Stripped (Stripped #1)(39)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

I blush and look away quickly, but he saw me staring. The corner of his mouth tilts and tightens into a small quirk of a smile, quickly gone. He moves toward me, and I’m tense once more, staring at the ridged field of his abs and the narrow column of his waist, the inward cut of muscle where his hips guide inward to his groin. My mouth is dry as he approaches. I’m not breathing, not moving, not thinking. I’m totally panicked.

He sees it in my face, and raises his hands. “Relax, Grey.” His voice is a low, soothing rumble. “You need to sleep. I’m just going to hold you. If you’d rather not, I can sleep in one of the empty bedrooms.”

Just going to hold me. I’ve never slept in a bed with a man before. Not ever, in my whole life. My dad used to tuck me in as a little girl, but that stopped around nine or ten. I don’t know what to say, what to think, what to even want. I’m scared, exhausted, and nervous.

“I don’t want to be alone,” I murmur. It’s the only true thing I know right now.

He carefully slides into the bed beside me, then curses when he realizes the overhead light is on. He gets up and turns it off, and the room is enveloped in sudden shadows. A slim sliver of lesser darkness carves across the room from the doorway, but all else is pitch black. I’m not afraid of the dark; I’m afraid of my confused welter of emotions regarding this man.

The bed dips, and I feel the warmth of his nearness. I hear him breathing. His hand touches mine, and our fingers tangle.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “For real?”

I don’t answer right away. It’s a serious question. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel. It was…terrifying, and so sudden. He was in the club. He was the last customer there, and he asked for me. He was…so drunk. Maybe on drugs. I don’t know. He was creepy. He wanted a dance, and he got all mad when I wouldn’t take my shirt off. I—I don’t usually do that, you know. If I’m on the floor, I’m wearing the shirt. I only take it off when I do stage dances. It’s basically nothing, that shirt, so it kinda makes the customers act crazy. Like, they can see, but not totally, and it’s different.” I’m not sure why I’m telling him this, but the words are pouring out, and I can’t stop them. “I couldn’t do it, being totally topless all night. I hate it enough as it is, but…the whole shift? Ugh. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The customers like the mystery, so Timothy lets me wear it. It’s my thing, and I enforce it. I only take my clothes off on the stage or in the VIP rooms. Not that it makes me being a stripper any better, but…it helps, I guess.”

It makes it easier that I can’t see him, that he can’t see how hard this is for me to talk about, although I’m sure he can hear it my voice.

“So you hate it? Being a stripper?”

“God, yes. So much. Every—every single time I do it, I hate it.” I shudder, and his fingers tighten around mine. “I—I throw up, pretty much after every stage dance.”

“Did you throw up after I left, that first time we met?”

I shake my head, then realize he can’t see the gesture. “No. You…that was different somehow. I don’t know why.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. “So he got mad that you wouldn’t take your clothes off for him, and then left and waited outside for you?”

“I guess so. Hank made him leave when he got too upset. I thought he was gone. I went to my car…your car, I mean.” I shudder again, remembering. “I should’ve…I should’ve listened to my gut. I had this bad feeling, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to seem silly.”

“Listen to your gut,” Dawson tells me. “Always listen to those feelings.”

An awkward silence follows. I don’t want to talk about what happened anymore; I just want to forget.

“Why were you there?” I ask. “I mean, how did you happen to be there, right then?”

Once again, Dawson pauses before answering. “I wanted to talk to you. I figured I could catch you after your shift.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

I realize now, perhaps belatedly, that the brief pause before answering is a Dawson thing. He thinks before replying, puts together his thoughts and how he’ll say them. “You confuse me.”

This isn’t what I expected him to say. “I…what? What do you mean, I confuse you?”

“You’re a contradiction, Grey. I can’t figure you out.” He rolls toward me, and my eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that I can just barely make out his features and the glittering hints of his eyes.

His fingers trace my hand, my wrist, gentle caresses and slow exploration. I barely notice as his touch slides carefully up my arm, barely notice as he shifts closer to me with every breath.

“I’m not that tough to understand,” I whisper.

He chuckles. “To yourself, maybe. You’re you. You know everything about you. But to me, you’re a complete contradiction. You mess me up.” He’s grazing my upper bicep, and now my shoulder over the T-shirt, rubbing my back. I like this. Too much. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. “You seem…innocent somehow. You mentioned growing up sheltered, but you closed down when I asked about it. You exude this effortless sensuality, but it’s—I don’t know, it’s not sexual, somehow. Like, it should be, considering what you do, but it’s not. It’s sensual, this weird mix of innocence and raw beauty. I just…I’m not explaining it right. But then, you’re a stripper, and you hate it. I could see it. You don’t belong in that dirty club. And…you and me. That’s the most confusing part. I don’t know how to handle you. I want you, that’s no secret at this point, I think. I want you so bad I can taste it. I can taste your skin. I’ve seen you, and I’ve gotten these little teases of touching you. But…I want all of you. Yet as soon as we get close to things happening, you bolt.”

His hand is kneading the muscles of my back, around my spine, down to my waist. My heart begins to thump and pound madly as his touch nears the small of my back and continues downward.

“You’re such a mystery,” he says, inching his body closer to mine. I can smell him; I can feel his breath on me, intimate. “I think you want me, but I can’t tell for sure. And if you do want me, I get the feeling you don’t want to want me. And, not to sound arrogant or whatever, but there are probably millions of women who would love to get even five minutes with me, yet you consistently run away. I don’t know what you want, and I don’t know how to find out what you want because you’re closed off and touchy and don’t answer questions.” He says all this gently, as if I might take offense.