Protecting What's Mine Page 6

  Three levels of balconies ring the dance floor. People stand one, two, or three stories above, watching what’s going on below. Platforms with scantily clad women dancing on them are scattered around the first floor.

  I squint.

  At first glance, it looks like they’re wearing colorful swim-suits. Or maybe lingerie. But the harder I stare, the more certain I am that my first impression isn’t correct.

  I think their bodies are painted.

  Music pumps from a DJ booth high above the dance floor. The women on the platforms twist and twirl around poles. One lifts her leg, and I’m half afraid of what I’m going to see. It’s like a horrific car crash. One I can’t look away from.

  Chloe chuckles. “They’re wearing thongs.”

  Skepticism laces my voice. “You sure about that?”

  “Yup.” She waits a beat or two before announcing, “I’ve been working here for three months now.”

  Eyes darting to hers, my mouth drops open.

  She’s joking.

  Maybe.

  I level a disbelieving look her way. “No, you have not.”

  I can’t see her working in a place like this.

  Or maybe I can.

  Chloe has always had a larger-than-life personality. And she has a fantastic body. When we were kids, Chloe spent countless hours in ballet and jazz classes. In high school, she was on the dance team. The girl knows how to move. I guess the idea of her working here isn’t as far-fetched as I originally thought.

  Her eyes glitter. “We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, still feeling floored by the disclosure, “I guess we do.”

  “Should we get a drink?”

  That sounds like a good idea since my senses are still overloaded.

  Strobe lights throw different patterns and colors across the floor. The beat of the music practically reverberates off the walls. It’s not obnoxiously loud, but you can feel it vibrating in your bones. Maybe other places as well. The pulsing seems to have settled in my lower region. I shift uncomfortably, needing that drink.

  Slowly, the group makes its way to the bar. This place is packed. I notice that the bartenders, all women, have been painted alike. Kind of like a uniform. You’d think it would be obscene, but it’s not. The paint covering their bodies is beautiful. There’s an artistry to it that intrigues me. I can only imagine how long it takes to get ready for a shift. I make a mental note to ask Chloe.

  “The money here is amazing,” Chloe says. “Totally worth it.”

  One of the bartenders saunters over to greet us. She has a build much like Chloe’s- tall and willowy. “Hey, beautiful, what can I get for you?”

  Ummmm… is she talking to me?

  When I pause, her ruby red lips quirk before her eyes shift to Chloe. “A newbie? Aww, how sweet. I love club virgins.”

  Chloe laughs before rattling off a drink order. I hate to admit it, but I can’t stop staring. I’m totally fascinated. She looks as though she’s wearing a shimmering gold swimsuit. But obviously, it’s not.

  “Honey, you keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to take you home at the end of the night and have my way with you.” She gives me a wink.

  I think she’s just teasing.

  I am definitely out of my element right now.

  But, surprisingly, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing. I’m enjoying myself.

  After two rounds of some fruity concoction the bartender whips up for us, we all move to the dance floor. Two songs later, my eyes are closed, and my hands are sliding through the air. The low pulse of the bass thumps deep inside me. It feels almost sensuous. I’m not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed. I’m having the best time. I’m nowhere near the same caliber of dancer that Chloe is, but I love to shake my booty. It makes me feel lighthearted and free.

  It’s the best feeling in the world.

  I’m not thinking about my parents, the last two years, or all the unknowns I’ll face in the future. The music continues to wrap around me, insulating me in an alternate reality. One without a past or future. At this moment, I’m nothing more than loose limbs and body parts moving to the rhythm of the music.

  Feeling more relaxed and carefree than I have in ages, I open my heavy-lidded eyes to gaze at the sea of strangers surrounding me. My hands twirl above my head.

  I look up at the girls dancing on the platforms, and then higher, to the balconies wrapping around the floor. People crowd around the edges so they can watch what’s going on below.

  There’s an eclectic mix of people present.

