Private Dances Read online

  Private Dances

  By BA Tortuga

  Dale is working his way through college as an exotic dancer. While he prefers to keep his performances public, it’s tough to say no to the private dances, even though they’re risky. Three songs, just dancing, no touching—Dale can do this and be handsomely compensated.

  For Italian businessman Adriano “Gen” Genovese, the handsome cowboy tempts him into wanting more than one dance. Gen convinces Dale to indulge in another dance and a night in his decadent hotel room. He introduces Dale to a glittering world of wealth on a scale Dale has never even imagined.

  As the romance between the down-home Texas student and the millionaire playboy heats up, they come to realize the only risk they face is losing their hearts.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  More from BA Tortuga

  About the Author

  By BA Tortuga

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  “I WANNA Be a Cowboy” blared over the speakers, and the lights blazed bright and blinding in his eyes. The first fifteen seconds or so were always a little chilly up on stage, and then the lights on his oiled skin and the dancing warmed him up. Made him sweat.

  Dale moved, one hand on the pole, one hand up in the air like he was riding eight seconds. He couldn’t see the eyes watching him, couldn’t hear the hoots or hollers from the crowd, but still, he knew they were there, watching him, trying to see his face under the shadow of the wide brim of his cowboy hat. Watching his prick, his ass framed by the leather chaps.

  Shit. No thinking, Dale-man. No thinking. Just listen to the music and dance. That’s it.

  Five minutes more and then the shift was over.

  Five hundred bucks in his back pocket, baybee. One semester’s worth of books for a night’s work.

  Hoo-boy.

  He was fixin’ to leave the stage, ready to get his shit and go tip out with the DJ, when the stage manager stopped him. “Hey, man, I know you’re about off, but there’s an offer from one of the boxes. You up for it?”

  “How good an offer?” He really needed to study. He had a test tomorrow in anatomy, but rent was coming due….

  “Two hundred and you don’t have to tip it out.” Which meant no 10 percent off the top before he ever left the club.

  Two hundred. Groceries, man. For a month. “Okay. Which one?”

  “The far north box. They’ve been apprised of the rules.” Manny clapped him on the back. “Thanks, man.”

  “No sweat.” He slipped on a G-string, then headed up the stairs, whistling along with Rick’s music, the Latin beat catchy, fun, bouncy. There were two guys in the shadowy box, both suits. One was the sort he was used to. Hell, he thought maybe he’d seen the guy before. A little on the hefty side, thick graying hair, thick lips. Not hideous, but nothing he wanted too close to certain parts of him.

  The other guy was more in the shadows, sitting back in the lounge chair, a lowball dangling from his hand. Dale was pretty sure he’d never seen that guy before. Not at all. Cheeks like razor blades and eyes that sparkled in the low light—the guy watched him with predatory ease, none of the blustering and pretending he wasn’t interested came from him like it did the other guy.

  “I’m Dee. Y’all asked for a private dance?” He tipped the hat low, let his body move to Rick’s music. He wasn’t so good at this part—the talking part.

  “We did.” Oh, that voice was like the look—dark and sharp, with a hint of an accent. “Don’t talk, Dee. Just dance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Okay, buddy. Close your eyes and listen to the damn music. No thinking.

  None.

  Except about the money.

  And pizza.

  Oh… that sounds good.

  Maybe mushroom and sausage. Extra cheese.

  There was no touching. No inappropriate groping. Just the music and the sound of the big guy breathing hard and the… unnerving silence from the other one. He could feel those eyes on him. He really could.

  It made him nervous, made his heart race a touch.

  Sorta started to make him hard, which was weird as all hell.

  The song ended and another started up, not really Rick’s sort of thing, more his own, which was okay, just a little freaky. But it was a little easier to ride the bronc to. It made him smile, thinking about bronc riding, about the way horses felt when they were moving and how he had managed to use that to make money in the big city.

  Go him.

