Page 3 of Fanged Desire
She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking up into a smile that was equal parts gratitude and curiosity. “You didn’t have to do that. He’s not the first and he certainly won’t be the last. Not in this place.”
I shrugged, falling into step beside her as she edged away from the crowd. “Maybe not. But I wanted to.”
“Well, thank you.” She glanced at me, a flicker of mischief in her dark eyes. “I saw you earlier while I was dancing. I take it you’re a fan?”
“Maybe I just have an appreciation for the arts.” I feigned nonchalance, eyes sliding back to hers with a smirk.
I watched her study the stack of cash in her hand before those warm eyes met mine again. “This is way too much money for one private session.”
I suppose I could have put an end to things there, paid for one private dance and put the night of indulgence behind me. But something told me one night of watching her dance wouldn’t be enough.
Instead, I gave her a smile, bright enough to blind.
“Keep it as a deposit, I’ll be back to collect soon enough.”
Chapter 2
Kinsley
The night started out like any other, the fact that it was New Year's barely registering as I slipped into the standard Micere attire. When I’d first started dancing, the tight corset and sleek stockings had been an adjustment, to say the least. The first night in heels had left my ankles aching and my feet raw. These days, I was a little more comfortable in my uniform and wore the body glitter like a second skin.
I stepped out on stage that night, squinting in the flashing lights like so many nights before. The rhythm was slow, the beat steady and pulsing, and the movements came easily. It was a well-practiced routine, a carefully choreographed series of steps that commanded attention.
I scanned the crowd out of habit, eyes gliding over the usual mix of patrons – the drunk and wealthy, the standard clubbers, and the occasional sharply dressed elite sprinkled in for good measure. Their gazes were predictable, hungry and glazed over, raking over every arch as I bent my body for their entertainment.It was part of the job. You had to demand that attention, hold it, and then release it when the time was right. And I was very good at my job.
But that night, there was one set of eyes that stood out from the rest.
I saw her near the sofas first, felt her eyes on me, but I didn’t let on that I’d noticed. I simply moved, body flowing in time with the music, eyes half-lidded as I relayed the usual seductive dance. But as the night wore on, she proved impossible to ignore.
The woman was striking, beautiful. Dark hair framed her face, darker eyes sharp and watchful beneath an air of calm detachment. But it was the way she looked at me that set her apart. Where most people watched with barely concealed lust or with the overzealous assurance that only alcohol can grant, this woman’s gaze was different. Her eyes traveled over my swaying body with interest, sure, but there was something more, something that made the attention feel less like a predatory stare and more like appreciation.
When I caught her watching from the bar, I allowed myself a little extra flair. If this woman wanted to watch, then I would give her something worth looking at. I was no stranger to drawing attention, but there was a thrill in knowing I had this stranger entirely focused on me, that my movements alone were magnetizing. It was rare to find someone whose eyes saw more than the surface-level appeal, but this woman seemed to understand the art of it, the intention behind every move.
By the time my set was over, the woman had backed away with a parting toast to our little game of seduction. She slipped from my mind as quickly as my mood plummeted when I felt a hand snake around my waist. One of the usuals, a guy with a few too many drinks in him.
“Hey, sweetheart. How about a little more of that in private?”
I hated that part of the job. The way some spectators felt entitled to touch me, as if the performance on stage was an invitation. I was deliberating jamming my heel on his foot when she showed up again.
“I’m here for the private session I booked.” A coy smile and a stack of cash in my hand. “I believe we’re late.”
The woman cut in with the calm confidence of someone who knew they had the upper hand. I expected some fight from the guy, inebriated as he was, but he only mumbled something incoherent before stumbling away into the crowd. I couldn’t help but be impressed.
She wanted a private session, and considering the act of heroism, I was inclined to oblige.
The private rooms were a quieter space, tucked away from the main floor of the club, the soft thrum of music muted but still present. It was intimate, with plush seats and low lighting that cast everything in a warm, golden glow. I beckoned the woman in and closed the door behind us, and despite the countless hours I’d spent dancing for private clients in there, my heart was in my throat.
“So,” I fought to keep my voice low and sultry, giddy despite myself, “did you decide on a private dance before or after you saw me getting manhandled?”
The woman leaned back against the door, arms crossed. “It seemed like the quickest way to get you out of an uncomfortable situation.”
“Very chivalrous of you.” I gestured at the curved sofa and the woman tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips as she moved to sit down.
The intensity of her gaze hadn’t diminished, and I could feel it prickling on my neck as I turned my back to her.
“Hunter, by the way,” the woman said as I turned up the music. “That’s my name.”
It fit her well – sharp lethality, controlled restraint.
