Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“You won’t be harmed—you have my word on that, Delilah.” The deep, growling voice had softened somewhat and though it was hard to tell with the mask on, it seemed like his eyes were softer as well. “I just want to see you dance,” he told me. “Without anyone else to ruin it. I just want to watch your beautiful body move.”
“Well…all right,” I said at last. “I’ll dance for you, but if you think I’m going to let you mate me just because my big brother says so, you’ve got another think coming, Mister.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” he growled. “For now, let me show you to your room.”
He turned again and headed into the darkened penthouse suite and this time I followed him.
The dim red lighting came from the living room area but we didn’t go there. Instead, the masked man led me down a hallway with several doors. He stopped at the second one and threw it open, revealing a master suite with a huge king-sized bed. It was decorated all in black and white—black bedspread, white carpet, etc. but it wasn’t the décor I was looking at.
Someone had brought in a whole rolling rack full of colorful stripper clothing. It was set up at the foot of the bed. There was also a selection of platform heels ranging in height from a modest five inches all the way up to eight- or nine-inch stilts.
“Wow—this is a lot,” I remarked, walking over to look at the rack of clothes. I flipped through a few of them. “These are my size, too.”
Stripper clothes are expensive—much more than you’d think. You can’t just wear any old lingerie up on stage—the clubs don’t like that. They have vendors that come around and a single pair of booty shorts can cost you seventy-five dollars—if not more. So I was pretty impressed that this guy had put out so much money just to have a private performance.
“Everything has been provided for you,” the man in the mask told me. “There is also some makeup in the bathroom if you want to wear it. Not that you need it,” he added, giving me a look that was impossible to interpret with the mask on.
“I, uh, usually have a blue contact lens that I wear, to hide this.” I pointed to my left eye, which is a pale gold with no other color at all, unlike my right, which is greenish blue. “Some guys don’t like it that I have two different colored eyes,” I added.
“Let me see.” Unexpectedly, he reached out with one big hand and cupped my chin. He tilted it up so that he could meet my eyes, though his own were hooded by the mask.
He studied me for a long moment and I could feel my heart pounding. What was it about this man? He felt so strange and yet so familiar at the same time. But with that damn mask on, I couldn’t be sure of anything…
“Beautiful,” he murmured at last. “You’re fucking gorgeous, baby—you don’t need to hide your eyes.”
“You mean…the way you’re hiding yours?” I challenged, but my voice came out sounding breathless.
“You don’t need to know who I am,” he rumbled. “Not until I make up my mind about you.”
I wanted to snap that I’d already made up my mind about him…but the truth was I hadn’t. I was at a crossroads here, not sure what to do. Should I put on a private show for a man I didn’t even know? The only one I wanted to dance for like that was Cole. How many times had I fantasized about showing him my sexy new moves as I learned how to pole dance? I could imagine the lazy look of desire in his eyes as he watched my hips working and my breasts swaying just for him…
“What…what do you want me to wear?” I asked him, since I didn’t know what else to say.
“Hmm…” He let go of my chin at last—which was what I’d been hoping for. His touch had been sending my pulse into overdrive for some reason. Instead, he began looking through the rack of clothing, pausing to consider each outfit seriously.
“Hmm,” I murmured, copying him. But I wasn’t looking at the clothes—I was watching his hand. He was left-handed, apparently, which was fairly unusual. But when he flipped through the various outfits, I thought I caught a flash of white on his wrist—it looked like a scar.
“How about…this one?” he asked at last, pulling a hanger off the rack.
Hanging from it was a tiny, short ruffled skirt and a kind of bra that had a bow in the front. I don’t mean it had a tiny little bow sewn in between the breasts either—I mean the whole front of the bra was two long strips of fabric which tied into a bow, covering your breasts, which would otherwise be exposed.