Page 5 of Directing You
He gave a thoughtfulhmmsound before nodding. “Shall I pour us a couple glasses?”
“Usually the dancers do that for the patrons,” I said, taking the bottle from his hands and tugging at the cork. The loud pop echoed in the room, and I gave a squeal as champagne foamed out the top into the two glasses. I laughed and looked up into his eyes—those green, scrutinizing eyes. There was humor in them and the slightest crinkle at the corners, alluding to a smile that hadn’t quite edged from his brain to his mouth yet.
“Cheers,” I said, handing him his flute and tapping the edge of mine to it.
“Cheers.” We each took a sip, keeping our eyes on each other over the tops of the glasses. He licked his lips, setting the flute down on the table, and lowered himself to the couch. “Why did you invite me back here?” he asked.
“I’m, um, well… Noah’s a friend from high school. He asked me to give you special treatment.”
Another moment of silence. Was that disappointment in his eyes? “Ah,” Reid said. “Well, that’s very kind of you. But I’m sure you have lots of other paying customers—”
He moved to stand, and panic swept me. I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want this to be over just yet, though for the life of me, I didn’t know why. I wanted to get to know him better. This elusive man named Reid who didn’t seem to frequent these sorts of clubs.
My hands fell to his shoulders, pushing him back to a seated position. If he was startled, he hid it well. Or maybe nothing startled him. “I haven’t danced yet,” I said quietly and swallowed another sip of champagne. Oh boy. What was I getting myself into? He’d given me an out. Why didn’t I take it?
I chose a song on my phone, which was wired to the Bluetooth speakers in the room, and being sure to keep a safe distance between us, began circling my hips, running my fingers over the straps of my lacy bra.
Reid watched me carefully, his arm strewn over the back of the couch in a seemingly casual way. But I knew better. Nothing about this man was casual. Nothing from his crisp Oxford button-down shirt to his sleek, gray, flat-front pants that were now just the slightest bit tight against his cock.
“Tell me, Ms.…” He paused, waiting for me to fill in my last name.
“Moon,” I said.
“Right.” He smirked. “Ms. Moon. Do you come up with your own numbers?”
I nearly stumbled in my dance moves with the question. I’d been asked that before, but usually by women. Not men. “Yes.” I opted for the simple answer.
“All of it? The costumes, the themes…the choreo?”
Choreo. He abbreviated choreography. Which probably meant he was in the business somehow. My suspicions were right. “Yes,” I said, dancing closer to him and crawling onto the coffee table as though it were a stage. “I come up with my numbers. The songs. The choreography. I even make my own costumes. In the burlesque world, you get more street cred if you do it all.”
He swallowed, his eyes flitting briefly to my feet before darting back to my eyes. “And this burlesque world…that’s your dream?”
I didn’t stumble this time. Now, I was ready for his line of questioning. And this was one I’d heard before. Many times. A man who felt I was in need of saving from this seedy life. “Do you have a problem with this world?” I challenged.
He shook his head. “Not if you don’t. And not if it’s your dream.”
“In the Champagne Room, it’s not about my dream. It’s aboutyourfantasy.” There. That should shut him up.
He grunted a sigh, pressing his lips together, and leaned forward, leaning his elbows to his knees. “Except this isn’t really my fantasy either.”
I quirked a brow. “No? Then what is?”
“Right now, my fantasy is to watch you do something you really love to do.” He swallowed and leaned back, pleased with himself. “I do believe you love to dance. You seemed to love being center stage in your Wonka performance. But this? A one-person audience doesn’t seem to ignite the fire in you like being on stage did.”
Normally he’d be right. And this lame hip-thrust dance I was doing for him definitely wasn’t my passion. But with him as the one-man audience? Therewassomething sparking inside of me, though I didn’t think it was my passion for performance.
I stopped dancing. “I do have a new number I’ve been working on. But I’m not sure it’s ready for an audience yet.”
His eyebrows jumped. “Now I’m intrigued. Test it out on me. It’s okay if it doesn’t go perfectly.”
Doesn’t go perfectlywould be an understatement. If it went badly, it would go really badly. “Okay,” I said, grabbing the champagne glass and standing up on the coffee table. I took a deep, steadying breath, tilted my head back, and balanced the glass on my forehead. Carefully, I lowered into a backbend, keeping the champagne from tipping and giving him a nice view of my cleavage. Then, slowly, I lowered myself to my knees and down onto my back without spilling a drop as I lifted my legs into the air, bringing them up around my face. I clamped the champagne glass with my knees and somersaulted over onto my stomach into a yoga cobra pose, all without spilling a drop of champagne.
I glanced at him, putting one hand in the air, and sang, “Ta-da!”
He clapped slowly, nibbling his bottom lip. “Well done.”
“There’s more.” I lowered my legs, setting the glass on the table, and once I was sure it wouldn’t spill, I spun around, spreading my legs into a straddle. Bending, I bit the edge of the champagne glass, lifting it in my mouth with no hands, and walked over to where Reid sat.