  There. Somewhere there at the end of that song, he heard a sound, and it wasn’t the big guy whimpering, though that was there too, now that he was listening. It sounded like a growl. That was his last bar on that one, and he had one song to go. That was how it went. Private dance was three in a row. The next song was slow, sultry, the house lights going low as George and Hank did their damn-near-fucking-on-stage act. It was surprisingly hot, the guys’ relationship new enough that the emotions weren’t faked, weren’t fucked-up.

  Well, that and that blacklight body paint shit they used in their act was fucking cool.

  “Dance, not watch, Dee.”

  His cheeks burned, and he ducked his head, hiding behind his hat. Great, asshole, blow your tip. Think sexy, sultry. Think about the shit Ollie taught you about dancing. One more song.

  He could still see the guys writhing on stage out of the corner of his eye, though, and it helped with the rhythm, helped him concentrate on the music so he could get this over with. The song picked up tempo, and his hips followed it, hand sliding up to work the hat, let it dip low.

  He thought it was all gonna go south when the big guy reached for him, because that wasn’t allowed up here, and if they got kicked out, he’d never get his money. Lucky for him, one of the other guy’s hands shot out, grabbing the big man’s wrist, a rough, foreign-sounding word snapping out.

  He backed away, stayed closer to the wall, well out of reach until the song ended, the applause from the main floor loud. Okay. Three songs up. Three songs down. Good money. “Hope you enjoyed your dance, fellas.”

  “We did.” He could see the glint of a gold ring as the guy, the one with the hot eyes, held out three bills, waiting for him to come take them.

  “Thanks.” He moved over, teeth chewing his bottom lip a little. Come on, Dale-man. Get your pizza money and go. His fingers touched the money. “Y’all have a good one.”

  “Do you dance again tomorrow?” The man’s fingers never touched his, but he didn’t quite let go of the cash.

  “No, sir. Friday through Monday. Every week.” He had classes tomorrow and Thursday. Wednesday was all his.

  “I see. Thank you, Dee.” The money slipped into his palm, the barest touch of warm, dry fingers closing his hand around it. “You were most entertaining.”

  “Thanks.” He tipped his hat to both of them, backing out of the door with a smile. “Come back and see us.”

  He heard the dark one laugh as he left, would swear he heard an “Oh, yes. I will.”

  THE CLUB was not at all his usual thing. Indeed, doing business in a club wasn’t his thing. Gen had only gone because Dimitri had insisted, and he’d taken it as an insult, as Dimitri’s way of making a statement about Gen’s… oh, what was the best word? Proclivities?

  That was before the boy with the chaps came out and made it all better, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps Dimitri wasn’t such an
idiot after all, and had known there was a bit more quality to this place than he’d thought. Possibly a lot more.

  The private dance was an indulgence, one he usually didn’t bother with, but Dio…. And it wasn’t just him. Dimitri had tried to touch the lad, probably without even thinking about it. Gen had wanted to touch as well. He was simply a little better at self-control.

  He snorted. Ha. That was why he was back at that dingy little club in less than a week, Friday night in a private box and two scotches later, waiting for the cowboy to take the stage.

  Self-control, indeed.

  The cowboy music started up, and the lights went down, the DJ announcing Cowboy Dee. The young man was built, tan, and waxed smooth, black cowboy hat shadowing the chiseled face.

  The dance started, and Dee turned, showed off that tight ass exposed by the leather chaps.

  Damn. Dee was good. Oh, he wasn’t the polished, plastic doll that you might find in an all-male revue, but that was what made him so attractive. Gen wanted. Badly. He held up a hand, summoning a waiter. This time he could enjoy the private dance all by himself without worrying about Dimitri’s reactions.

  “Can I help you?” The waiter popped in as Dee turned around, hand wrapped around the pole, thighs parting as he slithered down.

  Gen flashed the waiter his best smile, knowing how well he could calculate it to work. “I hope so. I’d like to put in for a private dance from him when he’s done.”

