I peel myself off the couch and straighten as I turn around, looking at him cutely over my shoulder. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to handle a heartbreaker like you.”
He chuckles low in the back of his throat. “Baby, I’d never break your heart.”
I feel a little bitter on behalf of his wife. She’s probably sitting home right now on a Wednesday night, helping their six-year-old son with his alphabets or maths or coloring homework, while he’s here, dishing out his paycheck for a few boob shimmies and butt rolls.
But I shouldn’t complain. After all, Bill is a platinum donor to the Skylar Kay Survival Foundation.
“You break my heart every time you leave.” I wink before walking away, swaying my hips and letting my ass shake.
A couple of wandering eyes flit over to me as I sashay through the room. This is about as private as it gets for those who don’t have enough dough to cough up for some actual one-on-one time in one of the Champagne Rooms.
Nothing sketchy happens back there, of course. At least, it’s not supposed to. But it’s not unusual for a dancer to take off her bikini top for the several extra hundreds she’s getting for the same hour-long session.
I’ve never, and I won’t ever. Not because I think I’m better than any of the other women (God knows I’m in just as much of a shithole, if not in a worse one, as some of them). But I’m just not that comfortable with exposing my nips to strangers who don’t even know my real name. Only my ex-boyfriend has ever seen my bare nipples, and that’s not going to change for any amount of money.
I envy the girls who dance here because they love flaunting their gorgeous bodies and basking in the spotlight. But I’m not one of them.
I love dancing — heck, I wanted to be a professional dancer — but I’d rather dance with clothes on and not on a stage with a pole on it. I’m a statistical cliche working here out of desperation.
“You can always come home with me,” Bill says optimistically, trying one last time as we head toward the exit. “You know I’ll take real good care of you.”
It does make me wonder whether men’s bedroom skills improve if they pay for sex. Do they try to make the most of their money? Or is it an easy done deal since the sex is an expectation?
I’d assume the latter.
Is it terrible that I assume they’re mediocre at sex? Maybe even bad at it? Horrible? The lose-faith-in-mankind’s-manhood kind of sex?
Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been around one and a half naked guys. The second one was a Tinder date that finished with a handjob that lasted twenty seconds. We took a longer time taking our pants off. Not our clothes. Just our pants. Like I said, he didn’t even see my nipples.
Tinder Dude definitely made me lose faith in Tinder, and I haven’t even tried hooking up with anyone since. Why bother if I’m just a heated, fleshy replacement for some Kleenex?
At the door, the bouncer stands menacingly with his thick, meaty arms crossed, glaring at the pasty, Pillsbury Doughboy-esque businessman.
Bill knows the drill. He pulls his wallet out so fast, I would’ve missed it if I blinked.
I brush my fingers along his elbow as I press my boobs against his arm, drawing his attention to my cleavage.
“Come see me again, Bill,” I coo. “You know I’m here from Wednesday to Saturday, eight to four.”
Maybe I should become a camgirl instead. I got the script down pat.
Thanks for watching my strip show! Don’t forget to click on that Subscribe button to watch me fiddle my channel!
Bill doesn’t bother hiding his disappointment when I pull away, but the tease is what keeps him coming back every week.
“Destiny,” he murmurs, his eyes still glued to my tits. He raises them to wink at me. “You’ll warm up to me one day.”
Internally, I cringe. I really, really doubt it.
But winking with a perfectly practiced, sugary sweet smile, I croon, “See you next week, Bill.”
About Vic Tyler:
Vic Tyler is a new author of contemporary romance novels. She has a tinkering sense of wanderlust and loves to travel to new places, explore new cultures, and most importantly, eat delicious new food (yummm). Her dreams include finally having nice handwriting, owning a collection of onesies, and making a croquembouche.
If he hates me for what happened 8 years ago, just imagine how he feels now…
Do I feel bad for accidentally hooking up with the one who broke my heart?
… No.
Should I feel bad for extorting him for a job that I need?
… Probably.
But like I said, I need the job.
Life’s kind to some people.
Exhibit A: Devon Leo
Hot, brooding loner in high school → hot, brooding billionaire tech tycoon who’s an international mans!ut.
Exhibit Me: Skylar Kay
Your everyday average nobody → college dropout, moonlighting stripper nobody who’s drowning in debt.
The least he can do for breaking my heart is give me a job.
Yeah, the one I blackmailed him for.
I just didn’t think the job was for a position under him.
I’ll have to be careful not to get under him. Again.
Because this time, his reputation isn’t just on the line.
