Chapter 11

"You'll be in a private booth. We've got muscle standing outside. Club policy is no touching, but you want my advice, darlin'? Let the men's hands roam, you'll make twice as much by the end of the night."

I shiver, wrapping myself more tightly in my coat as the owner explains all this. He barely blinked when I arrived and said I'm looking for work — strictly dancing, strictly private. I can't risk men who know my father seeing me on a stage. I try not to think about the possibility they could come in here, instead.

And I have a gun in my pocket. If any man gets too handsy, I can blow his brains out. I have my escape routes all planned, and I doubt anyone would remember the new girl who showed up looking for work. I doubt the owner would want the cops sniffing around here because a client earned himself a bullet.

By the end of the night, I'm hoping the owner and every other worker will be so drunk they'll tell me anything. And the other dancers and prostitutes will confide in me. That's the power of sisterhood. That's the advantage Tommy Shelby will never be able to gain in this place.

"Any questions?" The owner asks, leading me to a booth.

"Can I pick the music?"

"No. The men can."

My heart sinks a little. I push through a heavy velvet curtain to get inside, thinking that this might be the most insane thing I've ever done. And that's saying something.

The walls inside are painted a dark maroon, with a gramophone pushed against one wall and coloured oil lamps glowing softly, barely illuminating. There's a chaise, somewhere between an armchair and a sofa, and a pole in the corner. Mirrors line each wall, and I watch my heard turn over and over and over again in the reflections as I glance around.

It's alright, I decide. Maybe I'll just kill every man who comes in here. Play the music so loud nobody hears the gunshots, and pile up the bodies. By the time anyone finds out, I'll have what I need and be gone...

"Your first client's here," a muffled voice warns me through the curtain.

Oh, fuck. My hands really begin to shake now. Relax. It's just dancing. Just dance, and kill. Dance and kill.

Curtain links graze across the rail as someone enters. I see a silhouette in the mirror moving slowly. My breathing quickens. He steps forward. My eyes squeeze shut, and I fight to calm myself, to draw in measured, even breaths. Dance and kill. I can do this. I turn around to lay eyes on my client.

Fuck dancing. My mind goes straight to kill.

"Evening, Kimber," Thomas Shelby says, taking the seat.

Elation and adrenaline cascades through me. Equal parts relief and annoyance, peace and rage, until my rage wins out.

Just barely.

"I thought I told you to stop stalking me," I say through clenched teeth. "How the fuck did you know I was here?"

"I have men watching you," he says, the words falling easily from his lips with no shame. "If you try to leave Birmingham, I'll know you stole the guns."

I scowl and open my mouth to bite back, but then a man calls through the curtain, "Less talking, more dancing."

I have no choice but to cross the booth to the gramophone. I feel Tommy's gaze raking over me as I move. Privately, now the dust has settled, I'm a little calmer that it's him and not another man. The anxious knot that wound itself inside my stomach comes loose.

"I'm told you're to choose the music," I say.

"Your taste would far outweigh mine, Kimber."

I rifle through the collection, choosing at random. A burlesque number comes on, loud enough to drown out anything we say to each other. My hips absent-mindedly sway just a little to the music before I turn around, ready to start arguing with Tommy again.

But... fuck. The way the man looks at me... it's like undressing me with his eyes. I respond instinctively, letting the robe fall to the floor and leaving my body on display, covered only by thin scraps of lace. My mind clouds over. Music throbs through the room. And Tommy's dark gaze pins me in place.

"I believe you owe me a dance," he says quietly.

I narrow my eyes. Fine. If you want a dance, you're getting one.

His eyes never leave as I take slow steps towards him. With my knees pressed together, I sway my ass slowly to the ground, then lean over him as I come up again. My chest curves out towards his face as I lean in closer, until we're inches apart.

"I planned to kill every man that comes in here," I whisper, my lips against his ear. "Will you be one of them?"

I pull away, searching his face for any indication as to his answer.

His eyes burn. "I booked you out for the night. Afraid it's only going to be me here."

Ordinarily I'd scowl in response, but now I put that anger into my performance. Turning my back on him, I part my legs, one either side of his. If I sit, I'll be straddling him. Riding him.

I lean ever so slightly forward, my ass protruding just a little towards his face. "You had no right," I say.

Turning my head, I see his hands clench onto the arms of the seat. I fight the strange urge to laugh. Am I actually making him nervous? Thomas Shelby, lost for words?

I catch a glint of the bodyguard's eyes through the curtain, checking I'm putting on a good enough show. I dance all the way forward, bent completely over, ass stuck all the way out for Tommy. I stay there for only a second before the bodyguard leaves, and I turn to face Tommy once more.

His lips part. He doesn't move a muscle as I take his hand, lifting it from the arm of the chair, so I can sit. My hair falls into his lap as I arch back.

"You don't seem to be enjoying my dance," I say, eyebrows raised.

"What gives you that impression?" His voice is low and huskier than I've ever heard it before.

"You're just so quiet." I pull myself upright. "Barely biting back. It's not like you."

