Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
He strips my invisibility cloak with three quick sentences. “Come on, Cici.” He spits out my stripper name, announcing he knows it’s an alias. “You gave me a fake name and number, and I still tracked you down. That’s gotta be worth something, doesn’t it?”
When I remain quiet, soundlessly praying for the timer in the manager’s office to go off five minutes early, he tries a different approach. “Unless you’d rather discuss this over dinner?”
I don’t have time for attachments, but even if I did, canceling this routine mid-show would entitle him to a full refund. I can’t let that happen. The club has been dead all week, and I’ve already decided how to spend the money from this routine.
With shaky hands, I remove the pins from the wavy wig. I usually pick wigs to match the club I’m dancing at. Chocolate brown felt right for Sicilian turf.
Once my blonde hair hangs freely down my shoulders, I force myself to follow the routine I’ve done a hundred times. I know this performance better than the back of my hand, and I won’t let anything deter me from performing it.
Not even him.
The music feels too personal for the two of us, but I sway in time with it while tracing arcs in the air with my arms. My show is the same seductive routine I always perform, but tonight it feels different. The crowd’s energy isn’t there, and there’s no noise to drown out my unexpected nerves.
It’s just me, the music, and him.
Even though I focus on my steps and how the sequin fringe of my metallic bikini top shimmers with every twirl, his needy gaze on me prickles my skin with desire. I’m used to being admired, but not like this. It feels like more than a wish for a one-night stand. It’s blazing hot.
In minutes, a fine mist of sweat coats my skin, and my bikini bottoms become damp. Needing to hide their wetness, I prance off the stage and move intimately close to the man still only known as Camille’s father.
After standing behind him so the tufts of his dark hair tickle my breasts, I drag my nails over his chest and stomach. I seldom touch patrons, but the charged atmosphere tonight compels me to act recklessly.
The change-up hides my soaked panties from his view. It doesn’t help relieve the pressure building low in my core. His pecs are firm under my hand, and his abs are stacked.
The more I drag my hands over them, the hotter I become. I’m burning up all over and confident only a little bit of friction will send me free-falling into ecstasy.
Needing to save this wreck before it crashes, I try to yank my hands away. Camille’s dad snatches up my wrists before I can. He doesn’t move my hands toward the bulge in his pants. Instead, he keeps them close to the dress shirt now clinging to his skin and then flares his nostrils.
His growl expresses approval of the scent wafting from me, but denial is the game I’ve been playing for over twenty years.
“Touching is extra.”
His smile. Kill. Me. Now. It’s reflected in the mirrored walls and intoxicates my senses.
Then, teasingly slow, he digs another handful of notes out of his wallet and places them on the bonus three hundred I’ve already earned. There’s easily a thousand on the table now.
“Enough?”
Shock—or is it displeasure?—flashes in his eyes when I lift my chin. I won’t give him the full works for a mere thousand, but I’m okay with the occasional touch and maybe a stroke or two.
Who wouldn’t be? He is outrageously gorgeous, and his body is divine.
Only a fool would give up an opportunity like this.
Shockingly, he releases my wrists before locking his eyes with mine in the mirror. “Dance… with your hands on me.”
My pulse skyrockets when I dip my chin, agreeing with his request. I bob around him, in front of him, and behind him, before the sultry tension I’m trying to suffocate by remembering my responsibilities becomes too much.
Then I dance on top of him.
The landing of the cartwheel I’ve seen Mia do a hundred times confirms what I’ve known for the last ten minutes. He’s as hard as steel against the zipper of his trousers, and I struggle not to unnecessarily grind down.
As the music fades, I try to shift my weight from his groin to his thigh. Like earlier, he clamps my hips and holds me against him.
An unforeseen moan ripples through my O-formed lips when he rocks his hips upward, teasingly rubbing the head of his cock through the folds of my pussy.
Two more grinds and I’ll be done.
That’s how close to the edge I am. He smells so good and looks divine. He’s every stripper’s desired client. But this isn’t me. I left everything I knew because I refused to be a commodity, so why am I allowing someone I hardly know to pull me backward?