CHAPTER ONE - Reese

“Hot dayum! This is awesome!” Sig Locke says when I lead our little party through the doors of Exotique, one of several high-end dance clubs that I own.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hemi, my younger brother, is speaking to his girlfriend, Sloane.

She smiles up into his face. “Babe, this is for Sig. I want to make his first trip to Chicago a memorable one. I already told you that. Besides,” she says, leaning up to bite his chin, “maybe I can learn some moves.”

Hemi’s smile is slow, but I know what he’s thinking. He’s already picturing her working a pole in a private show that’s just for him.

“Oh, God!” Sig says, covering his ears with his hands. “I do not need to hear this shit!”

I chuckle and shake my head, stopping for a second to look around.

I’m always filled with a mixture of pride and arousal when I walk into one of my clubs. I’ve built an empire of very classy, very high-end exotic dance clubs that spans the United States and several other countries. And although I don’t get to visit all of them more than once or twice a year at most, I always get a charge out of walking into one.

Everything is exactly as I left it when I was here thirteen months ago. The black marble floors are buffed to a shine, the chrome bar sits under a bank of soft overhead lights and all the gorgeous cocktail waitresses are dressed in sleeveless, tuxedo dresses that bear a shitload of cl**vage and stop at the top of their thighs. Classy. Sexy. Mine.

I know I could walk up to any one of them and, within ten minutes, leave with them. I wouldn’t even have to tell them who I am. It’s just one of the many gifts I possess. I’m not arrogant about it. It’s just fact. I have something they want. And they have something I want. For the night anyway.

But now’s not the time for that. Tonight, I’m here for my little brother, Hemi. I told him he and his girlfriend, Sloane could sail with me on one of my luxury yachts to Hawaii where we’d drop them off for a two-week vacation that I’ve arranged for them. Her brother was a surprise, but… whatever. It’s the least I could do for Hemi since he found and brought to justice the dirty cop whose actions led to the death of our youngest brother, Ollie.

“Come on,” I tell our group, “this way.”

When Hemi told me they wanted to come out here tonight, I called and had the manager hold open one of the VIP seating areas for us. It sits slightly to the left of the stage, close enough to smell the dancers’ perfume. If my brother’s innocent little girlfriend wants to learn some moves, I’ll give her the best seat in the house.

I recognize a few of the girls we pass. I’m surprised they’re still here. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember something distinct about each one.

Blonde waitress—screamer.

Red-headed bartender—likes it rough.

Another blonde waitress—clingy. Seeing her glare at me as I walk by reminds me of how unpleasant things got when she finally realized that I meant what I said. Don’t get attached. I’m not interested in a relationship.

She found out the hard way.

Once we’re seated, a nice-looking brunette with mile-long legs and tits that sit up under her chin comes to take our order. The smile she gives me is very… interested. Whether she knows who I am or not, I’d bet anybody a thousand dollars I could get her to sneak into the bathroom with me. Something quick and hot. Something meaningless. But with my current company, I can’t really do anything like that tonight.

Pity, I think as I appraise her surgically-enhanced figure once more.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again? Or should I just call you ‘mine’?” I tease with a wink.

I’m not surprised by the reaction I get. She leans down closer to me, giving me a bird’s eye view of her assets, and whispers huskily, “Pandora, but you can call me anything you want, including yours.”

I arch my brow and give her a half smile. “How about we start with a round of shots first? Patron. On me. Start a tab. Keep ‘em coming.”

Her eyes are gleaming with attraction. I know it when I see it. I’ve seen it a lot. “And your name, sir?” she asks, her tongue sneaking out to wet one corner of her full lips.

“Reese Spencer.”

Her eyes round almost imperceptibly.

Almost.

She knows who I am. It’s not easy to find out that I own this club, but word gets around occasionally. And word must’ve gotten around to her.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with those shots.”

I nod my thanks and turn my attention to the stage as the house lights dim and the spotlight flicks on. The music changes and all eyes turn to see the gorgeous platinum blonde strut out onto the T-shaped runway that leads from the back and the dressing rooms to the stage.

