Page 6 of Wreck Me

Even if I wasn't a regular, it’s obvious the woman taking to the stage is new. There’s something unique about her. Something untouched. Unscathed. Untarnished.

Innocent. The word pops into my head like a wayward champagne cork.

Her olive skin radiates a luminosity that makes my fingers itch to touch it. Long, toned legs are only emphasised by the sky-high stilettos supporting her feet. Her full, round breasts are concealed by another couple of tiny scraps, but there’s no hiding the twin pebbles beneath. A tiny scrap of scarlet lace forms a triangle between her legs, showcasing the subtle contours of what lies beneath.

A long neck leads up to the face of a fucking angel. She’s even wearing a tiny silver cross. Her features are feminine, doe-like and dainty but that mouth– it was made for sin. Plump, perfect lips that could lead God himself into temptation.

My teeth scrape over my lower lip. Damn, she is something else.

A hushed silence hijacks the room.

Thick dark eyelashes flutter closed for a split second, like she’s praying to a God I don’t believe in.

But for some strange reason, I will her prayers to be answered.

And mine too.

Because the second she leaves that stage, I want, no, Ineedto know everything about her.

Chapter Four

SCARLETT

My body is ravaged with nerves. I close my eyes briefly, trying to shut out the world, what I’m doing here, then force my eyelids open. Talk about a baptism of fire. Hundreds of eyes stare back at me, but only one set catches my attention.

James Beckett. In the flesh.

No, that’s not right.

James doesn’t catch my attention– he commands it.

He was handsome in photographs, but they don’t capture the sheer presence he radiates across the room.

Thoughtful chocolate eyes peruse every inch of my exposed flesh like a caress. His pupils glint as his focus returns to my face. Our eyes lock and a hot burst of electricity pierces the air between us, firing and flaming and igniting sensations that I’ve only ever read about in romance novels.

Every inch of my skin prickles and it takes all my will to break our stare. And when I do, I feel the heat of his for a long time afterwards.

I sashay across the stage under the spotlight with more confidence than I feel inside. A wolf whistle sounds frombehind me and I know without a shadow of a doubt it’s Avery.

My eyes home in on the chrome pole in front of me. I don’t look, can’t look, at anyone or anything else.

The atmosphere is charged with expectation as the weight of a hundred eyes burn my body. None heavier than from the table immediately in front of the stage where James Beckett sits.

I curl my fingers around the pole, gripping the cold metal like my life depends on it, and sway seductively for a few seconds, before hoisting myself up in one swift movement. My biceps flex and tighten as I swing around it.

A murmur of appreciation is audible even over the rhythmic beat.

My thighs tense as I twist and twirl. After years of practice at the college gym, the movements come with grace and ease. The pole is a familiar anchor in a sea of uncertainty. Being up on stage is strange but… Avery was right, it’s oddly euphoric.

I cling to the cool chrome, arching my back and elevating my breasts in a slow, seductive dance. The beat seeps into my blood, dictating every minor muscle movement like an invisible conductor until I’m lost in the music, bending, contorting and gyrating. Butterflies crusade through my stomach and lower, excitement eradicating any trace of nerves.

I roll my hips and grind the thin lace against the pole and shiver. Low whistles of appreciation echo from the front of the stage sending a deep sense of satisfaction soaring through my soul.

It hits me then like a shot of heroin. I’ve spent the last five years deliberately not drawing attention to myself. Hiding in plain sight.

And now I’m finally under the spotlight, it’s liberating.

As an educated woman, almost anyway, this entire scenario should be utterly degrading. Being objectified so sexually should be debasing, but after years of hiding, the rush of being watched so intently floods my flesh.

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