His pelvis was bumping up, as hers ground down, and they moved from side-to-side in perfect synchronization. His hot, wet mouth destroyed any sense of decorum and she moaned with utter abandon.
Swearing, Nick pushed her away, spun her around, and aligned her body until they were face-to-face. He draped her legs the opposite direction of his on the bench. The friction at this angle was perfect. Pelvis-to-pelvis, her clitoris rubbed the seam on the inside of her pants and the bulge in his jeans. The soft mounds of her br**sts were plastered to his hard chest.
Lift, lower, grind. Lift, lower, grind.
So close. Dammit. It’d been a year since she’d experienced a cl**ax not brought about by her own hand. She craved that explosion. That mindless throbbing. That ultimate rush of heat.
“Holly.” Nick groaned her name like a prayer and clamped his hands to her face. He slammed his mouth to hers in a ferocious kiss that stole her breath, her sanity and sent her careening over the edge straight into orgasm.
She kept moving, dragging out the delicious sensation. Then Nick stiffened below her and she felt a burst of warmth where they were pressed together.
He rode out his cl**ax. A growl-like hum reverberated in her mouth, as he soul-kissed her so deeply she swore the steady movement of his tongue tickled the soles of her feet. When his thumbs simultaneously stroked the edge of the velvet mask and the curve of her cheek beneath it, she damn near came again at the simple eroticism in his tender touch.
Nick released her lips, kissing the line of her jaw to her ear. Breathing hard, he murmured, “Now I finally understand the appeal of lap dances.”
Then it hit her: she’d been dry-humping a complete stranger in public.
Talk about cheap.
What you mean cheap? He paid you a hundred bucks for the privilege of getting his rocks off with you.
Holy crap. Holly scrambled off him like he’d suddenly developed a case of leprosy. She fell on her ass before she leapt to her feet.
“Holly? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit. Shit. I have to go. Now.” She backed away, trying—and failing—not to stare at the dark, wet patch on the front of his jeans.
“No, wait.”
She didn’t. Holly turned and fled through the door backstage where she knew she’d be safe. But she didn’t know if she was running from him or from the bad-girl wild side of herself that scared her to death.
Fuck.
Mistress Christmas had gotten him so hot and bothered from a simple goddamn lap dance that he’d squirted in his jeans. It’d been years since he’d had to untuck his shirt to cover the evidence of an accidental discharge.
Stunned, Nick sat on the bench and replayed the entire encounter. What a damn enchantress. From Holly’s come-hither smile, to the sexy, mesmerizing motions of her smoking hot body, to the sound of her breathy sighs, she was absolute perfection. He licked his lips, once again tasting the hunger and neediness in her kiss.
None of that kissing, full-frontal grinding should’ve happened. The “hands off” policy for lap dances in strip clubs was usually strictly controlled. The stripper taunted and teased, rubbed and gyrated, while the customer basically sat on his damn hands and watched. Nick knew those were the rules.
So why hadn’t Mistress Christmas known them?
Granted, the sensuous way that womanly body of hers swiveled and shimmied was breath stealing, but there’d been something…sweet and unsullied about her performance. Something shy and earnest about her. A feverish need to please that seemed to surprise her as much as it had him.
But Nick had to ask himself—could innocence be faked? Was that how she lured men to financial recklessness? Get the bouncer to look the other way, break the “rules” about no touching, bring the customer to orgasm while faking her own? Then the stripper with the heart of gold runs away, expecting the customer to be so desperate to get off again in secret that he’d come back for more?
He could totally see that angle working. Problem was, he couldn’t see Holly as the type of woman to work that angle.
Which was probably why it worked so goddamn well.
After Nick retrieved his coat, he scrutinized the bar for a glimpse of her.
Nada.
Cold air and snow blasted him in the face when he stepped outside, but it didn’t cool his temper or his libido. With nothing else to occupy his time, he could wait in his car in the parking lot and hope to see her sneaking out the employee entrance.
Yeah? What then? Follow her? To what end?
Nick needed to catch her in the act of stealing inside the bar, not stalk her to see if she lived in a low-rent district. Not fantasize that she’d welcome his advances outside the club.
Jesus. How pathetic did it make him that he didn’t have anything better to do than moon over a stripper who’d given him the first decent orgasm he’d had in over a year?