I watch with muted enthusiasm. I enjoy watching the dancers and I’m glad the club is running smoothly and that things are in order, but more than anything, I just want the night to be over so that I can go and get some rest before tomorrow. I have a funeral to attend.

I drink while my brother and his girlfriend tease each other. I would find their easy love enviable, if I cared anything about having that kind of relationship. But I don’t, so I barely pay them any attention.

I look away from them, ignoring their gushing and public displays of affection in favor of Sloane’s older brother, Sig. He seems to be a pretty nice guy, and he’s enjoying the hell out of my club.

“Good god! She needs to bring that ass right down here and sit it in my lap,” he says when another pretty blonde with more pronounced curves comes out onto the stage.

He laughs and howls, throwing back another shot and chasing it with his Southern Comfort and Sprite. He catches me eyeing him and howls even louder, giving me a playful punch in the arm.

“Drink up, man! I need somebody to get drunk with. Something about being at a club like this with my sister is flipping my shit!” He laughs a little harder than what is probably warranted.

“I think you’re doing just fine on your own,” I tell him, making note of it when he loses his balance and nearly falls out of his chair.

I’m thinking of making my excuses and leaving when the music changes yet again, stopping me. The sexy thump of Madonna’s Justify My Love strikes me as an interesting yet odd choice for a dance, and it draws my attention back to the platform.

From the left side of back stage, a girl emerges. She walks slowly along the runway. The spotlight follows her and I see that she’s wearing a man’s dress shirt and tie. And nothing else.

Her legs are long—with the stilettos she’s wearing, even longer—and perfectly toned. Dancer’s legs. Strong. Graceful. Sinful.

Each step she takes is a sexy, sensual movement of them. Slow. Deliberate. I sit up a little straighter in my seat. I’m immediately catapulted from mildly interested to extremely intrigued and I don’t really know why. I’ve seen hundreds of dancers do hundreds of dances. But I’ve never seen this one. And something about this one has all my senses on point.

As she draws closer, I can see that her rich brown hair is covered by a hat that sits at a cocky angle on her head. In her hand is a shiny black cane. When she gets to center stage, she stops, swinging the cane once before propping it out in front of her body. In one excruciatingly measured movement, she stiffens her legs and bends forward, showing off the length of her perfect thighs as they ease into the curve of her perfect ass.

Before I’m finished looking, she straightens, twirling the cane up over her head and taking one end in each hand. She arches her back, forcing what looks like some luscious tits up and out. Then, still moving slowly, she eases the cane down the front of her body.

Each action is smooth and unhurried. Each movement is sexy and fluid, her body melting from one into the next in perfect time to the music.

I glance up at her face. Beneath the shadow of her hat, all I can see is her mouth. But damn, what a mouth it is! Her lips are painted bright red and are probably the lushest ones I’ve ever seen. They’re what I’ve always called dick-sucking lips—plump, pouty and perfectly formed to slip down over the head of my cock.

Not having been overly enthused about coming tonight or about the entertainment, I’m surprised that my dick twitches when she pulls her lower lip between her teeth and bites down. But damn if it doesn’t.

I feel a groan build in my chest when she drops slowly to her knees, sliding the cane away from her body like she’s doing a push-up, slinking down onto her stomach. After a few beats, she abandons the cane and eases over onto her back, her h*ps turning last, like a cat that’s getting ready to stretch. I can almost feel the purr.

Legs flat on the stage, she runs her hands from the tops of her thighs to her stomach, pulling the hem of her shirt up just enough to give a teasing glimpse of what she’s wearing underneath before moving on to her br**sts and throat. Her nimble fingers work loose the tie, dragging it slowly from around her neck. Purposefully, she twists her hands, winding the silk around her wrists.

For a few seconds, it’s just me and this girl. Alone in this room. With nothing between us but this music. And that damned tie. All too clearly, images of me tying her up with that scrap of red material flit through my mind, making me throb behind my zipper.

