IGNITE : A BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE Page 10

  With every thrust, I can feel her getting tighter. With every thrust, her eyes seem to sparkle with more joy.

  “I want to feel you come, Analie,” I say, running my palm down her arm, relishing the soft feeling of her skin until I reach her hand and press it up over her head. I do the same with the other one, taking charge of her, owning her.

  She’s my woman, my hope, my salvation.

  Analie came into my life at a time when I was hiding from everything; from my future and from my past. She’d met me when I was wearing a mask, but somehow she saw past it enough to give me a chance. Enough to help me give myself a chance at a life I never imagined I would be able to live again. A life full of love and purpose.

  She ignited me again, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

  I published my first novel and I’m going to go back to qualify as a teacher.

  I’ve committed myself to Analie in a way I’d never thought I’d be able to again.

  As I make love to her I tell her all the ways she’s made my life better and it’s my words that push her over the edge and into oblivion. And after, it’s her whispers of all the ways I make her see herself clearer that drag me into the light with her.

  Sometimes life submerges us with so much grief and anger it seems almost impossible to rise up. Sometimes we hide ourselves so perfectly behind masks of our own making. It takes a certain type of person to see behind that mask. It takes a special kind of person to want to help remove our masks, layer by painful layer.

  Analie has been that person for me.

  She has turned my pain around and ignited my soul.

  And now, without the mask, I’m free.

  About the Author

  Stephanie Brother writes scintillating stories with bad boys and step-siblings as their main romantic focus. She's always been curious about the forbidden, and this is her way of exploring such complex relationships that threaten to keep her couples apart. As she writes her way to her dream job, Ms. Brother hopes that her readers will enjoy the full emotional and romantic experience as much as she's enjoyed writing them.

  Also by Stephanie Brother

  If you enjoyed IGNITE, then why not try Billion Dollar Daddy?

  Billion Dollar Daddy – A Damaged Billionaire Romance

  A stranger wants to buy me for a month.

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071SFD8B9

  Keep reading for the description and an excerpt.

  DESCRIPTION

  A stranger wants to buy me for a month.

  Ryan has money. Not just real life rich but fairy tale money that can change my life. He offers me $50,000 to be his companion. I don’t know exactly what’s going to be involved but I’m a stripper so I think I have a pretty good idea.

  When I get to his home, nothing is as I expect. He doesn’t touch me. Not straight away. He treats me like I’m his girlfriend. Coastal drives in his supercar, meals at restaurants that cost what I’d earn in a month.

  He tells me his story and little by little I fall for the gorgeous man beneath the reserved shell.

  I know I shouldn’t. I fight the feelings in my heart because this is all a fantasy. A dream that’s going to end when thirty days have passed.

  And it does.

  Walking away is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.

  Until I realize I’m late.

  He’s going to think I’ve fallen pregnant on purpose so I decide not to tell him. Then I get a call that changes everything.

  Ryan’s been hiding something from me and suddenly I find that I need to fight for more than just his love. I need to fight for his life.

  1

  RYAN

  The Kitty Cat Club.

  Pink neon sign. Black shiny doors. Everything is tacky and nasty but I’m thinking about going inside anyway.

  I shouldn’t be in this part of town, especially without my security detail, but I need to get away. There’s something so necessary about sitting behind the wheel of a car that’s expensive but not too showy and just driving. I like having a chauffeur most days, but today I need my foot on the accelerator and the wind in my face.

  I decide to just go where my journey takes me, to travel to parts of town that I haven’t visited before. I eat a burger in a small run-down looking family restaurant and it’s the best burger I’ve had in a long time. I drink a beer in an Irish pub and it’s delicious. Now it seems my night will be rounded off with some low-class strippers.

  I say that and it makes me sound like a judgmental prick. I’m not one. I came from a place like this. I know these people and they are mostly good. Shitty circumstances are just that. Some people rise and some people fall and it’s mostly fate that decides who goes where. I just mean that this isn’t the kind of place I’d normally frequent. Five years ago I’d have booked someone to come to me. A dancer from an exclusive service.

  Tonight, though, this seems like a good idea.

  The bouncer eyes me carefully. I’m not wearing flashy clothes or accessories but I think he can tell I’m not the standard clientele. He lets me in, never taking his eyes off me as if he wants to let me know that he’ll fuck me up if I step out of line. I don’t have any intention to cause trouble. The last thing I need is to draw any attention to myself while I’m here. It could have some very serious repercussions. In business, reputation is everything.

  I make my way to the bar and order a beer. The barman looks bored and I wonder for a second what it must be like to work in a place like this. He’s facing the stage; tits, and ass on display for his whole shift. Maybe he’s become desensitized because he doesn’t even glance at the action. Three girls are on the main stage, gyrating in just their tiny panties.

  I sip my beer and make my way to one of the high tables, taking a seat on a tall stool and inhaling deeply. My cock twitches in my pants when the girl in the middle bends over and runs her hands over her pussy. She’s got great legs and an ass as round as a peach, but her fake tits are really off-putting. I like my women natural. Big or small doesn’t really matter so long as what they’ve got going on is all their own. The beer tastes a little like the glass still has dishwasher fluid on it but I sip it anyway.