  “Dee? I’ll tell the manager right away.” Too-pretty-to-be-real blue eyes ran over him. “He’s real picky, though, and doesn’t put out. You sure you want him?”

  “I’m sure.” It appeared like there was backstabbing in every profession. “I want Dee.”

  “Whatever you want. I’ll tell Max.” The waiter faded off, giving him a chance to watch Dee’s little bump and grind. The lad was well-endowed, full and pretty without being aroused, tight little blond curls trimmed above the heavy cock.

  He had no idea what it was about the kid that made his hands itch and the rest of him sweat, but he wasn’t one to question his pleasures, so Gen ordered another scotch on the rocks and watched, waiting.

  Dee danced for three songs and then circled for his tips. Being out of the harsh lights made him look less in control, younger, less polished.

  Sì. Gen liked that. Maybe that was what attracted him. All of that oiled, automatic bumping and grinding went away when the lad had to do something out of routine, something spontaneous. Gen felt his body tighten, felt sweat on his upper lip. Oh, sì.

  He watched the manager come up, talk to Dee a minute. At first, Dee shook his head, and then his box got a long look, and the manager got a nod.

  Perfetto.

  He smiled, sipping his scotch. He shifted, crossing his legs, barely glancing at the stage to see who was up next.

  The little door to the box was tapped, and then Dee came in, eyes going a little wide when he saw Gen. “Evenin’.”

  “Good evening, Dee.” Oh, that was a fine expression, that surprise. It made Dee much more human, and made Gen even harder. He hid it well, he thought, his trousers draping just so. “Thank you for agreeing to dance for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dee nodded, the little G-string pocket holding Dee high and tight. He was close enough to see each little ripple on that six-pack, the way those pale pink nipples were tight from the sweat evaporating off them.

  Dio, that was something. Gen breathed deep, smelling sweat and leather, the scent making the breath catch in his chest. He wondered if Dee could hear it. The music started, and it was something urban and bass-heavy. Dee’s nose wrinkled a little. Still, those hips started moving, Dee making the best of it.

  Gen made the best of it too, though he would rather see Dee move to music he was more comfortable with. He would rather see Dee move like he had the last time, when he saw whatever it was he’d seen behind his closed eyelids and had danced like he was riding a wild horse. Gen had been able to imagine Dee riding him the very same way.

  Dee didn’t try to keep up with the driving beat. Oh, no. The boy just closed those dark brown eyes and moved half-time. Doing what he did best, riding that pony. Gen started pulling in air in time to the swirl of those hips, his breath coming in and out with Dee’s beat, not the music’s. The boy was stunning, even though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Gen chuckled, low and dark. No, he wasn’t allowed to put his fingers on it.

  His laugh got him a quick look, Dee’s cheeks heating. Mmm… that got him the sweet little hat trick—one hand rising to dip that black hat, the other sliding down that flat belly. Grazioso. Better than sweet. Little exhibitionist. Gen almost groaned, but he bit it back, sipping his nearly dry scotch. He was going to need more if his mouth stayed this dry.

  The next song was pure sex, slow and sensual, and he could see Dee relax, see him get into it. See that heavy cock start to fill that little black satin pouch. The scent intensified, dark and male and fucking mesmerizing. Gen cursed under his breath, shifted again to give himself some more room. He was hard. So hard.

  He could see that hard body, rippling and rocking, muscles tight as that ass worked his cock.

  That was what he wanted, after all, wasn’t it? The appeal of “look, don’t touch” only went so far. He wanted to see if the lad would be as hot on the inside as he was on stage.

  Dee turned, teasing, hand dipping down, that ass rocking. Gen’s hands clenched. No. He wasn’t some sleazy old man like Dimitri. He was in the prime of his life. Strong, virile. Proud. He wasn’t going to touch until Dee asked for it, or until the dance was over and they could negotiate something else.

  The song came to a close—Dee’s skin sheened with sweat, the water beading over the oil.

