Read Online Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) by Brenna Zinn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brenna Zinn
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swung the shirt over her head several times before letting it fly
into the darkened seating area. Before reaching the looming pole, she
unfastened the top buttons of her cutoff jeans. Two inches of the waistband
opened, giving her even more range of movement.
Mustering her courage, she reached up and grabbed the pole.
Pure instinct took over. One of her legs lifted and entwined the pole, taking
the rest of her body with it. A thrill coursed through her as she spun. She
whirled around and around until the force propelling her wound down, then she
finally let go. The muscles in her arms and thighs ached, but that didn’t
matter. The pleasure of the experience far outweighed the soreness she’d feel
for a while. As long as she worked at Iron Rods and could practice in private,
she’d swing on the damn pole until she’d mastered it.
When the song came to an end, she dropped down into a split
and lifted her arms high over her head in triumph. She imagined hearing the
roar of the crowd cheer at her amazing performance. When she heard real, live
clapping from the front of the club, her stomach clenched as though she’d been
hit with a two-by-four.
Chapter Four
Tatum looked up to see Bennett standing near the bar. Still
in slacks and a dress shirt that had been unbuttoned at the neck, rolled at the
sleeves and no longer boasted a tie, he looked like a seductive calendar model
who had come to life and leapt from the page. If sex could claim the face and
body of a male, Bennett Truitt would be that man. The way her fire was stoked
from just looking at him bordered on being downright sinful.
Her first inclination was to screech from embarrassment and
scurry around the tables and chairs until she found her T-shirt. This striking
man had watched her make a fool of herself while she stripped off her top,
pranced around in a barely there bra, then spun awkwardly around a pole. He
must think her an idiot with the respectability of a streetwalker.
But a strong sense of righteous indignation trumped her
primary reaction. He had been playing Peeping Tom. She didn’t give a flip that
he was hot, the Chief Financial Officer of the holdings company or the son of
the man who owned Iron Rods. No one had the right to intrude on what was
clearly a private moment, even if that moment happened to take place at a strip
club. At the very least, he could have made his presence known.
Pulling together what dignity she could, she dropped her
outstretched arms and pressed her hands onto the catwalk floor to shift her
legs out of the impromptu split. Then, slowly and with purpose, she stood and
refastened the buttons of her shorts.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Mr. Truitt. Do you always spy on
your coworkers or is this a new habit?” She cringed as the taunt flew from her
mouth. When would she learn to hold her flippant tongue?
One of Bennett’s dark eyebrows hitched. “Let me begin by
saying I was hardly spying. I called out your name several times when I came in
the front door, but you had the music too loud to hear me.” He walked behind the
bar, grabbed a glass tumbler and a bottle from the top liquors shelf, then
poured. “Secondly,” he added after taking a long pull of dark liquid, “I’m not
your coworker. I’m your boss.”
He strolled toward the stage with an air of relaxed
sophistication. Somehow the drink he held and the slight dishevelment of his
clothing only added to his sleek attractiveness and confident allure.
Pausing at a chair, Bennett bent over and plucked her shirt
off the floor. He straightened and continued toward the stage, then tossed the
top at her with a flick of his wrist. “Here. You may need this.”
Tatum snapped the tee out of the air and pulled it on. Now
fully clothed, she was more than ready to set Mr. Perfect to rights.
“Your father explained to me this afternoon that he and only
he will be my superior. You, Mr. Truitt, are my mentor. Your role is to help
and give advice, not supervise.
into the darkened seating area. Before reaching the looming pole, she
unfastened the top buttons of her cutoff jeans. Two inches of the waistband
opened, giving her even more range of movement.
Mustering her courage, she reached up and grabbed the pole.
Pure instinct took over. One of her legs lifted and entwined the pole, taking
the rest of her body with it. A thrill coursed through her as she spun. She
whirled around and around until the force propelling her wound down, then she
finally let go. The muscles in her arms and thighs ached, but that didn’t
matter. The pleasure of the experience far outweighed the soreness she’d feel
for a while. As long as she worked at Iron Rods and could practice in private,
she’d swing on the damn pole until she’d mastered it.
When the song came to an end, she dropped down into a split
and lifted her arms high over her head in triumph. She imagined hearing the
roar of the crowd cheer at her amazing performance. When she heard real, live
clapping from the front of the club, her stomach clenched as though she’d been
hit with a two-by-four.
Chapter Four
Tatum looked up to see Bennett standing near the bar. Still
in slacks and a dress shirt that had been unbuttoned at the neck, rolled at the
sleeves and no longer boasted a tie, he looked like a seductive calendar model
who had come to life and leapt from the page. If sex could claim the face and
body of a male, Bennett Truitt would be that man. The way her fire was stoked
from just looking at him bordered on being downright sinful.
Her first inclination was to screech from embarrassment and
scurry around the tables and chairs until she found her T-shirt. This striking
man had watched her make a fool of herself while she stripped off her top,
pranced around in a barely there bra, then spun awkwardly around a pole. He
must think her an idiot with the respectability of a streetwalker.
But a strong sense of righteous indignation trumped her
primary reaction. He had been playing Peeping Tom. She didn’t give a flip that
he was hot, the Chief Financial Officer of the holdings company or the son of
the man who owned Iron Rods. No one had the right to intrude on what was
clearly a private moment, even if that moment happened to take place at a strip
club. At the very least, he could have made his presence known.
Pulling together what dignity she could, she dropped her
outstretched arms and pressed her hands onto the catwalk floor to shift her
legs out of the impromptu split. Then, slowly and with purpose, she stood and
refastened the buttons of her shorts.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Mr. Truitt. Do you always spy on
your coworkers or is this a new habit?” She cringed as the taunt flew from her
mouth. When would she learn to hold her flippant tongue?
One of Bennett’s dark eyebrows hitched. “Let me begin by
saying I was hardly spying. I called out your name several times when I came in
the front door, but you had the music too loud to hear me.” He walked behind the
bar, grabbed a glass tumbler and a bottle from the top liquors shelf, then
poured. “Secondly,” he added after taking a long pull of dark liquid, “I’m not
your coworker. I’m your boss.”
He strolled toward the stage with an air of relaxed
sophistication. Somehow the drink he held and the slight dishevelment of his
clothing only added to his sleek attractiveness and confident allure.
Pausing at a chair, Bennett bent over and plucked her shirt
off the floor. He straightened and continued toward the stage, then tossed the
top at her with a flick of his wrist. “Here. You may need this.”
Tatum snapped the tee out of the air and pulled it on. Now
fully clothed, she was more than ready to set Mr. Perfect to rights.
“Your father explained to me this afternoon that he and only
he will be my superior. You, Mr. Truitt, are my mentor. Your role is to help
and give advice, not supervise.
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