Free Love the Way You Lie (Stripped #1) by Skye Warren Page B

good.”
    “I smell like I’ve been dancing onstage for hours. Which I have been.”
    He leans close, breathing in at my temple. Inhaling me. “So fucking good.”
    That shouldn’t be a compliment, not when he’s acting like a caveman, but God, that makes it better. More primal. More real. “Right, well, I’m a stripper in a shitty neighborhood. It can give a girl a complex.”
    He glances to the street like he’s never seen it before. “Get attacked often, do you?”
    “Not often. I’m careful.” Except for not seeing him at all. He’s like a lion hiding in the tall grass. Only in this case they’re tall buildings of steel and concrete. By the time the gazelle sees him, it’s too late.
    “Then why do you work here?” he asks.
    I roll my eyes. “Let’s not do this.”
    “Do what?” He looks so damn innocent, his eyes a touch too wide. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.
    “The rescue game.”
    “The rescue game,” he repeats.
    “You know, where you ask about my problem as if you care.”
    “I do actually care, though.” His lips curve. “A little.”
    That makes me snort. “And then you offer to help me out. You can spot me a hundred for my light bill. Or hey, here’s an even better idea: I can go live with you rent-free. All I have to do is fuck you every night.”
    “Ouch.”
    “And then leave when you get tired of me.”
    He is silent a moment. “Wow, you really think I’m a bastard.”
    Something in my chest twists. I could have just let him say his piece. It probably would have been the same shit that every stripper has heard before, but I didn’t give him much of a chance, did I? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
    “No, I mean, you’re right.”
    “Really?” It doesn’t surprise me that I’m right. It surprises me that he’ll admit it.
    “I am a bastard,” he says. “Bastard enough to charge you your share of rent, that’s for sure. And we’re trading off on doing the dishes.”
    A smile tugs at my lips. “Too soon?”
    “A little. I could spot you a twenty. We’ll work up from there.”
    I roll my eyes. “Okay, so maybe I jumped to conclusions.”
    He stops, dead serious. “No, you’re right to call me on my bullshit. Even if that wasn’t exactly what I want from you.”
    “So what is it that you want from me?”
    He is quiet. “To walk you home. Can I? Tomorrow.”
    It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever been asked. Like holding my hand, like a kiss on the cheek. I’m lonely enough that it seems impossible, and I stare disbelieving at the oasis. Maybe a part of me liked it dry. “And today?”
    “Today…” He slides a hand down my hip, hitching me up between the wall and his body. “Today we can play a game.”
    “Not the rescue game,” I whisper.
    He runs his tongue down my neck while his hand reaches under me, lifting me higher, until my feet are off the ground. “Don’t count on me to rescue you, Honey. I’d only disappoint.”
    But he won’t disappoint me in this. That’s the unspoken promise as his fingers find my pussy and rub through my yoga pants—hard and fast. My moan is caught in his mouth, his lips flush against mine, his tongue seeking and rough.
    “What’s the game then?” I ask, shuddering as he nips my shoulder.
    “The game is whoever comes first…loses.”
    My laugh turns into a gasp as the rigid length of him presses flush against my clit, our clothes made of air and whimsy—nothing at all. We rock this way, in time to that ancient rhythm, feeling the beat of our hearts and our sex. There’s a beat coming from the other side of the wall, the music of someone onstage, the sound of someone’s defilement, and we use it, make it our own, writhing against each other until we reach a fever pitch.
    Then abruptly, I’m back on the ground.
    I would fall except for his hands steadying me, turning me around.
    I’m facing the wall now, almost hugging it, face and breasts against brick. And my ass exposed as he yanks down