Kelli Ireland - Wound Up

Determination was all she’d had to see her through the hard years, the hungry nights, the lonely holidays. And if determination had carried her this far, there was no reason to think it wouldn’t carry her as far as she wanted to go. She’d carve out her own niche, do something special after a life that had been less than noteworthy. If only she could figure out what, and where, her niche was . There wasn’t room to make a mistake—not with the deferment of her student-loan payments ending and her housing situation dire for the next two weeks.

Frowning into her glass, she fought the urge to curse. She’d been forced to move in with her mother when the man she and Meg had been subletting their apartment from returned from his Doctors Without Borders trip early. It wasn’t a big deal for Meg; she’d just gone home. It was more...complicated for Grace. Home had never been the safe place it was supposed to be. The word had never conjured feelings of security, and it had never been a place of refuge. Her mother had only been a parent in the biological sense. Nurture and love had never been part of that woman’s vocabulary.

She rolled her head back and forth and took a deep breath. Two weeks. You can do anything for two weeks.

“Ladies, you’re in for a real treat.” The MC’s voice, deep and dark, dragged her out of her reverie and settled the crowd’s chatter to an anxious hum. “It seems a Beaux Hommes crowd favorite has decided to unveil a new alter ego this evening, and he’s going to be choosing one lucky lady to help with the introductions.”

“I wonder if Nick would understand if I volunteered,” Meg murmured.

Grace chuckled, watching as the spotlight whisked across the crowd. Hands were up in the air, women waving like crazed matadors in the face of angry bulls as they tried to garner the operator’s attention. She shook her head and bent forward to grab her purse. Virgin or not, her drink could use refreshing. Might as well do it while they were setting up for the next dancer.

Air whispered around her as the owner of black wingtips stopped in front of her chair. She froze. Cologne, musky and rich, tickled her nose. The spotlight pinpointed her, and she swore it burned hot as the noonday sun.

A work-roughened finger hooked under her chin and gently lifted.

This was not happening. She didn’t want to be chosen to help the policeman or chef or magician or whatever he was going to be dressed as take off his clothes. She just wanted to watch. And tip. And watch some more. But be part of the act? No.

In spite of herself, she let her head tilt back and slowly took him in. Her eyes raked across a tall, hard body. He pulled her up until she stood in front of him. Subtle pressure encouraged her to meet his gaze. Shock made her draw in a sharp breath.

Dark brows arched elegantly over pale blue irises ringed in navy blue. His lashes were so thick she almost hated him. Almost. His jaw was chiseled. The way his mouth tipped up at one corner said he smiled regularly, and she had the strangest urge to see that smile now. Not his stage smile, but a genuine one. His lower lip was full, made for nibbling, while his upper lip formed a perfect cupid’s bow. She couldn’t stop staring at his mouth—no surprise. It had always been this way with him.

“Justin Maxwell,” she whispered. The one man in the world she’d hungered for on every level. The one man who had been out of reach for three years. Every cell in her body heated until a fine sheen of sweat decorated the nape of her neck. She licked her lips as her breath came short. How could he be here ? Tonight? Why? And why couldn’t he be wearing more clothes when he touched her?

He tipped his fedora in acknowledgment, leaving it sitting at a cocky angle. “I’ll need you to come with me, Ms. Cooper.”

The soft timbre of his voice whispered through her, caressing and igniting parts of her that had no business being on fire.

Grace opened her mouth to politely decline. Yes, she’d harbored a major crush on the man for years, but that didn’t mean she’d hop on stage with him at his request. No, she couldn’t. “Absolutely, Professor.”

“Never was a professor, and I’m not standing in front of anyone’s whiteboard anymore, sweetheart.” And she wasn’t sitting in a lecture hall anymore, either.

Her stomach flipped over as anxiety landed dead center in her belly.

Taking her hand, he backed through the crowd with confident steps, as if he knew exactly who and what was behind him.

He led her up a short set of stairs and stood her in the middle of the stage. “Don’t think about the crowd. Focus on me. I’ll take care of you,” he said quietly.

Her inner wild child stretched and purred, tired of being put in a box over the years as she’d busted her ass to earn her undergraduate and graduate degrees. Now all that wild part of her wanted was a piece of him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

That coveted smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Please do.”

She gave a short nod, and he raised a hand as he stepped away from her. The lights immediately dimmed and several women screamed while others whistled.

Music started, soft at first. Initially it had a digital feel, and then the first electric guitar cords drowned out the synthesizer. Bass guitar dropped in with a deep, almost drumming line. The music hammered at her nerves, lighting her up from the inside and making her hyperaware of the way her clothes rubbed over her skin.

The spotlight flashed on, narrow at first and then widening to show Justin moving toward her in a Milan-worthy stalk-walk through the artificial smoke billowing across the stage. His feet hit the floor in time with the music. He flicked his trench coat open, letting it billow behind him as he moved. Tuxedo-style pants were held up with black suspenders. He wore a cummerbund of white satin. And that was it. His bare chest showcased his warm skin and ripped physique. He wasn’t huge but, damn, she would have given just about anything to trail her fingers over his defined pecs and down those rippling abs.

She glanced at his face and froze.

His eyes were hot, his smile one of pure seduction. He arched a brow as he closed in on her.

Grace licked her lips again, the action partly nerves but predominately anticipation. She wanted his hands on her in the worst way and, surprisingly, it turned her on to know that other people were watching.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, his eyes grew hooded. He stalked her in an ever-tightening circle. Whipping his coat off, he flung it to the side as the lyrics settled around her in a haze of lust. The singer was instructing the woman in the song to beg. But instead of encouraging Grace to go to her knees, Justin did.

He dropped behind her and ran broad hands up the backs of her legs, over her ass and settled them at her waist, making her skin suddenly feel too tight. His hot breath skated along the hollow of her spine as his thumbs lifted the hem of her shirt and he placed his firm lips against the soft sway of her back.

She involuntarily arched.

Strong hands tightened around her waist, holding her still. The tip of his tongue traced the tiniest line up her skin.

A whimper caught in her throat. Heat flooded her sex.

He moved behind her, scaling her body like a half-naked superhero.

She absently wondered what his superpower would be and realized, without a doubt, it would be the power of seduction. The power to make her crave him. The power to make her beg if he wanted her to.

Smooth hands slid under her shirt and up her belly. Thumbs traced ghost-like over the lower swells of her breasts. Her nipples pearled.

Lost to the sensations, her eyes fluttered shut.

Then he was gone.