Bought A Stripper Husband

Chapter 12 : Evalyne's Desires

Nightlight's head snapped toward it. "Yeah?"

The door cracked open. Another dancer peered in, eyeliner smudged, hair damp, irritation almost as loud as the music.

"Ja--Night," he stopped. "Boss's looking for you. You were supposed to be back on the floor ten minutes ago. You got two more privates waiting."

"I'm with someone," Nightlight said.

The dancer's eyes flicked over the scene: Evalyne, fully dressed, hair still mostly neat, lipstick barely smudged; Nightlight, shirt buttoned, respectable distance between them. He sighed.

"Ma'am," he said, addressing Evalyne with the thin patience of someone forced into customer service, "if you're not... satisfied with his dancing, we can rebook you for a different slot. But this is not his time for s*x services. That's a separate arrangement."

Evalyne's face went hot enough to light the room.

"I am absolutely not booking s*x," she said, horrified.

Nightlight shot his colleague a look. "That's not what she's here for."

"Then what is she here for," the other man demanded. "Because Manny thinks you're back here half-assing it, and we both know how he gets about that. You want another lecture about 'protecting the brand' while he docks your cut?"

Nightlight's jaw tightened. "We're talking. She needed space."

The colleague snorted. "Great. Stage fright. Manny's gonna love that. Wrap it up, Nightlight. Make her look happy and get back out there. If she walks out of here looking like she just sat through a TED Talk, he'll skin you."

He lowered his voice, eyes cutting to Evalyne again. "No offense, ma'am. House rules."

Evalyne's stomach twisted. The blunt transactional language, the implication that his safety and livelihood depended on how convincingly disheveled she seemed—it made her want to call every lawyer she knew.

Nightlight's colleague leaned in, muttering something low that Evalyne only caught pieces of. "...client complains... Manny says if you're slipping... you know he punished on your ass..."

"I said I've got it," Nightlight cut in, sharper than he'd been with Evalyne. "Lie for me, okay? We'll be done in five."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Five. No more."

He shut the door, the bass rushing back in a second later.

Nightlight exhaled, long and controlled, then looked back at Evalyne.

"Sorry," he said. "You weren't supposed to see the sausage being made."

"I do not want to see any sausage," Evalyne said, and then wanted to crawl into the floor when she realized what she'd said.

His lips twitched. "Different kind of sausage," he said. "I mean the... behind-the-scenes stuff. Manny doesn't like it when clients leave looking... un-fucked."

She flinched. "That is... crude."

"That is my job description," he said, more tired now than flippant. "This place sells fantasies. People out there want to believe they just rocked my world. Manny wants them to believe it too. So if you walk out with perfect hair and pristine lipstick, he's going to assume I didn't do my job."

"And then he punishes you," she said quietly.

He shrugged. "Cuts my percentage. Puts me on 'something' duty. Screams about professionalism. Sometimes more. It's not your problem."

"It is if it happens because of me," she said, sharper than she meant to. "Tell me what I can do?"

He studied her for a second.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Then we fake it."

Her mouth went dry. "Fake...?"

"Fake the aftermath," he clarified. "Mess your hair, smudge your lipstick, maybe give you a mark or two if you're cool with that. You walk out looking like you had a good time. Manny chills. No one has to actually cross any lines."

She swallowed. The idea of walking out there looking... used made her cheeks burn. The idea of him getting punished because she hadn't done anything made something else burn hotter.

"I do not want to... embarrass myself," she said.

He arched a brow. "You're already pull me here, letting... what's her name again... Anna? Your friend thinks we have s*x, but you draw the line at a hickey?"

She shot him a look. "That is different."

"I'm messing with you," he said, but his gaze had gone gentler again. "Look. You don't owe me your body. At all. You don't owe Manny a performance. We can walk out of here right now exactly as we are. I'll deal with whatever comes."

She thought of the way the colleague had said skin you. Of the edge in that voice. Of the ease with which people in power punished bodies that didn't comply.

"It has been... a long time," she heard herself say, "since I have been intimate with someone new."

