Teaser Tuesday: Shameless by Gina L Maxwell

“I’ll make you a deal,” the deep voice behind me says.

Steeling myself against his charms (aka, his godlike body and off-the-charts sex appeal), I turn around. Jesus, did he somehow get hotter in the last few seconds? Chance is like my own personal kryptonite. If I have any hope of surviving this with my dignity intact, I need to keep plenty of distance between us and kindly dismiss him from my apartment.

No problem. Here I go.

“What kind of deal?”

Damn it!

“The kind where I fix your sink, and you let me dance for you.”

That gets my attention. “Fix my sink?”

He nods. “If you let me dance for you afterward.”

“How do you even know you can fix it?”

“Let’s say I’ve been around the handyman block.”

I snort. “I’ll just bet you have.”

Ignoring my tiny barb, he asks, “Do we have a deal?”

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms, preparing to haggle. I really, really want my sink fixed. “So, you’ll do that, and all I have to do is let you dance for me? As in, from across the room?”

Chance crosses his arms like mine, though he actually appears intimidating whereas I’m lucky if I pass for indifferent. “As in, you sit, and I dance the way I always do. Very up-close and very personal.”

Shit shit shit. There’s no universe in which Chance grinds all over me where we don’t end up screwing like rabbits. Not if what happened a few minutes ago is anything to go by. But as much as I’d love to let go and have myself a much needed fling, a small part of me can’t help but wonder how many clients he hooks up with on a regular basis, and the idea of being another hash mark on his G-string doesn’t sit well with me.

In the end, I decide to go with the lesser of two evils— resisting sex-on-a-very-big-stick versus living with backed up water so gross it could be a middle school science experiment.

“Okay, we have a deal,” I say, holding out my hand for a businesslike shake. “My sink for your dance.”

Chance steps forward and takes my hand, dwarfing it with his massive paw. But instead of shaking it like I intended, he lifts the front of his tank with his other hand and drags my palm down his bare chest, over his ripped abs, and continues past where his coveralls hang low on his hips. I snatch my hand away like his package is a hot pan, before it gets a mind of its own and starts groping instead of behaving.

My kryptonite chuckles. “Just thought you might want a sample of what’s to come.”

There he goes again, using the word “come” all innocently, like he isn’t trying to put thoughts of orgasms in my head. Okay, he probably isn’t doing that in the least. But as he winks at me and ambles toward the bathroom, I have to wonder if maybe that wasn’t his intention after all. Oh, and I was right. His skin? Incredibly supple and touchable.

I. Am so. Screwed.

People say I’m shameless. They’re right.I like my work dirty and my sex even dirtier. It takes a hell of a lot to tilt my moral compass, and dancing as a private stripper for horny suburbanites doesn’t even register. Neither does hooking up with them afterward whenever the mood strikes—it’s one of the bennies of the job—but it’s always a one-and-done. I don’t do repeat performances. Ever.Until I meet the one girl in all of Chicago not interested in dry humping my junk. She’s all I can think about, and that’s a problem, because I made sure she wants nothing to do with me. But I’ve seen her deepest secrets, her darkest fantasies, and they match mine to a fucking T.

I want her. Bad.

Now I need to show her how good it can feel…to be shameless.