Strip. Delta Dupree

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Galaxeé had reached the rowdy level already while Rio nursed her wine, the Silver Oak cabernet she’d ordered the bartender to decant and allow to breathe. She took another sip. The subtle hint of wild berries swirled over her tongue, teasing her taste buds.

      “Do you want to introduce Bryce?” Galaxeé asked.

      “Not a chance. That’s your job. And please don’t stumble on the stairs,” Rio hinted as her friend stood. “Imagine yourself sprawled across the floor, kissing the stage, a two-hundred-dollar dress wrapped around your waist.”

      “I never stumble.” She grabbed the remote microphone, took one step and Rio caught her arm. “These heels—”

      “Sure.” Sighing, she handed over a napkin. “Spit it out, girlfriend.”

      “It’s my last stick.”

      “Good. Obviously you can’t think, chew and walk at the same time after three martinis.” As loud as she popped gum, and with the speakers, everybody in the club would duck for cover, thinking someone had fired a shotgun.

      The introduction went well. Galaxeé built up Bryce as an ace performer. She had the audience electrically wired for fire. When the music began, she left the stage and came back to the bar, grinning. The soundman upped the speaker volume. The curtains shivered, signaling Bryce’s appearance at any moment.

      “They’re going to love him,” Galaxeé said.

      “We’ll see.”

      Another few seconds went by.

      “Where the hell is he?”

      The curtains fluttered again. Rio knew the signs, fear. Somebody had attempted to push him onstage. That somebody was probably Dallas.

      “Wait a minute. Here he comes,” Galaxeé said.

      When Bryce stepped out, the big open room fell completely silent except for the music’s bass beat. Not one person clapped, screamed or yelled.

      “Uh-oh,” Galaxeé breathed.

      Rio held her breath. He just stood there like a block of stone. “Do something!” she said quietly.

      “Oh, shit. We’re in trouble. Luanne, tell Mikey to crank up the music, maybe Bryce can’t hear the lyrics.”

      “Bull,” Rio snapped. “He froze.” And the crowd would laugh him off the stage if he didn’t move soon.

      “You do something, Rio. We can’t let him stand up there looking stupid.”

      “What can I do? Get Dallas up.” What a fiasco this mess would make. They’d hear it from their friends.

      Where’d you get that dumb white boy? Thought this place had all black dancers. We might as well go to SS. The white boys there will at least perform, offbeat maybe, but they’ll attempt to satisfy us.

      “Go dance with him, Rio. Get him started.”

      “No. Absolutely not.”

      Huffing, Galaxeé stood. “Fine. As drunk as my ass is…This dog-and-pony show ought to close us down permanently, damn it.”

      “I’ll go,” Frankie slipped in. She was always ready to help, but if glares contained the power to kill, Frankie should’ve dropped dead before the words left her lips.

      Through an oily smile, Galaxeé said, “Honey, you couldn’t begin to keep up with him, let alone keep beat.”

      “Stop it,” Rio hissed. Sometimes this woman’s mouth overloaded her behind. “Get up there, Galaxeé, these people are restless!”

      To her horror, Galaxeé stumbled on the first step, and Rio grabbed her arm. “All right. All right. I’ll do it.” Lord. She’d blame herself seeing her partner horizontal on the stage or, worse, toothless after a spill on the staircase.

      God help them. Sliding off the barstool, she dragged her gaze from Galaxeé’s and caught Bryce’s a second later, held it while smoothing the clinger down her hips.

      She slinked her way around tables, chairs, heading for the stage in long, runway strides. At the base of the stairs, she heard a few whispered murmurs by wary customers. In rhythm with the music’s downbeat, Rio climbed each riser, swinging her hips slowly, her heart pounding to the bass rhythm. Dancing with Sullivan was only to save the club, to save face.

      Onstage now, settling one hand on her hip and tapping the toe of her shoe, she crooked her finger at Bryce. Without a response, she tried a second time.

      Darn him. This impromptu sideshow had better look like part of his routine.

      Dragging her feet across the slick wooden floor, Rio glided toward their first statue still cemented to the same spot for the last minute or more. She ran her fingertips across his collarbone, stepped behind him, never losing contact with his body. His flesh felt hot, on fire, and a slight tremor skittered through his hard muscles. She continued circling. Skimming her fingers through the soft hair on his broad chest, up again to his shoulder, she finished with a butterfly’s caress down one hardened bicep.

      “Bryce,” she whispered fiercely. “Dance with me.”

      When Rio faced him again, a flicker in his gray eyes, a gleam boasting wicked sex and sin snatched her breath away.

      Moving closer, he slid his arm around her waist, forced one bulky leg between hers and yanked her forward, hauling her up against his solid chest, pressed so tightly that dragging in the next breath was a haphazard struggle. Behind her, a few stretched “oohs” hummed through the audience.

      He threaded his fingers into her shag hair, tugged and leaned her backward, exposing her throat down to the rise of her breasts. White-hot, he licked a long, slow path from cleavage to chin. There, he bit gently.

      Electricity fired a high-voltage current through Rio’s body. At the same time, the silent crowd noisily sucked in the last few atoms of oxygen.

      Oh. My. God.

      He held her suspended, hovering intimately over her body, his penetrating eyes boring into hers, his lips a mere inch away—close enough to kiss. But Rio was more aware of him near to half-mast. In vibrant contact with her pelvis.

      She swallowed. “Let me up.” He’d never allow her to fall, not with the coiled strength in his arms. Still, she was helpless in this position, helplessly enjoying his hot, minty breath scorching her face and the dominant pressure from his very hard, very large…screwdriver.

      “Yank on my shirt. It’ll come away easily. Do it now.”

      Rio conceded and tossed the black fabric aside, which brought the throng of female watchers statically to life with a blaring roar of approval. Up close and personal, she quickly scanned his upper body—powerful, pure brawn.

      As if on cue, the soundman swapped the song for a sensuous tune. Bryce drew her upright, bent her back again in three successive movements, swaying from side to side. Each time, tantalizing hardness pressed a delicious slide-and-skim cadence at the juncture between her thighs.

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