  Then I see her.

  She’s walking through the bar looking hot as hell but like she doesn’t want to be here. It’s not that she looks bored, more like her thoughts are somewhere else more interesting than this seedy strip joint. I’ve always had a thing about red underwear, especially on a blonde. Something about it says dangerous, and I like my women with sharp edges. Makes for a more interesting ride, whatever journey you might be taking. She has a soft sway to her hips. Nothing exaggerated. The spiky heels she’s wearing have her calves contracting and fuck me if that doesn’t make me hard. Way harder than the obvious sexual displays of the women on the stage. This girl is something else.

  She takes a seat at the bar and talks to the barman. He brings her what looks like an orange juice. Maybe it’s a screwdriver or maybe she doesn’t drink while she’s working. I find that I don’t care either way. I’d just like to lick that citrus taste from her lips or maybe let some of its sweetness drip onto her nipples.

  Jeez.

  It’s been a long time since I felt this kind of attraction. Corina was a bombshell to look at but not in the bedroom. I thought it didn’t matter. I told myself you don’t fuck the woman you’re intending to marry. You make love to her. You treat her like a princess and hope that all that devotion is going to make for a good union. It was good but it wasn’t great. I’d have lived with it, though, for the rest of my life. I’d have stifled all my baser urges to keep her next to me, but it seemed that fate had other plans.

  So here I am, thinking dark and dirty thoughts about a strange woman. I can estimate her cup size but I don’t know her name. I can see that she used to wear a belly button ring but I don’t know her age. She’s physically revealed to me, yet a total mystery.

  I like mystery as much as the next man. Mystery is sexy. Mystery has
your mind whirring and your body humming, but all of that can only go so far.

  It’s been long enough.

  I tell myself that but I don’t know if my mind truly agrees.

  Maybe that’s what this trip has been about; finding a way to move on. Finding a way to find myself again despite all the grief that clings to my heart.

  I loved Corina but she’s gone.

  And for all the money I have, there was no saving her, and there’s no bringing her back.

  This woman is a stranger.

  I intend to change that.

  2

  JESSIE AKA CINDY

  “Cindy, you’ve got a private dance in room six,” Adrian shouts over the bar.

  I’ve finished my stage dances for the night, but I I’m still on the clock for another couple of hours. It doesn’t look like my plan for a break is going to pan out.

  “Okay,” I say sounding completely unenthusiastic. I slip off my bar stool, feet already groaning in my ridiculous red stilettos. It isn’t busy for a Friday night but that doesn’t seem to be resulting in any peace for me.

  I stroll through the bar feeling greedy eyes watching me. Even after all these months I still haven’t found a way to ignore the way it makes my skin crawl. There are steps at the edge of the dance floor that lead toward towards the back area where the changing rooms and private rooms are concealed behind a large mirrored wall. As I round the corner I adjust the underwire of my bra and look down to make sure my panties and stockings are all in place. I hate red but it’s a firm favorite among the clientele and I always make better tips when I wear it. I’m here for the money so red it is.

  I pause outside the room as I always do, wondering who will be inside and hoping that everything will be okay. There are strict rules about what happens in the private rooms but that doesn’t mean that every drunken idiot obeys them.

  The handle creaks as I lower it. The room is darker inside than in the corridor and a dark haired man sits on the sofa, waiting for the dance he’s paid for.

  “Hi, I’m Cindy and I’ll be your dancer this evening.” I walk forward, putting my hands under my hair and tossing it seductively. He looks up and meets my eyes, but his expression isn’t leering and he doesn’t look me over like the clients usually do, eating up what they see, hands twitching to touch. Instead, he seems serious and slightly uncomfortable. It happens sometimes. Maybe he has a wife and kids at home and feels guilty for needing to spend his money on something so selfish and disloyal. I glance quickly at his left hand but he isn’t wearing a ring.

  I sway over to the music system and press ‘play’. The management has a limited selection, all tacky, sexy bump n’ grind tunes that make me cringe when I hear them in the outside world. I turn the volume up and swivel around, going to the place in my head that I use to block out the room; the deserted beach at dusk, sand between my toes, somewhere I can dance without anyone watching.

  There’s a pole in front of him and I grasp it high, hooking my leg around to start a spin, putting my body into the positions I’ve been trained to form, the ones that are supposed to be the most alluring. I try not to look directly at the man because eye contact feels very personal and this has to be all about business. The ocean sound in my mind holds strong as I rest against the pole, back arched, hands above my head, sliding down with my legs spread to give him the view he has paid for.

  His silence is disconcerting. Not unusual, but I cut him a glance as I finish the pole dance and move towards him to get to the up close and personal bit. My client is good-looking but not in a model-perfect way. There is something about him, an intensity, that makes me fearful of looking directly into his eyes. The hands that rest on his knees look big, strong and capable. There’s at least a day’s scruff on his chin, and his lips, which are set in a grim line, look full and pink. In another place, at another time, maybe he would have given me butterflies, but I never find my clients appealing. Knowing they need to frequent a place like ‘The Kitty Cat Club’ turns me off of even the most stunning of men.

