Bought A Stripper Husband

01. Sneak Peak

"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 my boss 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.

It's not that she's worried about more than act.

What if she wanted something more?

"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 Harris 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. Another heat between her legs.

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.

Eva's thoughts fractured. They kept trying to rise of her friends's soft pity, her daughter's closed door, her ex husband'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, neon blue 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. She grabbed him down with her.