  College-aged kids. Young professionals. Hipsters. Socialites. A crowd of edgier, alternative-looking guys. Men in suits. The only thing they all seem to have in common is that no one looks to be over the age of thirty. I’m wondering if Lucas, the bouncer at the door, has strict orders to keep anyone who looks middle aged out. This must be where all the young, beautiful people come to cut loose.

  Again, I’m blown away that Chloe works here. As she mentioned earlier, we need to find some time to sit down and talk.

  Really talk.

  I’m about to close my eyes and give myself over to the pulse of the music again when the fine hairs at the nape of my neck rise. A chill sweeps over my entire body, which is ironic since I’m a sweaty mess.

  I have the strangest feeling that someone is watching me.

  There are three different levels with balconies. Someone could very well be staring at me from up above. Glancing around, I try to figure out if the feeling that has settled in the pit of my stomach is a simple case of paranoia or if I’m being watched.

  It’s dark, and the strobe lights make it difficult to see, but I feel the moment my eyes collide with his. A jolt of electricity zips through my body, and just like before, I can’t look away.

  My next-door neighbor’s eyes pin me in place. Even from this distance, they never release mine. I can do nothing more than stand in a mass of writhing bodies, my gaze held captive by his. His inscrutable expression never falters.

  I’m so intently focused upon him, that I don’t immediately realize he’s here with someone. It takes a moment or two before I become cognizant of the woman clinging to his side.

  I watch as she trails long, elegant fingers down his chest. Her mouth is at his neck, kissing and licking. But that’s a guess because her long, straight hair curtains the view.

  Lord knows that if I were her, I would do the exact same thing.

  He’s not paying her any attention, though. His eyes are still boring into mine. There’s a tumbler wrapped in one big hand. Not breaking our stare, he brings it to his lips and takes a drink. My heart pounds almost painfully against my ribs.

  His lips are so full and sexy.

  The music is still thumping, but I’m no longer aware of it. It’s drowned out by the deep, rich voice in my head.

  How much do you want to be fucked?

  God, so badly.

  Do you like that, baby?

  Yes!

  My panties flood with heat as I continue staring at him. His husky words, laced with dark sensuality, ring throughout my head.

  When someone shakes my shoulder, I rip my eyes from his.

  “Grace, are you all right?”

  A small frown mars Chloe’s face.

  When I say nothing in response, she continues, “You were just standing in the middle of the dance floor like a statue. I’m not going to lie, it was weird. I think you need some water. Too much dancing.”

  It’s not the dancing, I want to tell her.

  But I don’t. I keep what happened to myself.

  When I glance back toward the balcony, the spot he’s just occupied is empty. For a second, I wonder if he was ever there to begin with. Did I conjure him up?

  Have I finally become unhinged? Maybe Chloe is right about needing something ice-cold for my parched throat. I’m sweaty and probably dehydrated.

  Not waiting for an answer, Chloe grabs my hand, and we weave through all the gyr
ating bodies. When we arrive at the bar, the same bartender makes a beeline for us. There’s a raw sexuality and confidence about her that’s almost impossible to ignore. The fact that she’s wearing nothing more than body paint just ups her hotness factor.

  I’ve never been attracted to a woman before. And I certainly would never consider experimenting now. But I’m beginning to think I have a harmless girl crush here.

  “Two waters, please,” Chloe says.

  When the bartender turns to grab our drinks, I’m able to see that she truly has no clothing on. The dancers wear thongs, but the bartenders apparently don’t. Spinning back around, she catches me staring again and gives me another flirty wink before grinning.

  “That’ll be six bucks.”

  Chloe is just about to dig through her pockets when I say, “I’ve got it.”

  Pulling out a ten, I slide it toward her. She grabs it. Before I can tell her to keep the change, she hands four singles back to me.

  “Keep it.”

  A roguish smile curls her red lips upwards. “You want to give me a tip?”

