Hi guys! We have B.A. Tortuga popping in today with her upcoming re-release Private Dances, we have a brilliant guest post from B.A. and a great excerpt, so check out the post and enjoy! ❤ ~Pixie~
Dale is working his way through college as an exotic dancer. While he prefers to keep his performances public, it’s tough to say no to the private dances, even though they’re risky. Three songs, just dancing, no touching—Dale can do this and be handsomely compensated.
For Italian businessman Adriano “Gen” Genovese, the handsome cowboy tempts him into wanting more than one dance. Gen convinces Dale to indulge in another dance and a night in his decadent hotel room. He introduces Dale to a glittering world of wealth on a scale Dale has never even imagined.
As the romance between the down-home Texas student and the millionaire playboy heats up, they come to realize the only risk they face is losing their hearts.
First Edition published by Torquere Press, 2006.
Second Edition published by Smashwords Edition, 2012.
Hey y’all. I’m BA Tortuga and I write a lot of cowboys. It’s a thing.
I love the whole riding off into the range, the sunset highlighting the shape of the cowboy hat, the sound of the horse’s hooves clopping (or clapping, I’m easy). I love bull riders, bull fighters (the cowboy protection time, not the matador kind). I love ropers and rednecks, good ole boys and hunting guides. I’m also not opposed to southern shapeshifters (mmm…werekitties from the Carolinas and werewolves that say y’all) or the cowboy gentleman vampire.
Then again, sometimes my cowboys don’t live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere or ride horses or bulls.
Sometimes they live in Houston and ride a stripper pole as an exotic dancer in a club.
What? It could happen.
I love the whole idea of slick oiled dancer that meets a wealthy businessman, someone that will sweep him off his feet. A Cinderella story with Cinderella in a cowboy hat, assless chaps, and glitter.
Lots of glitter.
Think about it. Nummy goodness sprinkled with a solid bass beat, a lot of leather and an Italian millionaire who’s addicted.
Everyone’s got their sweet spot.
Much love, y’all.
“I WANNA Be a Cowboy” blared over the speakers, and the lights blazed bright and blinding in his eyes. The first fifteen seconds or so were always a little chilly up on stage, and then the lights on his oiled skin and the dancing warmed him up. Made him sweat.
Dale moved, one hand on the pole, one hand up in the air like he was riding eight seconds. He couldn’t see the eyes watching him, couldn’t hear the hoots or hollers from the crowd, but still, he knew they were there, watching him, trying to see his face under the shadow of the wide brim of his cowboy hat. Watching his prick, his ass framed by the leather chaps.
Shit. No thinking, Dale-man. No thinking. Just listen to the music and dance. That’s it.
Five minutes more and then the shift was over.
Five hundred bucks in his back pocket, baybee. One semester’s worth of books for a night’s work.
He was fixin’ to leave the stage, ready to get his shit and go tip out with the DJ, when the stage manager stopped him. “Hey, man, I know you’re about off, but there’s an offer from one of the boxes. You up for it?”
“How good an offer?” He really needed to study. He had a test tomorrow in anatomy, but rent was coming due….
“Two hundred and you don’t have to tip it out.” Which meant no 10 percent off the top before he ever left the club.
Two hundred. Groceries, man. For a month. “Okay. Which one?”
“The far north box. They’ve been apprised of the rules.” Manny clapped him on the back. “Thanks, man.”
“No sweat.” He slipped on a G-string, then headed up the stairs, whistling along with Rick’s music, the Latin beat catchy, fun, bouncy. There were two guys in the shadowy box, both suits. One was the sort he was used to. Hell, he thought maybe he’d seen the guy before. A little on the hefty side, thick graying hair, thick lips. Not hideous, but nothing he wanted too close to certain parts of him.
The other guy was more in the shadows, sitting back in the lounge chair, a lowball dangling from his hand. Dale was pretty sure he’d never seen that guy before. Not at all. Cheeks like razor blades and eyes that sparkled in the low light—the guy watched him with predatory ease, none of the blustering and pretending he wasn’t interested came from him like it did the other guy.
“I’m Dee. Y’all asked for a private dance?” He tipped the hat low, let his body move to Rick’s music. He wasn’t so good at this part—the talking part.
“We did.” Oh, that voice was like the look—dark and sharp, with a hint of an accent. “Don’t talk, Dee. Just dance.”
“Yes, sir.” Okay, buddy. Close your eyes and listen to the damn music. No thinking.
Except about the money.
Oh… that sounds good.
Maybe mushroom and sausage. Extra cheese.
There was no touching. No inappropriate groping. Just the music and the sound of the big guy breathing hard and the… unnerving silence from the other one. He could feel those eyes on him. He really could.
It made him nervous, made his heart race a touch.
Sorta started to make him hard, which was weird as all hell.
The song ended and another started up, not really Rick’s sort of thing, more his own, which was okay, just a little freaky. But it was a little easier to ride the bronc to. It made him smile, thinking about bronc riding, about the way horses felt when they were moving and how he had managed to use that to make money in the big city.
There. Somewhere there at the end of that song, he heard a sound, and it wasn’t the big guy whimpering, though that was there too, now that he was listening. It sounded like a growl. That was his last bar on that one, and he had one song to go. That was how it went. Private dance was three in a row. The next song was slow, sultry, the house lights going low as George and Hank did their damn-near-fucking-on-stage act. It was surprisingly hot, the guys’ relationship new enough that the emotions weren’t faked, weren’t fucked-up.
Well, that and that blacklight body paint shit they used in their act was fucking cool.
“Dance, not watch, Dee.”
His cheeks burned, and he ducked his head, hiding behind his hat. Great, asshole, blow your tip. Think sexy, sultry. Think about the shit Ollie taught you about dancing. One more song.
He could still see the guys writhing on stage out of the corner of his eye, though, and it helped with the rhythm, helped him concentrate on the music so he could get this over with. The song picked up tempo, and his hips followed it, hand sliding up to work the hat, let it dip low.
He thought it was all gonna go south when the big guy reached for him, because that wasn’t allowed up here, and if they got kicked out, he’d never get his money. Lucky for him, one of the other guy’s hands shot out, grabbing the big man’s wrist, a rough, foreign-sounding word snapping out.
He backed away, stayed closer to the wall, well out of reach until the song ended, the applause from the main floor loud. Okay. Three songs up. Three songs down. Good money. “Hope you enjoyed your dance, fellas.”
“We did.” He could see the glint of a gold ring as the guy, the one with the hot eyes, held out three bills, waiting for him to come take them.
“Thanks.” He moved over, teeth chewing his bottom lip a little. Come on, Dale-man. Get your pizza money and go. His fingers touched the money. “Y’all have a good one.”
“Do you dance again tomorrow?” The man’s fingers never touched his, but he didn’t quite let go of the cash.
“No, sir. Friday through Monday. Every week.” He had classes tomorrow and Thursday. Wednesday was all his.
“I see. Thank you, Dee.” The money slipped into his palm, the barest touch of warm, dry fingers closing his hand around it. “You were most entertaining.”
“Thanks.” He tipped his hat to both of them, backing out of the door with a smile. “Come back and see us.”
He heard the dark one laugh as he left, would swear he heard an “Oh, yes. I will.”
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy’s Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her basset hounds and her beloved wife, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she’s not doing that, she’s writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA’s personal saviors include her wife, Julia Talbot, her best friend, Sean Michael, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the high desert and lives in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head.
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