Strip. Delta Dupree
in one brutal second. “I’m pushing twenty-nine. I’m not a damn newborn.”
“Ooh, with a temper.”
Bryce yanked his head around at Galaxeé’s gum-popping explosion.
“Sorry,” she said, but the disapproving sideways glare she gave her partner meant otherwise.
She’d sided with him. Add another point for the one-man team.
Sliding down on the stool, he spread his legs wider, nearly made contact with Rio, but she twisted in her seat, crossing a pair of lengthy, stunning limbs. “Am I at least in the running?”
“You most—” Galaxeé began.
“We like to discuss each applicant before we make a final decision,” Rio interrupted, which earned another narrow-eyed glare from Galaxeé. She patted the stack of applications. “Everything on your résumé is current? Phone numbers, addresses, etcetera?”
Eyes locked on hers, he nodded. “Email, too.” When she didn’t deny having Internet access, he mentally ticked off an important item on his agenda.
“Well, Mr. Sullivan.” She stuck her hand out. “We’ll be in touch one way or the other.”
What? The interview was over too damn quick—completely illogical. He’d interviewed potential technician applicants, at minimum, for an hour. And this was what, three minutes? Four? Two-hundred-forty stinking, chitchat seconds? How could she learn anything about him in so little time? Granted, he had abbreviated his account of the duties at his day job for good reason, but hell.
Bryce leaned forward and clasped her delicate hand. Long and slender, nails well manicured, her fingers curled around his with softness enough to caress a man into delirium while she kept him under the spell of her eyes—eyes he could drown in. He really wanted to drown.
He held on longer than he should have, but for a shorter time than he would’ve liked, without resistance, until Galaxeé cleared her throat.
“Thank you for your time,” he said.
When their palms slid slowly apart, Bryce got to his feet. Galaxeé added a sly wink to her handshake. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and started toward the front door, telling himself not to look back, not to appear too eager or too arrogant. Step two now completed.
A blast of bitter-cold air and snow flurries whirlwinded into the club before the heavy door slammed shut.
“He likes you,” Galaxeé said. “And he’s got a penetrating pair of gray bullets that were fixed on you every second. When he arrived here, I was concerned, ready to boot the boy out. His aura was dark, murky. It glows now. Maybe it was fear, trepidation.”
Rio rolled her eyes.
“Did you notice how he opened for you?”
“Stop,” she said flatly.
“He did! An open invitation only for you. He’s well hung too. Majestically.” She grinned, winked. “You couldn’t hide your attraction either. Your tits swelled.”
“Stop it, Galaxeé.” She had to admit, her lacy bra still felt uncomfortably binding.
“I saw your nipples perk up under the silk. Bet Bryce saw them. Stood out like cat’s-eye marbles. Bet it made your tattoo spread with bigger, pink ears.”
Rio hated the sound of a cackling witch, but she agreed with Galaxeé on one item. Bryce Sullivan was very well endowed.
She’d felt the first signs of pleasurable interest: nipples tightening, quivering between her legs when she’d glanced down at the bulging thickness nestled inside tight jeans. Lots of inches. Lord. What would it look like during an erection, a big oak tree? She shuddered.
Why couldn’t he have a tenor or sissy voice instead of an I-can-make-you-come-multiple-times bass? God, she loved hearing a seductive, low-pitched rumbler, whispering, promising a thoroughly carnal interlude. A tenor would’ve made it so much easier to forget Sullivan and file his application at the back of the folder. Or in the circular file.
Still, at her age, any twenty-eight-year-old was too young, too inexperienced; she would consider it robbing the cradle.
Uh-uh. No way.
Anger crept under her skin for thinking of the sinful images, if a liaison ever happened. It never would, not in this lifetime. She had more important issues on her mind, like Killer Bods and her future. Denver’s metro area had plenty of room for another women’s club to strip Killer’s of its dancers and clientele.
“I bet he’s got a hundred young chickies chasing after him. Besides, I don’t like men who flaunt their meat and put it on display like a hot item on a smorgasbord. Especially rookies.” Temper had crept into her tone.
“He can’t help it. It’s part of him. What do you want him to do, cut it off? Is that why you like Dallas—Dickless?” Galaxeé laughed hard, mouth wide open, head falling back.
“You drink too much,” Rio said. She meant it to sound snappish and snatched up the applications. “I’ll make copies for you. When you’re sober we’ll discuss them.”
Rio stomped toward their office above the club. Four-inch stilettos clicked noisily on the wooden stairs as she planted each foot, climbing each riser. She might hide her innermost feelings, but they never slipped by Galaxeé. The woman had an impossible perception, able to see through her, see inside her brain, read her thoughts. Ever since childhood, darn her.
Galaxeé had the nerve to call herself a fortune-teller and worked as one for a year, back in the good old days. She’d changed her first name from Cecilia for that reason alone and legally processed the paperwork. Astrology, palm readings and dreams were her best games. She’d said it was all in the hands and mind.
Two weeks ago, Rio had had a nightmare involving snakes. She should’ve known better than to tell her partner, who explained any visions about snakes meant a good “fucking” encounter and, if the dream included an anaconda, a big cock.
Rio chastised her for using foul language and laughed off the prediction, even when the dream featured one very large, very stout serpent chasing after her. She’d awakened startled, drenched in a sweat when it wrapped around her body.
Yeah, so she was afraid of too much meat. Too much meant pain and no enjoyment. Good old Devon had cured her.
But she was also aware of how her body had responded seeing Sullivan leisurely sprawled out like a sultan deciding on his daily choice from an ever-ready harem, displaying every thick, tempting inch of his staggering…Her mouth had watered and something else had shimmered from within. Something maddeningly metaphysical swept through her on one long wave from pinky toes to the roots of her hair, like the hot flashes she’d begun having recently. A sudden fire searing her flesh.
Even now, heat flooded her insides as she recognized the tingling of erotic sensations. Excitement coursed through her body, though Bryce Sullivan had already left the club with his fine self.
He did it on purpose, damn him. Just like a man. Baby! He’s a baby!
She slammed the office door. These thoughts were absurd. Why hadn’t she listened to Galaxeé and bought a vibrator for all the cold, lonely nights she spent without companionship in her downtown loft, for any time when horniness riled her libido and fantasies ruled her dreams?
“There’re always the personal digits,” Galaxeé had hinted.
“Forget that. If I ever decide to have sex again, I want the real thing, not fingers, not toys.” She had avoided adult stores for good reason, still unable to defy her staid upbringing with too much change at once. Hopefully, one day she’d have another chance at a sexual encounter before she was too darned old to enjoy it.
By the time she finished work today, all of these flaming thoughts should melt the frost on the skylight, break the glass and fly away. They’d better fly somewhere. She had no insane reason to entertain