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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The spotlight was bright as Alicia stood on-stage, pinned in its crosshairs. The light felt hot on her face and even hotter on her body.
Awareness blistered inside her.
There was nowhere to run. No place to hide. She felt like a bug under a microscope.
A vulnerable, prized bug.
The brightness made it difficult to see, but she could feel the attention focused on her. The hungry, lustful eyes of a crowd of men. If she listened hard, she could hear their short, panting breaths.
Around her, music began. Its hard-driving rhythm caught her in the chest and she gasped. The beat reverberated between her breasts, and her nipples tightened. They felt hot and pinched. Shy. The bass started creeping through the floor and into her feet. It jumped higher and higher, grabbing her thighs and encouraging her to move. To dance.
‘Come on, baby. Show us what you’ve got.’
It was time for her solo.
Her heart beat faster in her chest, excited and scared at the same time. She’d never done this before. Of all the solos she’d performed in her life, she’d never stripped off her clothes while going through the motions.
Yet that was what she was here to do.
Unable to fight the tug of the rhythm any longer, she swept her arms over her head. Her hips swayed back and forth timidly, and then with more vigour.
A wolf-whistle cut through the air. The male approval was clear.
She was here to strip. Just the word alone sent a flush of fire through her nervous system. She was going to end up practically naked, her body on display for the Satin Club’s wealthy clientele.
She was going to end up dancing with a pole.
‘Oh, man. Look at her,’ someone groaned.
She couldn’t see who was admiring her, but she could see that pole. The gleaming brass fixture stood at the end of the long runway in front of her. Her knees went a little weak when it glinted under another spotlight, almost as if winking at her. Daring her to come play.
Her palms became damp and she swept them over her undulating hips.
There was just something about that pole. Something hard, challenging and outright sexual.
‘Enough with the teasing,’ a rough voice growled from the darkness. ‘We paid to see skin.’
That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? To cut through the social niceties, straight to the need that drove mankind.
Sex … or at least the simulated dance of it.
Obediently, she reached for the zipper at the back of her skirt. As she looked down, it seemed odd that she was still in her street clothes. But maybe that was what they wanted. The church secretary fantasy …
The beat of the bass settled between her legs, warm and pulsing.
The heavy skirt suddenly felt too confining anyway. The cut was binding and the material couldn’t breathe. She worked the ugly skirt over her hips and kicked it aside. It was only then that she noticed the stilettos on her feet. Definitely not the church secretary kind.
But maybe the sexy church secretary fantasy.
The naughty black shoes lifted her bottom and pushed her weight onto her tiptoes. Air swept between her legs as she widened her stance to retain her balance. A groan from her left caught her unaware, but the sound reminded her that she was supposed to be performing. Still unsure of the high heels, she did a slow bump and grind.
More groans joined in.
She fought to hold back one of her own.
Oh, the shoes felt incredible. They lifted her up, making her aware of the muscles in her legs and the point of her toes. They certainly drew the attention of the male species like a laser.
In that moment, she felt powerful. Sexy.
Her confidence soared as she strutted down the runway. The heels had ties that wrapped around her ankles. She could feel the ribbon tickling her Achilles tendons. The feeling was surprisingly sensual, like intimate kisses.
She opened the top button of her shirt – and then another to let in the cool air.
Which wasn’t really so cool at all.
Alicia felt like she was going up in flames. She knew the point of all this was to arouse the crowd, but she was naïve enough that she was arousing herself.
And she hadn’t even started in on the pole yet!
Her blood began to pump, warm and thick, through her veins. The tails of her shirt brushed against the back of her thighs and between her legs. Beneath the stiff cotton, her breasts felt achy and full. Her nipples were so tight, even the cups of her bra seemed rough.
‘Take it off. Take it off.’
The chant started, low and steady. It grew in strength and volume as she reached for the remaining buttons on her shirt. The crowd of men was goading her, begging her. She toyed with them for a while, sashaying around on-stage, dancing as the shirt hung open. She wore a sensible white cotton bra and panties beneath it, but even they seemed to push the boys to the edge.
They loved it. The chanting grew louder and more raucous. They loved her.
Gathering her nerve, she swept the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the runway behind her. The almost complete bareness sent a shock through her – like ice had just been brushed over her skin. Her nipples became turgid, poking against her bra cups. Very few men had seen her like this. Only two, in fact. Now, an entire roomful of strangers was getting an eyeful.
Arousal gripped her as sure as a hand between her legs. It held her there as she walked determinedly onward, facing her greatest fear.
