Controlling Her Pleasure Read Online Free

enough to give the patrons a glimpse of her white cotton panties with the lace trim, fueling enough naughty into her moves to keep the men panting, but keeping it clean enough that the crowd didn’t get out of hand.
    It was an art—walking that fine line—but one she’d perfected in the past month.
    She worked her way up and down the length of the bar one last time, collecting another twenty bucks before the closing bell sounded. Moments later, “Happy Trails to You,” the bar’s signature closing song, began to play and Erin stopped dancing, drawing sounds of protest from several of the drunker patrons.
    “See you tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said with a grin and a flutter of her fingers.
    Always leave them wanting more.
    “Hey, Angel, can you clean up the well?” Cassandra shouted from where she was loading the last batch of glasses into the dishwasher behind the bar. “I’ve got everything else ready to close.”
    “Sure thing,” Erin said, already feeling the familiar exhaustion that washed over her at the end of the night, once the adrenaline rush was over.
    She pulled her shirt down and was preparing to hop down from her perch when a large hand closed gently around her ankle. Her first instinct when customers tried to take looking at the goods to the next level was usually a slap on the wrist and then a kick somewhere more painful if they didn’t wise up fast.
    But for some reason, the feel of this hand was different, intriguing.
    Electric…
    Then she heard the voice that went with the hand and dry panties were a thing of the past. “Nice tattoo. What I can see of it.”
    Damn. A voice like that, so deep it practically had its own reverb, was almost enough to make her forget she’d sworn off men for the next ten years. Or twenty, depending on the day and how much time she’d had to think about Scott.
    “Thanks. It made me famous,” she said, smiling down into the shadowed face of one of the biggest men she’d ever seen in real life.
    He was six and a half feet tall, at least, and the way his arms and chest stretched out his sweater left no doubt he was strong enough to snap her in half without breaking a sweat. The very thought of something like that should have been enough to cool her rapidly heating blood, but it wasn’t. She was a hopeless case when it came to big, strong, domineering men.
    Even after three years with a Dominant man who had made her life a living hell and taken away everything that meant something to her, a part of Erin still fantasized about finding someone man enough to take control of her the way a real Dominant would. The way she’d seen some of the men at the clubs treat their subs. With respect and even love. Like their submissives were precious things to be treasured, protected, and valued, not lower life forms as interchangeable as sheets of Kleenex.
    “I think you’ve got a few other things going for you other than a tattoo,” the man said, his thumb caressing the inside of her ankle, sending a sizzle of awareness racing up her leg.
    God, she’d never been so glad she’d chosen heels instead of her fuck-me boots.
    Though those could have been good, too. She could already see herself pulling this man into her tiny studio in South Pasadena and taking off everything but her boots. Then she’d turn around, lean over the bed, and show him how wet she was, how ready to take whatever he was packing in those black jeans. He wouldn’t say a word, or maybe he’d just tell her to spread her legs a little wider. Then he’d be behind her, large hands gripping her hips, thick cock spearing inside where she was—
    “You want to go somewhere?” the man asked. “Talk?”
    “We’ve got to close up,” Erin said, the tremor in her voice betraying where her thoughts had been headed. “But I know a diner not too far from here. We could get a coffee.”
    “I’d love a coffee. My car is in the back lot,” her mystery man said, reaching a hand up to help her off the bar.