Languorously, she stretches one leg straight up into the air, the other lying flat on the stage. She reaches up and grabs her ankle, skimming her bound hands to her knee, pulling that leg toward her face. Her thighs widen into a perfect split that reveals little black, satin panties. When I see them, all I can think about is kneeling between those legs and kissing that silky material.

I see her lips pucker as she puts one chaste kiss on her knee. I’m enthralled. But it’s when I see her tongue flicker out that I feel like I could punch a hole through the bottom of the table with my hard-on. There’s something about her that’s so understatedly sexy. It’s like she doesn’t even know we’re here, like she’s lost inside her own head. And God, how I’d love to be part of what she’s imagining!

I feel a hand on my arm, interrupting the scene. I’m instantly aggravated by the intrusion. I jerk away, not even bothering to turn around until I hear a voice.

It’s my brother. And he’s determined to get my attention. Finally, I turn, not even trying to hide my agitated glare.

“What?”

“Can you take us back home? Sloane’s not feeling well. Something she ate earlier maybe.” He gives me a meaningful look. It takes me a second to fully disengage from the girl that had me so rapt, but eventually (reluctantly) I do. And I remember that Sloane didn’t drink her shot of tequila. Then I remember why. Hemi told me she’s pregnant, but that they haven’t told her family yet, so he asked me not to say anything.

“Oh…right,” I respond a bit too sharply. “Yeah, I can take you.”

Hesitant to leave just yet, I glance back toward the front of the room in time to see that the dancer is on her knees again, throwing off her hat. A mane of silky chestnut curls falls down. I only get a brief flash of her face. Her hair swirls around to obscure her features. But not before I get a glimpse of one pale green eye. And the way it widens when it meets mine.

Instantly, I’m transported back in time. Years and years ago. To the soft grass of a clearing in the woods. And the smooth skin of the girl beneath me.

I remember those eyes. That mouth. I remember a slightly ganglier, less mature version of this woman’s body. How it felt to touch her, to hold her. How she laughed, how she tasted. How it ended.

And how I could never forget.

Holy god!

It’s Kennedy.

CHAPTER TWO - Kennedy

My heart slams to a stop in my chest and I forget to breathe when my eyes collide with the luminous blue-green ones that I’ve never been able to completely put behind me.

Reese.

As he stands before me, I take him in. Within a fraction of a second, I catalog his every feature.

He’s aged beautifully. He’s still the same tall, ungodly handsome guy that he was all those years ago, but now he’s a man. A breathtaking man.

His shoulders seem wider, if that’s possible. Stronger. His arms are long and powerful in his dress shirt, his biceps straining against the expensive material, even in rest. His waist is trim, his stomach flat and his thighs are as thick as ever. It’s what lies between them that brings color to my cheeks—the impressive bulge behind his zipper.

As much as I’ve struggled to put that day out of my mind, it all rushes back with crystalline clarity. I remember what it felt like to be pierced by him, both emotionally and physically. And I remember what it felt like to be crushed by him, too.

He’s standing perfectly still, watching me. Recognizing me. As his eyes travel my body, I feel them as though he is touching me. Again. Like before.

I feel the pressure of his kiss when the aqua orbs stop on my lips. I feel the tickle of them as his gaze skates down my throat to where my chest is heaving beneath my costume shirt. When his perusal stops on my breasts, my ni**les tingle with the remembered feel of his palms against them. And when he moves on to my stomach, stopping at the short hem of my shirt where it barely covers my black panties, I feel a gush of unwanted heat.

Unwanted because I stopped wanting Reese years ago. Stopped loving him. I had to. To survive.

And then his eyes rise to mine again. In them, I see recognition, a little anger, a little more desire and shock. A lot of shock.

All this transpires in a few short heartbeats. When I drag my eyes away, I realize that I’m shaking. I struggle to maintain my composure for the few remaining seconds of the song. When my number draws to an end, I make myself take slow, measured steps as I turn to walk away. But it’s not easy. In fact, it’s the second hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.