And possibly, one of her sharpest desires.
The pole.
Reaching out, she caught it with one hand. The brass was cool. Unyielding. A shudder went through her. Stepping closer, she leaned her forehead against its hard length. Her breasts plumped on either side of it, and her hips rolled forward.
When she softly kissed the hard metal, a hush went throughout the room.
They wanted to see her dance?
Kicking one leg high, she wrapped it around the brass pole. It gripped the back of her knee and the skin of her thigh pinched. That secret spot between her legs squeezed convulsively and then moistened.
Oh, heavens.
Alicia arched her back, letting her breasts thrust upwards. They felt trapped in her prim white bra. She was almost desperate to get it off. The sensation was making her lightheaded.
The confinement was too much.
Reaching back, she undid the hooks from the eyelets. She sighed when the cups loosened. The beat of the music intensified. She could almost feel the crowd leaning forward, wanting to see.
She wanted to show them.
She wanted to feel the freedom. She wanted to feel the nip of nakedness.
Using the leg that was wrapped around the pole, she pulled herself upright. Still, the straps of her bra and the cups remained in place.
In the distance, she heard somebody swear.
The frustration made her smile. Poor baby. She shrugged her left shoulder and the strap fell. She shrugged her right and the elastic snagged on the point of her shoulder.
The music reached a crescendo, and she couldn’t tease any more. She whipped off her bra and threw it away. The crowd went wild as her breasts were exposed. Her nipples pointed at her appreciative fans, pink and proud.
Not so shy anymore.
The act freed her, too. She spun around the pole, holding on to it tightly. Her breasts jiggled as she twisted and arched. She moaned aloud when her nipples bumped against the cool hardness. It felt so good. Her leg tightened, and the metal warmed from the heat of her skin. It pressed tight against her mound, smooth and insistent.
Arching back again, she spun and spun and spun –
***
‘Sinners repent!’
The words blasted next to Alicia’s ear. She jerked in surprise, and her surroundings changed in an instant. She was no longer in the cool confines of the Satin Club. She was outside, across the street, stuck in the crowd of protestors. An electronic squeal made her wince. Her head whipped around and she saw her father. He’d upgraded from a megaphone to a microphone with speakers. Loud, crackling speakers. She plugged her finger into her ear to stop the assault.
Confused, she tried to orient herself. She wasn’t on the Satin Club’s stage; the bright light shining on her was the sun. Her toes weren’t pinching because she was wearing stiletto heels; her feet were sore from standing too long on a concrete sidewalk. And the hard pole she’d wrapped herself around?
Oh, dear Lord.
Her face heated to the point where it had to be crimson. The hardness pressing against her mound and biting into the back of her knee was the yardstick they’d stapled to the back of her sign – the one that said ‘SATIN = SATAN’ She quickly pulled it from between her legs and set it a good foot away from her. She pressed her hand to her face and hoped that nobody had noticed.
If they had, they didn’t say anything. All around her, Sunlight Epiphany’s parishioners were intent on waving their signs at anyone who dared to even pass by the Satin Club on the street.
‘Deny these evil temptations! Cast out your demons and follow the one true light!’ The words boomed from the speakers that had been set up in the back of a pick-up truck. Her father was on a mission and, when he got like this, nothing could stop him.
Alicia winced. She understood their cause, but she wasn’t sure they should be harassing random pedestrians.
Besides, did they really know that the Satin Club was evil? None of them knew for sure what was going on behind that red door. That’s what she’d been trying to figure out when she’d slipped into that fantasy.
Daydream, she quickly amended. It had been a daydream, a flight of a bored mind.
Not a fantasy.
She shifted her weight, trying to bring some relief to her aching feet. She couldn’t help it. She had an affinity for dancers. She was just trying to understand.
What would it be like? she wondered.
She stared unblinkingly at the club across the street as those around her yelled at cars stopped at the light. What would it be like to work in such a place? To dance without clothes? To perform for the specific purpose of titillating those who looked at you?
Her body tingled, wrapped up in the idea, but her brain just couldn’t comprehend. It was just so foreign to her, so dirty. She’d danced nearly all her life. She understood what it was to portray emotion through dance, to tell a story. The stories they were telling at the Satin Club, though … those tales were suited for the deep of night, in the privacy of a bedroom. What were they thinking, putting them out there on display for everyone to see?
It was disturbing and shocking – and, admittedly, a bit intriguing.
‘Turn away from the devil!’