The admission hung between them like smoke.

His eyes widened a fraction.

"A while since the divorce, huh?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she said.

He leaned back, the playboy persona stripped almost entirely now. "For the record," he said, "that's not a failing. That's life. But... it sounds like you might not just be worried about Manny right now."

She met his eyes and, for once, didn't look away.

"I am tired," she said. "Of being looked at and measured and found... wanting. In boardrooms. On dates. In my own kitchen. Tonight, I wanted to be looked at and... not judged."

He swallowed.

"A first for me," he said quietly. "Most people come in here ready to do the judging."

"I do not want to hurt you," she said again.

His mouth curved, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're not the one who can hurt me."

He hesitated. Then, gently:

"We can just kiss."

She went still.

"No grinding, no... other stuff," he said. "Just kissing. Clothes stay on. Hands stay where you're comfortable. Enough to muss you up for the cameras, not enough to make you wake up regretting anything more than the tequila."

Her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.

She had kissed people before, obviously. It was not an alien act. But the idea of kissing this man, in this room, after telling him things she hadn't told anyone else, felt... different. Not more sacred, exactly. Not less transactional. Just... weighted.

"If I am... bad at it," she said, voice smaller than she liked, "you will not tell anyone."

He stared at her for a heartbeat. Then, to her horror, his expression softened into something like tenderness.

"No one leaves this room with a bad review in my book," he said. "Least of all you."

His hand lifted, paused halfway. "May I?"

She nodded.

He closed the space between them by degrees, not pouncing, not dragging. His fingers brushed along her jaw, calloused but careful. His thumb rested just under her ear, feeling the flutter of her pulse. He angled his head, giving her every chance to turn away.

She didn't.

His mouth met hers.

It was not the bruising, showy kiss she saw in movies. It was soft, a press of warm lips against hers, testing. His breath tasted faintly of mint and cheap club soda. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, holding her steady.

Her own hand, traitorously, lifted to his shirtfront, fingers curling in the fabric over his chest. She felt the heat of him through the cotton, the steady thump of his heart.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss by a fraction, tongue tracing the seam of her lips in a request. Her body reacted before her pride could, mouth parting.

Heat flared down her spine, startling in its intensity. It had been so long since anyone had kissed her like this. Not the hungry, distracted pecks Hans had given her between arguments. Not the clumsy, eager mouths of long-ago flings. This was focused, present.

For these seconds, the only thing in his world was the way she tasted, the way she responded.

She made a sound she didn't recognize, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp.

His hand tightened slightly in her hair.

"Okay?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Good," he said, and dipped his head, letting his lips trail to the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw, down to the hollow behind her ear.

He sucked gently at the skin there. A spark went through her, shorting out part of her brain.

"That'll leave a mark," he said softly. "You all right with that?"

"Yes," she said again. The word felt looser now, not a business assent but something else.

He made a pleased sound, almost subconscious, and let his teeth graze her gently. Another spark. Another rush of sensation.

He kissed lower, along the side of her throat, leaving faint, blossoming points of heat. His free hand had settled at her waist, fingers spread, thumb drawing small arcs as if to remind her he was there and still asking.

The room shrank to the couch, the red light, the faint scent of his cologne and sweat. The bass outside became a far-off thunder.

Evalyne's thoughts fractured. They kept trying to rise—Celine's smirk, Vivian's soft pity, Theresa's closed door, Harris's accusations—but every time they breached the surface, the slide of his mouth drew them back under.

She had spent years controlling everything. Her schedule, her staff, the narrative of her life. For once, she let go of the wheel.

Her free hand lifted, fingers brushing the skin at the back of his neck. It was damp, smooth, a little too warm. He shivered faintly at the touch.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy-lidded now, pupils blown.

"Still okay?" he asked.

She nodded. Words felt too clumsy.

He smiled, the cocky performer emerging again, but tempered now. "Good girl," he murmured without thinking.

The phrase hit her like a slap and a caress all at once. No one had said those words to her without condescension in... she couldn't remember.