My heart is.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Skylar
A slow, synth beat starts to thump, muted, from the speakers all around the dim room. I was hoping for something a little more upbeat since I’m running on three hours of sleep, and the velvety couches lining the walls of the VIP Room are starting to look like plush black clouds at this point of the night. If I strain my ears, I can hear the enthused and muffled whomp-whomp-whomp in the main room where everyone’s hunting — for money or attention.
The VIP Room is just quiet enough for the patrons sparsely spread throughout the area to converse with the dancers whose time they’re procuring hourly. Of course, some of them aren’t really looking for conversation.
Like Bill.
The pudgy, leering man sitting in front of me looks up hungrily as I lean forward to fill his vision with my heavy breasts. Even though they’re taped down securely, I’m still paranoid that the thin, elastic straps of my black, lacy bikini are going to snap, leaving me with no more than black, lacy pasties with sad, dangly tentacles.
I say ‘bikini,’ but it’s the kind you’d never wear in public unless you want to scandalize parents at the public pool and become a budding teenage boy’s first wet dream. The kind that would never survive a cannonball, and the one that makes your nightmare of seeing your bikini pieces floating up right next to you come true. More like a skinny dip-kini.
“Destiny.”
Bill holds out a few Andrew Jacksons, and I push my hip toward him so he can slip it into the side string of my thong. He takes his time, his dry fingers grazing roughly against my skin, taking advantage of the one opportunity during our time together that I let him touch me. After all, he’s more generous with his tips when I let him brush a feel or two during our hour.
Lowering my voice to a sultry hum, I purr, “Stay for a little longer, Bill.”
He chuckles in that not smooth way — the sound gutturally choked by his bubbling lust.
“Can’t tonight, baby.” He lowers his voice, trying to sound seductive. “Unless you want to come home with me.”
He arches his brow with a cheesy smile as his fingers touch his wallet.
It makes me feel dirty. Very, very dirty. And not in the sexy way.
For eight hours a night, a few nights a week, my sensitive bitties of skin are slapped on with cash like I’m a papier-mache project. I’m basically rolling around in money, and if you mix in a little paste, you can make a cash cast out of me. But let me tell you, the whole ‘rolling in dough’ thing is an idea that’s only appealing to be entertained theoretically.
I mean, money’s pretty gross if you think about it. You never know where it’s been. Stuffed in wallets, forgotten in pockets, hidden in shoes or bras, dropped in gasoline-laden puddles on the street, handled by greasy, pizza-oiled hands, rolled to snort coke, slid into a stripper’s asscrack.
The first time I went home with a huge stack of tips, I did it. I spread out a bed of green and laid down on it. It’s really not that exciting. But go ahead and try. And if you’re more like me than you are Ebenezer Scrooge, you’ll find out that carpeting your floor with money doesn’t make it any softer.
It’s still cold, hard cash. In a cold, hard world.
I fight the urge to scrunch my nose, instead lowering them to watch my manicured fingers walk up his white dress shirt, his suit jacket lying forgotten next to him to minimize the layers between us. “You know I can’t go home with customers.”
Can’t, won’t, don’t want to. What’s the difference? In the end, it’s not going to happen.
Some of my clients are sweethearts. Just lonely ones. But some men, like Bill, wave around their money using the carrot-and-stick approach. The cash being the carrot, and the stick being… well, their stick. When I say I don’t provide those services, they don’t back down.
They raise their offer.
Bill’s eyes travel over me as he continues fingering his bulge. The wallet, of course. It’s not the only thing bulging in his pants, but at least he knows which of the two I’m interested in, period.
The lines in his shoulders relax as he gives up for the night and leans back against the couch. His doughy cheeks pull back into a smile.
“Shame,” he drawls pointedly, hinting at how much I’m missing out.
Considering that chipmunk sized tent he’s pitching, I’m pretty confident I’m not missing out on much.
But I hood my eyes seductively and pout a little bit. “You can always stick around for a little longer. You know how much I love spending time with you.”
Ten months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could make a man empty his wallet just by changing where and how I look at him.
I still remember my first day at Starlette when Sage, the strip club’s house mom, pulled me back from making my awkward rounds waddling around the floor. It was my first wearing six-inch fuck-me heels when I’ve only ever worn two-inch-high Mary Janes for church.
She pursed her lips and said, “Honey, if these men wanted to look at a woman who looks as miserable as you do out there, they’d go home to their wives.”
She made a science out of flirtation and laughed when I whipped out my trusty pen and paper. Gave me a big “mhm, you do that” when I said I’d go research all about ‘the art of seduction.’
Even now, Sage likes to joke that her greatest accomplishment to date is turning “Sunday School Skye” turn into “Devilishly Dazzling Destiny.”
Flashing a toothy, hopeful smile, Bill changes tactic. “Then how about dinner? Tomorrow night?”
