Free Stripped Bare by Kalinda Grace Page A

tried, if only in my head. All I know is that—after months of dancing for every man in the room—these days, I only dance for him.
    But tonight’s different. Tonight, I made my first mistake.
    I made eye contact.
    I’d avoided it for weeks, because I knew . . . I knew they would be my fatal flaw.
    “Feeling better?” Kassidy asks, checking her reflection in my mirror.
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    Kassidy is gorgeous, with long black hair that curls around her shapely breasts. They’re gorgeous, too, but they should be, considering how much she paid for them. Sometimes, I wonder how her parents would feel, knowing she spent her college fund on a new pair of double Ds. She considers them an investment, which they are, if you plan on making this a career.
    I don’t.
    There’s a knock on our dressing room door. Rick, the club manager, steps inside. His arrival means only one thing.
    One of us has been requested for the VIP room.
    “Tesla,” he announces. “And he wants you dressed.”
    “Dressed how?”
    “He said comfortably , whatever that means.”
    The door slams, and I chug my wine. When it’s gone, I check the garment rack. My definition of comfortable is a T-shirt and jeans, so that’s what I pick. I quickly get dressed.
    “Keep the stilettos,” Kassidy advises.
    I nod and check my make-up one last time before heading upstairs.
    The VIP rooms aren’t the gritty, sleazy places you see on television. Our rooms have plush seating, plasma screens, mini-bars, and a strict no sex rule. The most action a guy can expect is a lap dance, and for some insane reason, they pay ridiculous amounts of money for it. One of the girls bank-rolled her entire college education thanks to the VIP room, so truly, the possibilities are endless. Lap dances aren’t my favorite thing—I really don’t like touching high-rollers dressed in Armani suits—but Rick enforces the rules, and for the most part, the men who frequent the club obey them.
    I reach the top of the stairs to find Rick waiting outside the door.
    “He paid for two hours.”
    Two hours?
    “I know. It’s weird. I’ll keep an eye out, and you know where the panic button is. You okay?”
    I’m the most inexperienced of the dancers, and Rick’s like the cuddly big brother who’ll kick a guy’s ass for messing with his sister. It’s oddly comforting.
    “I’m good. It’s just a lap dance, right?”
    “Right.”
    I nod and push open the door, letting it close behind me. My breath hitches in my throat when I see the man sitting at the bar. His back is to me, but I’d recognize that zipped jacket anywhere.
    Blue Eyes just paid to spend two hours with me.
    Soft classical music streams from the speakers as I walk slowly into the room. Suddenly, he turns around, and I find myself staring into the eyes of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. The dim lights of the club hid his strong, chiseled jaw and his unruly sandy blonde hair. I’m fantasizing about sliding my fingers through it when his voice flows through me, warm and caressing.
    “Good evening,” he says.
    “Hello.”
    The man smiles.
    “My name is Jax Monroe.”
    Names are too personal. I’ve had a thousand of them.
    “What’s your name?” he asks.
    “What do you want it to be?”
    It isn’t my intention to sound sexy, but his bodily reaction is immediate. His eyes blaze, and he grips his glass a little tighter.
    “Is there a rule about using real names?”
    “No.”
    “Then I’d like to know your real name, please. First and last.”
    “I’m Tesla. Tesla Jones.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tesla.”
    The way he says it, the way it rolls off his tongue, makes me shiver.
    Jax reaches for a bottle of wine. It’s expensive and in no way equal to the shit I just chugged in the dressing room. He pours and offers me a glass. I thank him and take a sip. It’s light and fruity, and I smile, because that’s my favorite kind.
    He smiles, too.
    There’s a giant clock on the wall. Only five