  It’s his eyes, though, that bring me back into the room with a bump. They look glassy in the dim light of the room, and sad. I face away, wanting to get back to the seashore, putting my hands under my long blonde hair and bringing my arms up so it cascades down. My ass is level with his face, and the thong I’m wearing leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Barely enough to remain on the right side of the law. I widen my stance, long legs even longer in my four inch heels, and bend over to give him a really good look.

  I’ll admit that it’s hard to strip without getting a bit turned on. Lacy lingerie lets in a lot of cool air. Add to that the thrusting, the brushing of your own hand over your skin, the knowledge that what you are doing is most likely making your client hard; it’s a heady combination. It’s probably partly why so many girls end up giving extras. That and the money.

  That’s not for me though. No matter how wet I get I keep my body to myself. Eyes are one thing, hands are another.

  The next part of the dance is the slow removal of my bra, first slipping straps off shoulders with a wiggle, then tugging so at least one nipple pops out and finally reaching behind and unhooking, allowing it to drop to the floor before pushing breasts together and leaning close to the client.

  I turn to start the routine, looking at my spot on the wall. In this room it’s an unidentifiable yellow stain just above the sofa. When I hook a finger under my bra strap, ready to pull, he distracts me with a noise that sounds pained and I looked down.

  “Stop,” he says gruffly, as though he’s speaking past a lump in his throat. “Don’t take it off.”

  “Is everything okay?” I straighten my bra, moving to stand taller and less seductively.

  He looks like he has no idea what to say. “I just…I can’t,” he stutters, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes and pushing his fingers roughly through his thick, dark hair.

  “You didn’t like it?” I ask warily, not wanting to get shouted at by the management over a complaint.

  “It’s not that. I just…I thought I could do this but...”

  “Okay,” I say, taking a step back. “Do you want me to go?”

  He sinks right back in the sofa, rubbing his face with both hands looking almost distressed. In the real world, outside of this place, I would sit down next to him, maybe rest my hand on his forearm and ask if he wanted to talk about it, but this is fantasy land and I’m almost naked. I have a feeling that attempting to get closer to him would only make him more uncomfortable. I take a step back.

  “No,” he blurts, realizing I’m retreating and he hasn’t answered my question. Then he looks me right in the eyes, the gray of his pupils swimming like quicksilver. “Yes,” he says, reluctantly. “Maybe that would be best.”

  As I’m about to pull the door closed I hear a soft ‘sorry’ follow me out.

  3

  JESSIE AKA CINDY

  My shift ends at 3am and I’m beat. Working four nights a week, I make enough to get by and pay something towards the debts. Just enough to keep the creditors off my back. I spend the rest of my time trawling the internet for a proper job, but each one I apply for seems to have a thousand applicants and at least a few requirements that I have no experience in. None of them pay as well as the Kitty Cat Club.

  I wave to Adrian as I make my way to the staff exit, and then brace for the chill of the night to hit. I’m dressed practically but it’s always so warm inside the club. I think about my beach again and the warm sun that shines there. I have a framed picture in my room that I picked up in a thrift store. It’s of a woman facing the ocean, arms stretched above her head, her sarong blowing as she holds it aloft. From behind she looks a lot like me and that’s maybe why I keep picturing it, like a borrowed memory.

  The street isn’t deserted; a few people from the clubs further up the road stand around chatting or waiting for a cab. I pull my purse higher on my shoulder and walk in the direction of home. There’s a poster peeling away f
rom the bus stop for a circus show that had been in a local theater several months ago. I’d wanted to go. The newspapers had raved about the aerial silk act, but it’s the kind of thing you do on a date, and I hadn’t had one of those since...

  My thoughts are interrupted by a voice calling “excuse me,” and I initially think it’s someone asking directions or maybe the time, but then the voice says, “Cindy,” and I realize it’s the man I danced for.

  My heart sinks.

  I don’t like talking to clients outside of the club. It’s awkward to be seen in my own clothes, like I’ve taken off my armor, even though I’m so much more covered than I am when I’m working.

  I stop but don’t move closer. He’s fully opened his car door and is now standing on the curb behind it. I wait for him to continue before I decide what to do next. If he’s going to be creepy I’m getting out of here quickly.

  “I just… I felt bad about what happened. I wanted to explain.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I say, half turning back towards home. If he’s looking for a long drawn out conversation, then he’s picked the wrong person.

  “I was married,” he blurts out and I turn back. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling awkward, but with more sympathy in my heart than I know what to do with. I know what’s under his skin; that desperate sadness that’s impossible to escape. The feeling that every tomorrow is going to feel as dark as today.

  “It’s okay,” he says, shaking his head. He’s rested his hand on the top of the car door as if he needs an anchor point to continue. “It feels like a long time… since I could look at a woman and feel…” He trails off, obviously finding it hard to continue.

  “Desire?”

  “Yes, desire.”

  “And you couldn’t?”