I’m obviously not going to get him to stay another hour tonight. Lowering my voice huskily, I brush back his hair with the lightest of touches. “Dating is against the rules. But you’ll be the first to know if that ever changes.”
My own rules. Nothing against the other dancers who do date their customers. Believe me, I heard some of the cute love stories shared in the back, and even I’ve dreamed about a sexy, respectful millionaire who can’t resist me after a crotch grind, a motorboat, or an hour of very fulfilling conversation in the half-nude who wants to get to know the real me. And then I remember my clientele includes… well… Bill and his ilk.
No offense. Bill behaves (most of the time), and some of my regulars are nice. But even if I were interested in any of them (which, spoiler alert, I’m not), my stomach doesn’t get all fluttery with butterflies when they’re talking about their wives and kids. A club isn’t exactly ideal breeding grounds for a relationship… or breeding.
That doesn’t mean I don’t pretend I want them. I do. I pretend hard.
Winking at Bill, I peel myself off the couch and straighten as I turn around, looking at him cutely over my shoulder. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to handle a heartbreaker like you.”
He chuckles low in the back of his throat. “Baby, I’d never break your heart.”
I feel a little bitter on behalf of his wife. She’s probably sitting home right now on a Wednesday night, helping their six-year-old son with his alphabets or maths or coloring homework, while he’s here, dishing out his paycheck for a few boob shimmies and butt rolls.
But I shouldn’t complain. After all, Bill is a platinum donor to the Skylar Kay Survival Foundation.
“You break my heart every time you leave.” I wink before walking away, swaying my hips and letting my ass shake.
A couple of wandering eyes flit over to me as I sashay through the room. This is about as private as it gets for those who don’t have enough dough to cough up for some actual one-on-one time in one of the Champagne Rooms.
Nothing sketchy happens back there, of course. At least, it’s not supposed to. But it’s not unusual for a dancer to take off her bikini top for the several extra hundreds she’s getting for the same hour-long session.
I’ve never, and I won’t ever. Not because I think I’m better than any of the other women (God knows I’m in just as much of a shithole, if not in a worse one, as some of them). But I’m just not that comfortable with exposing my nips to strangers who don’t even know my real name. Only my ex-boyfriend has ever seen my bare nipples, and that’s not going to change for any amount of money.
I envy the girls who dance here because they love flaunting their gorgeous bodies and basking in the spotlight. But I’m not one of them.
I love dancing — heck, I wanted to be a professional dancer — but I’d rather dance with clothes on and not on a stage with a pole on it. I’m a statistical cliche working here out of desperation.
“You can always come home with me,” Bill says optimistically, trying one last time as we head toward the exit. “You know I’ll take real good care of you.”
It does make me wonder whether men’s bedroom skills improve if they pay for sex. Do they try to make the most of their money? Or is it an easy done deal since the sex is an expectation?
I’d assume the latter.
Is it terrible that I assume they’re mediocre at sex? Maybe even bad at it? Horrible? The lose-faith-in-mankind’s-manhood kind of sex?
Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been around one and a half naked guys. The second one was a Tinder date that finished with a handjob that lasted twenty seconds. We took a longer time taking our pants off. Not our clothes. Just our pants. Like I said, he didn’t even see my nipples.
Tinder Dude definitely made me lose faith in Tinder, and I haven’t even tried hooking up with anyone since. Why bother if I’m just a heated, fleshy replacement for some Kleenex?
At the door, the bouncer stands menacingly with his thick, meaty arms crossed, glaring at the pasty, Pillsbury Doughboy-esque businessman.
Bill knows the drill. He pulls his wallet out so fast, I would’ve missed it if I blinked.
I brush my fingers along his elbow as I press my boobs against his arm, drawing his attention to my cleavage.
“Come see me again, Bill,” I coo. “You know I’m here from Wednesday to Saturday, eight to four.”
Maybe I should become a camgirl instead. I got the script down pat.
Thanks for watching my strip show! Don’t forget to click on that Subscribe button to watch me fiddle my channel!
Bill doesn’t bother hiding his disappointment when I pull away, but the tease is what keeps him coming back every week.
“Destiny,” he murmurs, his eyes still glued to my tits. He raises them to wink at me. “You’ll warm up to me one day.”
Internally, I cringe. I really, really doubt it.
But winking with a perfectly practiced, sugary sweet smile, I croon, “See you next week, Bill.”
About Vic Tyler:
Vic Tyler is a new author of contemporary romance novels. She has a tinkering sense of wanderlust and loves to travel to new places, explore new cultures, and most importantly, eat delicious new food (yummm). Her dreams include finally having nice handwriting, owning a collection of onesies, and making a croquembouche.