  Leaning against the bar, she beckons me forward with one elegant finger. Her eyes turn seductive. “Come here, newbie.”

  Not quite sure what’s going on, I lean toward her. I expect her to whisper something in my ear, but when our faces are scant inches apart, she says, “Give me your tongue.”

  Surprised by the request, I blink in confusion.

  The edges of her lips tilt up further. “Stick out your tongue for me.”

  Maybe it’s the drinks I’ve had or just plain curiosity. Or maybe it’s what just happened on the dance floor, and my brain still isn’t functioning properly. I don’t know.

  But I do as she commands.

  Almost cautiously, I stick out my tongue. My pulse continues to hammer under my skin. Chloe stands at my side, not saying a word. Very slowly, the bartender moves closer until she’s able to draw my tongue into her mouth.

  Her eyes are locked on mine the entire time she sucks.

  It’s not a rough action. In fact, it’s unexpectedly gentle. Soft, even. No more than fifteen seconds slip by before she releases me. Instead of backing away, she places her lips to my ear and whispers huskily, “Now imagine that’s your clit.”

  Those five words reverberate throughout my entire body.

  Especially my clit.

  Chapter Eight

  The late August sun beats down on me, but the wind rolling in off the lake cuts through it. It’s the perfect time of the day for a run. I try to get out here every morning. I’ve quickly become addicted to the endorphins pumping through my system. Until I started running again, I never realized how much I missed it and the connection it gives me to my dad.

  Once I hit Lakeshore Drive, I continue along the wide path until reaching my halfway point. I started out doing three miles a day. Now I’ve pushed it to four. I don’t have to walk anymore. I’m running the entire distance. Silly as it sounds, it feels like an accomplishment.

  The past couple of months and all of its changes- moving back to Chicago, being accepted to graduate school, and gaining some much-needed control over my life- make me feel like everything is falling into place again.

  I stop for a moment and survey the rich blueness of the lake. It’s so vast. When you’re standing at the shoreline, it seems as big as an ocean. The white-capped waves continue rolling toward the shore as the breeze cools my heated cheeks.

  During the move, I wasn’t sure if I was making the right decision. Change can be scary. Difficult. And I’ve had more than my fill these last couple of years. But right now, everything seems to be working out better than expected. School starts in a week, as does my volunteer position at The Art Institute of Chicago. For twelve hours every week, I’ll be able to walk through the corridors and soak up everything on display in the museum.

  And then there’s Chloe.

  Now that she’s back in my life, I can’t believe I ever pushed her away. What was I thinking? When I needed her the most, I retreated, because protecting myself felt like the safest option at the time. The pain was just too intense. Too overwhelming. After a while, I couldn’t handle all those people patting me on the shoulder, constantly checking in to ask how I was doing, and giving me sympathetic looks and hugs. All it did was remind me of everything- all the goodness and all the love- I’d lost with one bad decision.

  Sucking in a breath of fresh air, I tilt my face toward the brightly shining sun. The heat stroking over it makes me feel alive again.

  When my heartbeat finally slows, I turn toward Lexington Place, ready to head home.

  Home.

  Slowly but surely, that’s what it’s beginning to feel like.

  I do a few quick stretches to keep my muscles loose. Just as I’m pulling my knee to my chest, another jogger catches my eye. A few things about him register all at once.

  Tall, athletic body.

  Dark hair.

  Deep olive complexion.

  Power, potent and intoxicating, radiates from him in thick, heavy waves. Even from this distance, I feel it. A shiver snakes down my spine as I stare.

  I’d know him anywhere.

  He has, since that first elevator ride, played a prominent role in my thoughts.

  Even though I haven’t moved a muscle, my heart rate kicks back up.

  Silently, I prod myself to turn, to run as fast as I can. But I don’t. I feel ensnared by the dark eyes trained on me.

  This is the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than a suit.

  He’s wearing long, black athletic shorts today.

  And no shirt.

