Hot and Haunted by Megan Hart, Saranna DeWylde, Lauren Hawkeye Page A

his face.
    The smile sent a sudden flash of heat straight to my cunt. Genuine lust, hot and tempting. It’s not what I wanted to feel, not what I expected to feel, so I shot him a sultry look from under my lashes as a cover for my baffled pleasure.
    Flushing slightly at the look, he busied his fingers by picking at a corner of the label on the wine bottle.
    “I’m a stripper.” I wasn’t, of course—I was a student— but he nearly dropped the bottle as his nerves jerked in response. He blinked at me, frozen to his seat.
    “My job,” I reminded him, nibbling at my thumbnail. “You asked what I do. Now you know.”
    He was silent. I didn’t blame him; there wasn’t a safe response for a man to make to that statement. But I pretended to misinterpret his zipped lips.
    “What, you think I’m a slut?” He shook his head furiously, not wanting to start an argument, probably, but I was into it by then.
    He was playing right into my hands. If all went according to plan, the do-or-die moment of this elaborate scenario I had concocted was only moments away.
    “It’s honest work, I’ll have you know.” I bared my pearly teeth slightly, thinking of a wildcat, ready to pounce. “And you, you’re a man. You’ll never know the power, the sheer power, of standing naked in front of hundreds of men at time, knowing that they will do anything to have you. To touch you. To fuck you.” My words were deliberately slow and hung low in the air, pregnant with promise.
    “Come here.” I ignored my own words as soon as I’d spoken them, choosing instead to swing myself into his seat. Before he could think twice about my order, I arranged myself over his hard, well-muscled lap. I leaned back, and whispered in his ear, “Let me show you.” Nipping at the lobe, I began to move. I couldn’t see him but hoped that he was held, spellbound, as time stopped inside the car. “Watch me.”
    He could hardly do anything else—I was, after all, grinding on his lap. My eyes closed, my body began to sway to a song that neither of us could hear. But the rhythmic twitches of my hips emphasized the beat, and soon the notes of a sensuous melody filled my head, flowing along with my internal rhythm. I’d always felt too inhibited with Kyle to try something like this, but tonight I wasn’t myself. I was Holly the Stripper, Holly who was seductive, and I had nothing to lose.
    My head tilted back, and I could smell a hint of my shampoo, teased out by the dampness that the rain had wrought. My hands fisted in the long titian red strands, and I had a sudden mental image of my hair, like pieces of silk, playing over his skin as I rode him.
    Holding myself mere inches above him, my thighs quivering with the strain, I gyrated, making love to an invisible man, to a ghost, a spectre. Brody groaned as he watched my hand move lightly down my torso, as if guided by someone else.
    The tips of my fingers, the delicate, shell pink nails, flicked over my nipples, dark red circles that I could see clearly through my sheer dress, under which I was quite obviously not wearing a bra. Lower, down over my belly, then lower still they moved, coming to rest just inches above my sex.
    Playing the seductress was hot and made me feel like I was burning alive. I hoped Brody felt the same way.
    “Holly,” he whispered, but a rocking of my hips silenced him as I continued the erotic game.
    The top button of my dress was loosened, slowly, teasingly, as I continued to rock, back and forth, back and forth, until the garment slid down an inch, or maybe it was two. Breathily, I whispered, “Oops,” and pulled the dress back up—but not as far up as it was before. As Brody groaned again, I continued the game. Down a bit of fabric slipped, and over my shoulders he was offered a tantalizing glimpse, just a glimpse of pale, luminous skin, before the dress was teasingly tugged back up—but never as far up as it had just been. Down. Up. When the lacy white reached the edges of