But still he does not speak. Only watches, gaze burning into me, until I move behind the chair. From behind him, I press my hands onto his shoulders, running them down his chest and torso. I'd only hoped to infuriate him, to finally make him snap — but something flickers inside me as soon as we touch. Even if the fabric of his shirt does separate our skin, my body doesn't seem to care.

His rigid muscles are firm beneath my fingertips. The heat of him blazes all the way through my arms, shocking me straight to my core...

"Your turn to be quiet, Kimber?" he murmurs.

No. I'm not going to let him win this, even if I'm currently incapable of speech. My hands work their way up to his throat, fingers curling around the satin knot of his tie. It glides against my fingers, easily sliding loose as I tug it free.

His neck tenses beneath me. I could claim it as a victory — but I'm not done yet. I slip the first buttons of his shirt free, gently spreading the fabric to expose his chest. I can't remember anymore if this is to antagonise him or myself. Fuck, he's warm beneath my fingers, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He tips his head back, and his hair tickles at the bare skin of my breasts, spilling out over my bra. It's like a brush against every single nerve ending in my body.

I loop the tie around his neck, holding his head in place as I stand and walk around to face him once more. His eyes, half-shut only moments ago, fix me firmly in place.

Until they beckon me closer.

Fuelled on the lust running through me, I grow more daring. Bring my knees either side of his hips and kneel over him. So close to straddling him, if I lowered my ass just a few inches, I'd be grinding on him, able to feel every inch of him...

And then he brushes his fingers against the outer edge of my thighs. A small gasp escapes my lips. Everything in my body tightens in response.

"You're not supposed to touch," I whisper.

He pulls his hands away. "Would you like me to stop?"

The sexiest thing about this man might be that, if I say yes, I know he won't touch me again all night.

But in this moment, that's the last thing I want.

I pull his hands back to my thighs again, pressing his palms flat against my bare skin. His fingers dig into me as I rest my forearms on the back of the chair, my chest flush with his face. He leans in, raking his jaw across each curve of my breasts, the tip of his nose trailing a pattern into my skin. I forget how to breathe.

"What's your plan, Kimber?" he asks, murmured against my flesh.

I become vaguely aware of my head tipped back in lust, my eyes half-shut. I blink a little, forcing the blood in my body away from my vagina and back to my brain.

"Interrogate the owner. The dancers."

He pulls his head away and tilts back until his face is inches from my own. "And what are you going to ask them?"

Even as he questions me, his hands graze across the soft skin of my thighs and come to cup my ass. I let out a soft whimper as he toys with the elastic of my lingerie, his fingertips burning against me.

"About the guns," I finally manage.

In one quick motion, he pulls the elastic back and lets go, forcing it to slap against my ass. I cry out, gasping at the sting.

"No, Kimber. We need to be more discrete than that." One hand stays on my ass, still playing with my underwear, as he brings the other to my waist. "Think."

But my brain refuses to function. In some quiet recess of my mind, I know this is bad. I should be punching this man in the dick for even touching me.

But it just feels so fucking good.

"The cars?" I whimper.

"Good girl." His hand trails to my navel, right above the cusp of my underwear, and rubs his thumb in small circles across my skin. "How clever you are."

I suck in a breath. With each word that leaves his mouth, I clench with need — but this topic of conversation fights to slowly return me to my senses. The areas of my brain that aren't focused on how good Tommy feels — not that there's many left — slowly begin waking up again.

"We ask about Billy Kimber," I say. "Gauge their reactions. Then we know who to interrogate further."

"I'll do the talking," he says.

My eyes snap firmly open. "Not a chance."

Both our movements still. Tilting my head to the side, I release a small sigh of frustration, drawing myself back to my senses.

"Kimber," he says quietly. "What's that on your face?"

Oh, shit. "Makeup."

He grasps me by the cheeks, rougher than he's ever been, and forces me to look at him. He tilts my head in the glow of the lamps.

"Who hit you?" The darkness in his voice almost has me trembling in fear.

Fuck. "Nobody," I say quickly. "Must have been those thugs with the car."

"They didn't touch you."

"What does it matter, Tommy?" I snap, pulling away from him and getting to my feet. "We have work to do."

"Was it your father?" He asks. "Or one of his men?"

"Fuck off, Shelby."

"Do I need to ask him myself?" His voice grows louder. The music has stopped. "Pay him a visit, ask him how he could put his hands on his own daughter like that?"

"I said, drop it!" I clutch my trench coat and draw the gun from the pocket.

I flash the silver. Hoping to threaten him, to warn him not to push this. But if there's one man the threat of a gun doesn't work on, apparently it's Thomas Shelby.

"If I see marks on you again, he's a dead man," he threatens, voice quiet once more.

It suddenly becomes very important to slip my arms into the coat, hiding the scars from years of cigar burns. That might push him over the edge.

The curtain snaps open. The bodyguard pokes his head in, taking in the scene, gun and all. "I don't know what kind of role play shit this is, but you both need to leave. Now."

"Agreed," Thomas says. He takes me by the elbow. "Come on."