  My greedy eyes travel over perfectly sculpted shoulders before sliding down the smooth muscles of his chest and abs. A smattering of hair swirls across his chest. His waist is narrow. Defined. Loose shorts hang from lean hips. Powerful thighs and strong calves complete the picture.

  The past times I’ve run into him, I could tell he was built. Muscular. Not in an overdone way, but it’s obvious that he works out.

  Somehow, he’s more delicious than I allowed myself to imagine. Trust me when I say that I’ve let my wicked thoughts run wild where he’s concerned. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out that he’s a model. He’s way too scrumptious-looking. The man is pure male perfection. Every time I’m around him, it feels like my brain leaks right out of my ears.

  He has to notice the way he affects me. It’s embarrassing. The only thing that makes me feel remotely better is that it must be the same for most women.

  The ones with a pulse, anyway.

  How could it not be?

  Quite honestly, I hope he won’t recognize me and just jogs on by. We’ve never had a conversation. I’m just the weird chick who lives next to him, the one who got off while he screwed some other woman out on his balcony.

  When he’s less than twenty feet away, he dashes my hopes by slowing his pace and eventually coming to a complete standstill. His eyes stay locked on mine.

  My breathing hitches, but I don’t say a word. I’m afraid that if I try to speak, all that will come out is a pathetic squeak. The man is too handsome for his own good. It’s like being blinded by the sun when you look at him.

  Up close, I notice beads of sweat dotting both his forehead and chest. His inky black hair looks as dark and shiny as a raven’s wing.

  I wish I could rip my eyes away from him. Maybe then I would be able to hold a semi-intelligent conversation that wouldn’t further the poor impression he already has of me.

  After another moment ticks by with us simply staring, the edges of his lips slowly bow upward.

  Damnit!

  Why does this man have to be so ridiculously sexy?

  It’s unfair.

  If he’s a ten, I’m a seven.

  I’ve never been one to complain about my looks. I’ve always been content with my blond hair and blue eyes. Sure, I’m a little on the short side. And curvy. I’ve been told countless times that I look like the wh
olesome girl next door.

  I almost snort.

  In this case, I really am the girl next door.

  This guy, on the other hand, is exotic-looking. If someone picked him up and plopped him down on a fashion show runway in Milan, he would fit in perfectly.

  “You’re Thirty-A, right?”

  He has a deep, melodic voice. His words are lightly accented. My girly parts roll over in response.

  I’m sure he’s waiting for me to jump in and introduce myself. When I remain silent, his brows lift. “You just moved in a few weeks ago?”

  All I can think about is the elevator ride down to the lobby after the balcony incident. Just thinking about it has my entire face going up in flames. I want to melt into a puddle on the concrete and disappear between the cracks.

  “Yes,” I murmur, “that’s me.” I have no other choice but to brazen this out. Stepping forward, I thrust my hand toward him. I wish I’d had the good sense to wipe my sweaty palm on my running shorts, but it’s too late now.

  “I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.”

  His voice washes over me like a wave. “Nice to finally put a name to such a pretty face. Matteo.”

  My brows quirk. “Matteo.” Like everything else, his name fits him perfectly.

  The intensity in his obsidian eyes deepens. “Yes, Matteo. Are you heading back now?”

  I glance toward Lexington Place, which is about two miles away. The building is barely visible in the distance. “Yeah, this is my halfway point.”

  “We can go together then.”

  I grimace and shake my head. Is he crazy? I’m barely holding myself together right now. “No. You should probably go on without me. I don’t want to slow you down. I’m just getting back into running after a bit of a hiatus.”

  His dark eyes slowly flick over my legs. “You suffered an injury?”

  Matteo’s gaze feels like a physical caress. It makes my heart stutter. “No. Nothing like that.”

  His eyebrows rise as if he’s waiting for an explanation. When I remain silent, he says, “I don’t mind slowing down.”

  In that moment, I realize that he isn’t going to take no for an answer. I nod my head, accepting that we will be running back to the building together.