Alicia stepped further away from her father. The noise was just too loud. Instead of screaming at the club, shouldn’t they be trying to talk with the people inside? To explain the dangerous path they were on? Her church was protesting against this place for a reason. How did those women feel about what they did? Did they hate it? Were they yearning for a better life and holier pursuits?
Or did they do it because it felt good?
‘There they are!’ someone behind her gasped.
‘The devil rears its ugly head.’
Rapid-fire words started coming through the speakers. All around her, Alicia felt the energy of the crowd of protestors surge. She looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.
Her eyes widened when she realised that the door to the Satin Club had opened and two imposing men had walked out of it. Men in suits seemed to flock to this place, but these two were different. Their clothing might be expensive and impeccably cut, but it did nothing to civilise the men wearing it. The one on the left was shorter and leaner, with the body of a fighter. And the nose, she thought as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. For all his ruggedness, he wore an air of gentility, a hard-won polish of money and power. The other did not. Big, muscled and intense, what you saw was what you got. And the big man was unhappy.
Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt, owner and operations manager of the Satin Club.
Her sore toes began tapping nervously against the sidewalk. She knew the two men on sight and she instinctively stepped further into the shade of an elm tree. As bad as it had been before, the conflict between her church and the Satin Club had just become more real.
And more dangerous.
Heaven help them.
***
Bas strode across the parking lot with Remy at his side, but his gaze was centred strictly on the crowd gathered across the street. Enough was enough. He’d been trying to turn the other cheek, but the assholes had upgraded from a megaphone to a speaker system. It was time to settle this.
‘I’m sick of these religious nuts.’ Remy cracked his knuckles, but his hands clenched right back into fists. ‘Do we stand outside their church yelling at them on Sunday mornings?’
‘They think they’re saving our souls.’
‘My soul is just fine. They’re the ones who need to “do unto others”.’
The corners of Bas’s mouth curled. ‘The Golden Rule? Really?’
‘Even my grandmother would want their heads. This isn’t spreading God’s word. This is harassment.’
It was, but there was also that tricky business about freedom of expression and the right to assemble.
It was mid-afternoon. The Satin Club opened their doors early for those white-collar good-ole-boys who still liked to conduct business the old-fashioned way – with booze flowing and skin flashing – but Remy was right. This irritant wasn’t just a nuisance anymore. It was beginning to affect business, not only for them but for their neighbours. Hetty from the 24-hour diner next door had already called to voice her complaints. It was time to do more than sit back and take the high road.
Besides, he and Remy had always been more comfortable on the back alleyways, anyway.
Bas’s eyes narrowed. They’d been watching the protestors from Sunlight Epiphany Church ever since they’d shown up a week ago. Reverend Harold Wheeler was the loud-mouthed leader of the bunch. From what they’d been able to gather, the rabble-rouser had moved to town from Birmingham a few years ago after his former congregation had found him elbow-deep in the collections plate. His new followers either had forgiven that little discretion or didn’t know about it.
The decibel level rose when the crowd saw them, and Bas’s jaw hardened. He had nothing against religion – until it was used against him. Then, he wasn’t afraid to fight back.
And fight dirty.
His attention moved over the angry bystanders. As always, it settled on one trim figure off to the side – a feminine figure with soft, curling brown hair and a sweet innocent face – a silent figure with a body that screamed.
‘What did you learn about the angel?’
‘Her name is Alicia Wheeler.’
The way his operations manager drew it out, it sounded like something he’d like to taste. And savour. And lick all over again.
Didn’t they both?
‘The reverend’s daughter and, as luck would have it, a dancer.’
Bas stared at her. Sweet little Leesha was a knockout. She wore boring, prim clothes and flat shoes, but that only made her all the more tempting. His gaze traced down her body, over her full breasts and along her trim waist to nudge at the secret spot between her legs. Did she really think it was hidden by the dowdy skirt she wore?
‘A dancer,’ he murmured under his breath. Now wasn’t that interesting? ‘Is she any good?’ His gaze hadn’t left that private spot. He could practically feel her lush, innocent pussy opening up to him, taking him deep. She’d be tight.
Would she be wet?
‘Not our type of dancing,’ Remy replied, ‘but she can move – although she seems to have given it up since moving back to work at her father’s church.’
Bas’s mouth watered. Now wasn’t that a shame? He could see that sensual body filling out a ballerina’s leotard, her breasts stretching the fabric tight. His palms tingled, thinking of those trim hips rolling and her hair flying around her shoulders. He could hear her breaths panting as her legs flexed and her toes pointed tight.