Nick’s pager buzzed. He read the text scrolling across the screen. Figured. Duty called him back to the station.
His gaze lingered on the vehicles parked by the service entrance before he drove off.
But he’d be back.
Chapter Three
“You ran out of here pretty fast last night, Holly. Was everything okay?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Holly applied crimson lipstick to her upper lip.
“You sure? Bubba said you disappeared for awhile into the private area and then you careened back here like you’d seen your grandma in the audience.”
The lipstick slipped, smearing a thick red line across Holly’s cheek. “Goddammit, Ivy! That’s not even funny.”
“Jumpy much?” Ivy pinched Holly’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and swiped at the streak. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.” She couldn’t share what’d happened with Nick with anyone, least of all Ivy.
Nick. Just thinking about the man sent an ache between her thighs. That cowboy was outstanding and out of her league with a capital “O” for orgasm—unintended or not. After the volatile lap dance, she’d hidden in the dressing room until she’d had to strut across the stage. And once again, it’d taken two shots of schnapps to bolster her courage.
Thank God Nick hadn’t been around. She’d managed to flirt with several patrons before ditching her sexy, sassy persona and heading home.
After the way she’d bolted last night, chances were slim Nick would be back. He’d gotten way more bang for his hundred bucks anyway. Her discussions with other strippers cemented her mortification. How was she supposed to’ve known there was no touching, no kissing and definitely no orgasms during lap dances?
Still, Holly had guts enough to face the naughty truth: even if she had known the rules, she would’ve done it exactly the same way. Dammit. How mortifying to have it bad for a man she’d met in a strip club? And she didn’t even know his last name? Her attraction to him mattered not one whit, because if Nick found out she wasn’t a hot-to-trot stripper, he wouldn’t be interested in her at all.
“Holls, why is your face all red? You aren’t getting sick, are you?”
“No.” Holly jerked her chin from Ivy’s hand. “It’s from the glass of red wine.”
“Thank goodness you haven’t contracted the creeping crud floating around here. If I haven’t already told you a million times, I’ll say it again. Thank you for filling in again tonight.”
“You’re welcome. Remember this favor when it’s tax season and I need an office drone.”
Ivy grinned. “You’ve got it.” She tugged the bustier down, so the lace barely covered Holly’s ni**les and handed her the velvet mask. “Same drill as before. Knock ’em dead.”
The music started and Holly played her part, infusing the crowd with Christmas spirit. And truthfully, sitting at the bar surrounded by a dozen admiring men did wonders for her ego.
She’d even stopped scanning the crowd for a tall, well-built cowboy with golden curls and knowing hazel eyes. She remained among the patrons through the first two stripper sets and only ventured back to the dressing rooms before her last stage strut.
After she was announced and as she meandered past the first pole, she caught sight of that long, muscled body leaning against the closest wall. The heat in his eyes was powerful enough to ignite the fires inside her from twenty feet away.
In her distraction, Holly forgot to watch her step and stumbled over her own feet. Just when it looked as if she’d take a header down the stairs, Nick’s apparent cat-like reflexes kicked in and he caught her fall from grace before she broke her neck.
“Hold on there, darlin’. I gotcha.” Hands firmly gripping her hips, he steered her to an empty barstool. “You okay?”
“Um. Yeah. I’m fine.”
Nick gestured to the bartender. “Bring her a glass of water, would ya?”
“Sure thing.”
Holly perched on the edge of the barstool, hooking her heels on the bottom rung, trying to quell her racing heart. “You must think I’m a total klutz.”
“Not in the least.”
A heavy pause lingered as she sipped the lukewarm water from a plastic cup. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”
Those shrewd hazel eyes focused on her. “Why’s that?”
She shrugged and studied the kaleidoscope of colors spinning across the walls by the stage.
“You wondering if I’m here for more of the same?”
“Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Shame. I’d pay twice what it cost me last night.”
Warmth suffused her cheeks beneath the mask. She downed the remaining water in two gulps. “Thanks for keeping me from falling on my face. But my gratitude does not include a lap dance. Of any variety.” She stood without acknowledging him, even when the man cast a shadow across the width of the bar that was damn hard to ignore.
“Holly—”
“Mistress Christmas? Can I buy you a drink?”