Private Dancer. Kimberly Dean

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      PRIVATE DANCER

      Kimberly Dean

      

      Table of Contents

       Title Page

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       More from Mischief

       About Mischief

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      Chapter One

       The spotlight was bright as Alicia stood on-stage, pinned in its crosshairs. The light felt hot on her face and even hotter on her body.

       Awareness blistered inside her.

       There was nowhere to run. No place to hide. She felt like a bug under a microscope.

       A vulnerable, prized bug.

       The brightness made it difficult to see, but she could feel the attention focused on her. The hungry, lustful eyes of a crowd of men. If she listened hard, she could hear their short, panting breaths.

       Around her, music began. Its hard-driving rhythm caught her in the chest and she gasped. The beat reverberated between her breasts, and her nipples tightened. They felt hot and pinched. Shy. The bass started creeping through the floor and into her feet. It jumped higher and higher, grabbing her thighs and encouraging her to move. To dance.

       ‘Come on, baby. Show us what you’ve got.’

       It was time for her solo.

       Her heart beat faster in her chest, excited and scared at the same time. She’d never done this before. Of all the solos she’d performed in her life, she’d never stripped off her clothes while going through the motions.

       Yet that was what she was here to do.

       Unable to fight the tug of the rhythm any longer, she swept her arms over her head. Her hips swayed back and forth timidly, and then with more vigour.

       A wolf-whistle cut through the air. The male approval was clear.

       She was here to strip. Just the word alone sent a flush of fire through her nervous system. She was going to end up practically naked, her body on display for the Satin Club’s wealthy clientele.

       She was going to end up dancing with a pole.

       ‘Oh, man. Look at her,’ someone groaned.

       She couldn’t see who was admiring her, but she could see that pole. The gleaming brass fixture stood at the end of the long runway in front of her. Her knees went a little weak when it glinted under another spotlight, almost as if winking at her. Daring her to come play.

       Her palms became damp and she swept them over her undulating hips.

       There was just something about that pole. Something hard, challenging and outright sexual.

       ‘Enough with the teasing,’ a rough voice growled from the darkness. ‘We paid to see skin.’

       That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? To cut through the social niceties, straight to the need that drove mankind.

       Sex … or at least the simulated dance of it.

       Obediently, she reached for the zipper at the back of her skirt. As she looked down, it seemed odd that she was still in her street clothes. But maybe that was what they wanted. The church secretary fantasy …

       The beat of the bass settled between her legs, warm and pulsing.

       The heavy skirt suddenly felt too confining anyway. The cut was binding and the material couldn’t breathe. She worked the ugly skirt over her hips and kicked it aside. It was only then that she noticed the stilettos on her feet. Definitely not the church secretary kind.

      But maybe the sexy church secretary fantasy.

       The naughty black shoes lifted her bottom and pushed her weight onto her tiptoes. Air swept between her legs as she widened her stance to retain her balance. A groan from her left caught her unaware, but the sound reminded her that she was supposed to be performing. Still unsure of the high heels, she did a slow bump and grind.

       More groans joined in.

       She fought to hold back one of her own.

       Oh, the shoes felt incredible. They lifted her up, making her aware of the muscles in her legs and the point of her toes. They certainly drew the attention of the male species like a laser.

      In that moment, she felt powerful. Sexy.

       Her confidence soared as she strutted down the runway. The heels had ties that wrapped around her ankles. She could feel the ribbon tickling her Achilles tendons. The feeling was surprisingly sensual, like intimate kisses.

       She opened the top button of her shirt – and then another to let in the cool air.

       Which wasn’t really so cool at all.

       Alicia felt like