Heat rushed to her face. To other places. To her groin.

Her hands tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer, closing the last inch between them. Their knees bumped; his thigh pressed between hers, not altogether by accident.

His breath hitched.

"Easy," he said, more to himself than to her.

She kissed him again, more urgently this time, the practiced things she knew—the right angle, the right pressure—surfacing under the flood of feeling. He made a low noise, surprised and pleased, and responded in kind.

Later, she would not be able to say when the thought escaped her mouth. It surfaced between one heartbeat and the next, between one breath and his next exhale, between the memory of Vivian's voice and the press of his lips.

"Marry me," she gasped.

He froze.

For a fraction of a second, his mouth stilled on hers, his hand in her hair going motionless. His eyes opened, too close for her to focus.

Then the moment passed. A grin flashed across his face, wild and sharp, and the persona snapped back fully into place.

"Whoa," he said, voice breathless but amused. "Going straight to the altar, huh?"

She realized what she'd said.

Mortification slammed into her. Her mouth opened. "I didn't—"

He cut her off with a playful, exaggerated drawl. "Yes, ma'am," he said, eyes glinting. "I'll marry you."

It was the kind of line he'd undoubtedly used with other clients. It fit the fantasy perfectly: overwrought, ridiculous, safe because it was obviously a joke.

Evalyne did not hear it that way.

She heard the yes.

Three letters, out of breath, slotted into the jagged space inside her where the lie lived. But rationality had been drowned in tequila and glitter and months of humiliation.

Her heart lurched hard enough to hurt.

He kissed her again, quick and soft this time, like a period at the end of a sentence. Then he pulled back, thumb brushing at the smear her lipstick had left at the corner of his mouth.

"We're about out of time," he said gently. "Sit up."

She obeyed, dazed.

He reached up, running his fingers through her hair with deliberate carelessness. Strands fell out of their careful arrangement, framing her face.

"Hold still," he said. He swiped his thumb along the corner of her lips, smudging the lipstick further, then wiped the excess on his own wrist. He tugged at the neckline of her dress just enough to make it look less precisely adjusted.

"Turn," he murmured.

She did. He brushed the collar of her dress aside a fraction and pressed his mouth once more to the curve of her neck, sucking until a dull ache bloomed. She almost arched her body and melted against his body, but she's controlling herself.

"Okay," he said, pulling back to survey his work. There was a strangely professional satisfaction in his face. "You look thoroughly ruined."

"That is an unfortunate choice of words," she said faintly.

He smiled, small and real. "You'll be fine. Walk slower than usual. Maybe laugh at something Anna says. Manny will see you and move on."

She looked at him.

"What is your name?" she asked.

He blinked, thrown off balance for the first time.

"You know my name," he said lightly. "It's printed on the sign outside. Nightlight."

"Your actual name," she said. "The one your mother gave you."

He hesitated.

For a second, something wary flared behind his eyes. Real names were currency in places like this. You didn't hand them out to every client who asked.

Then he took in the flush on her cheeks, the effort it had taken her to ask at all. She didn't look like a woman hunting for leverage. She looked like someone holding a fragile thing in both hands and hoping it wouldn't break.

"Jack," he said finally. "Jack Blue Winters."

Her brows twitched. "That cannot be real."

He laughed, even as his shoulders dropped a millimeter, some tension he hadn't known he was carrying easing at her disbelief.

"Swear to God. My mom had a sense of humor."

"It suits you," Evalyne said quietly.

"Thanks, Evie," he replied.

"Evalyne," Evalyne slipped.

"Evalyne, that suits you," He smiled and watched her for a second longer. "You gonna be okay?"

She lifted her chin. "I have not been okay for a long time and still managed to run a company," she said. "I think I can handle a nightclub."

"Yeah," he said. "I believe that."

He stood, smoothing his shirt, rebuttoning one more button in a gesture that felt almost like modesty. "Time's up."

She got to her feet as well, legs a little unsteady. He opened the door and checked the hallway before gesturing for her to go first.