He’d known there had to be an outlet for her frustration, because, whether she knew it or not, that was one frustrated woman. It radiated all the way across the street and through a security feed. She looked so buttoned up and tied down. She showed up every day at her father’s side, but her expression always seemed calm and controlled. Almost distant. Was that because she was secure in her beliefs? Or was she there only because she was expected to be?
Everyone knew that preachers’ kids could go one of two ways. They either toed the line or went a little wild. Being lashed down with rules and bound by strict expectations could drive anyone to act out, to rebel and experiment with the wrong kind.
He wondered which way Alicia Wheeler went.
‘She’s clean as a whistle,’ Remy said, practically reading his mind. ‘From what I could find, she’s always been a good girl. A model of good behaviour, right down to those succulent toes.’
Her toes weren’t what Bas wanted to suck on.
‘Any vices or kinks? Anything we can use?’
Remy shook his head, but his gaze was locked onto the pretty brunette, too. He’d done the background checks on everyone in the crowd they could identify. He probably knew what kind of perfume she used, what size bra she wore and if there were any toys in her bedstand. ‘She got top grades. She volunteers. Doesn’t smoke or do drugs. She doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket on her record.’
‘Kind of makes you want to shake up her structured little life, doesn’t it?’
A sound came from deep in his friend’s throat.
‘What about sex?’ Bas pressed.
‘She dates the Joe Schmo to her father’s right. I doubt he’s even found a way into her pants yet.’ Remy shook his head. ‘Makes you sad for the girl, doesn’t it? Look at that body. She needs someone who can ride her good and long, someone who could make her moan.’
Maybe someone who could break the chains that were holding her back?
‘Let me take care of this,’ Remy said. ‘I could have this crowd gone by tomorrow.’
Bas didn’t think they were quite to that stage. Yet.
‘I’ve got something else in mind.’
The operations manager sent him a quick look, but then followed his gaze back across the street. Back to sexy, repressed Alicia.
‘Dancers need to dance,’ Bas said softly.
He knew a weak link when he saw one.
The Satin Club was the classiest and most exclusive gentlemen’s club in town. It was also his baby. He’d built it from the ground up, and nobody was going to tear it down, harass his clients or threaten his girls. Protecting it was his job, but he couldn’t attack a church outright. There was no winning that kind of battle.
No, this might take a bit more finesse.
And that’s where the sweet-looking Ms Wheeler came in.
She might not approve of the naked gymnastics their girls performed, but she appreciated art. She appreciated physical movement and expression. As a dancer, there would be empathy there.
Strip away the nudity and the voyeurs. Ignore the money that exchanged hands and all the extra-curricular activities that happened behind the red satin curtains. At the heart of the Satin Club was movement of the human body. The female body. The beat, the rhythm, the instinctual response to the sound of music.
The freedom.
Oh, yeah, as prim and proper as Alicia Wheeler seemed, she’d respond to the core of what happened here. Good girl or not, she’d respond to the dance.
‘Let’s go introduce ourselves,’ Bas said.
It was time to see what would happen if all that repression was unleashed.
***
Alicia watched Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt approach like two black panthers stalking their prey. Whenever her father decided to stage one of these protests, she always made sure to do her homework. She studied up on the city’s laws on assembling and permits. She determined the most effective, yet safest places to gather. Most importantly, she learned all she could about the people they were about to aggravate – because people were always aggravated when her father started one of his campaigns.
What she’d learned about these two had made her antennae go up.
Despite appearances, she didn’t like confrontations. She hadn’t wanted to tangle with these two, but her father had insisted. A den of iniquity, he’d called it.
The lion’s den was more like it.
‘Heathens! Lust worshippers! Bow down and repent before the Saviour!’
Grimacing, Alicia worked her way through the crowd towards her father. She wished that Paul hadn’t bought the speakers. They had her teetering on the edge of a migraine. ‘Dad, stop yelling. They’re coming to speak with you.’
He ignored her completely. ‘Admit your sins! Beg for forgiveness!’
She cast a glance at Colin, silently asking for help, but he lifted his hands in defeat. She sighed. If anyone disliked confrontations more than she, it was her boyfriend. If she wanted to even call him that.
That was another problem, but this one was more pressing.
She wrapped her fingers around her father’s shoulder. ‘Please stop.’
A frown momentarily settled on his face. He’d become thinner in recent months. The gauntness almost made him look fragile, but there was a glint in his eyes when the two representatives of the Satin Club began to cross the street. Eight days of this, and he’d finally got a response.
Alicia clutched the top edge of her sign. Please be civil. Everyone, please be civil.