  “You’re good at that, Dee.” Was that his voice? Gen didn’t bother to clear his throat, but damn. He prided himself on a bit more control than that.

  “Thank you, sir.” Those eyes met his, that drawl thick. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

  “I do. Am I allowed to buy you a drink?” That would be a start, at least, and get him something wet of his own as well.

  “Sure, if you’re willing.” Dee was breathing a little hard, and he reached out to open the privacy door, signal for a waiter.

  “I am.” The waiter came in, and Gen signaled for another scotch. “And whatever Dee would like as well.”

  “I’ll take a Bud Light, please.” Dee smiled, nodded at him. “Thanks. You mind if I sit a second?”

  “Not at all.” Gen watched Dee intently as he moved, enjoying every slide and pull of muscle.

  Dee took one of the chairs, turned it, and straddled, leaning against the back. The action was smooth as silk, not practiced, just… Dee.

  The little glimpse of what was real under the illusion of lights and music was more intriguing than anything he’d seen all night. “The waiter says you’re picky.”

  “Picky?” The hat got tipped back, and Dee tilted his head. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. He didn’t seem to think you would want to drink with me.” That wasn’t exactly what the little flirt had been about, but it would do.

  “He’s jonesing for a drink of his own, is all. He wants to dance on stage.”

  “Does he? Maybe he needs a better look.” He looked Dee over. “I like yours.”

  “Well, lots of people make something up. I went with what I knew.” That hat was tipped again, Dee giving him a genuine smile.

  He smiled back, this one not calculated at all, a reward for the bright grin he’d gotten. “Do you like what you do, Dee?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. It’s better than McDonald’s. Gets my tuition paid.”

  “So you are a student?” Why that surprised him, he didn’t know. Gen supposed he tended to think of dancers as not existing outside the club.

  “Yeah.” Dee chuckled. “I know, I know. Not romantic and I’m supposed to do that illusion thing.”

  “Would it shock you to know I am not looking for romance or illusion? I on
ly came back for you.” There. See what the cowboy would make of that.

  “Me? Why?” The look was surprised for a moment, and then Dee relaxed into a grin. “I’m nowhere near the best-hung cowboy around here.”

  “Possibly not. But you are the one who caught my eye.” Gen simply stared at Dee, letting him feel the weight of it, letting him feel how much Gen meant it. It took something special to make him cancel a trip to Toronto and stay right where he was for an extra week.

  Those cheeks went a deep, sweet red, and the brim of that hat went down. “Thank you, sir. That’s plumb nice to hear.”

  “You’re welcome.” They sat silently for a few moments, because he was reluctant to ask the predictable question of when Dee got off work. It sounded trite.

  Their drinks came and broke the silence. Dee drank deep, throat working. A single line of liquid escaped, slipped down Dee’s chin.

  Without even thinking, Gen reached out and caught the tiny droplet, bringing it to his own mouth to taste.

  Dee’s eyes met his, the lad licking his lips. “Thanks. I was thirsty.”

  “No trouble at all. When can you leave?” So much for trite. Gen smiled, shaking his head a tiny bit.

  “Leave? I just did my last set. I’m not a headliner. Friday and Saturday I warm the crowd up.”

  “Leave. With me.” There could be no mistaking his intent, he thought, not stated that way, and not with the look he gave Dee.

  “Where… where do you want to go?” That glimpse of Dee’s youth showed again, tempting him.

  Gen pressed the advantage, leaning into Dee’s personal space, sharing air and body heat. “I have a hotel room, if it makes you feel better.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I never stay and talk after a dance. Ever.”

  “And with the sort of man who is usually here, I can see why not. I am not that sort. If you wish to go now, I will not stop you, of course.” Gen leaned back, took the money he had promised out of his pocket, and held it out.

  “I… I’d need to go get street clothes on so we could go and… talk.” Dee stood and put the chair back, that hat dipped low as he took the money. “I… it’ll take a few minutes.”