Married to a Stripper
Then, at nine sharp, the crack of heels split the quiet.
Sophie.
Tall. Flame-haired. A black sheath like armor. Her curves hit first, full bust cinched tight, waist narrow, hips powerful. Voluptuous without apology, every line controlled. Wine-dark mouth, porcelain skin, hair twisted into submission.
Her gaze swept me, clinical, peeling me raw without touching.
“You’re Amber,” Sophie said. Not a question. A verdict.
I lifted my chin. “So they tell me. And you are?”
“Your salvation, apparently.”
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