StripperwithSpice, page 10
Watching him sends me back to that hotel room. He’s not caressing the chaps. He’s stroking my flushed skin. Each roll of his lithe, narrow hips sends his cock deeper into my waiting pussy.
Maybe the fireman got me with his hose because suddenly I’m wet all over. Sweat glues the ugly caftan to my body, and my panties are so creamy I almost slide off my chair.
His fingers fool with some knots and the chaps come flying off. Next to go are the jeans, which he magically tears away. Omigod. There he is, completely naked except for a black G-string. I fight the impulse to run onstage and cover him from other eyes with the jacket in my lap.
For the first time, he gives the audience a full white smile. My hands fiddle with my glass, nearly knocking it over. I can’t handle this. He’s too hot. Too far away. He sure doesn’t look ready to retire.
His muscles flex and ripple with his hypnotic movements and his skin glows as if it’s been lightly oiled. I squint in concentration. His glow isn’t just slathered on. It’s coming from inside him. He loves this.
The audience screams even louder than it did for Bombastic Brian. Carlos is definitely a master at his craft. Why couldn’t he have a different craft? Preferably something that kept him fully clothed around other women.
Why can’t he just dance for me?
I grip the table when the moment I dread arrives. As Brian did, he struts around the stage while women come tip him. My jaw clenches hard enough to crack my teeth when the women run their hands all over his bare flesh. I can’t even count the number of feminine hands in the vicinity of Carlos’ crotch.
They touch his buttocks and even brush across the bulge of his cock as they stuff bills into the G-string. In return he kisses them on the cheek as if he’s a perfect gentleman. There’s so much money flying around, some of it falls on the stage and an older man sweeps it up with a broom. Most of the girls are pretty and young. Some are even knockouts.
How can I possibly survive such fierce competition for his attention? I might as well not even bother. Why couldn’t he be a farmer, surrounded by soybeans instead of other women? My heart, now a damp clump of sod, sags low in my chest. Feeling nauseous again, I gulp more ginger ale. I’ll probably need a case of it to finish out the night.
“Get your paws off him,” I want to growl. He’s mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!
When he finally exits, I release a big sigh. The other three solo dance acts pass by in a blur. I think the third guy is a mountain man, the fourth a vampire and the fifth an Indian who looks a lot like Cochise from the romance convention, but I can’t be sure.
I glance at my watch in the dim light, shocked by how late it is already. These people obviously don’t have day jobs. I’ll have to drink as much coffee as Bombastic Brian just to keep my eyes open at work tomorrow. The other women must live locally too. Cruising the DC beltway alone in the wee hours of the morning is not a thrilling prospect.
After the final act, the announcer encourages the women to tip the bartenders well since they’re working so hard.
“And now is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Lap dances!” The announcer yells the last two words, eliciting the loudest cheering yet. “I heard we have a birthday in the house.”
Rhonda jumps up and points to Cindy. “Over here!”
“That means the first lap dance is yours. Who’s it going to be?”
I dig my nails into my palms under the table. Not Carlos. Don’t say Carlos. Please, please, please. I’ll just die if I have to watch him give a strange woman a lap dance right under my nose.
“Can I have Cool Hand Carlos?” Cindy calls out.
“You certainly can.” The announcer looks toward backstage. “Oh, Carlos. You’re wanted on the floor.”
“Oh, yeah!” Rhonda says. “I got my twenties ready.”
Shit! He’s coming this way. If he recognizes me, I’ll die of embarrassment. The confident expert who sashays to our table almost seems a different person than the gentle man who bared his heart to me the other night over dinner.
I take his jacket from my lap, hook it over my fingers and lean my elbow on the table, hoping it will hide my face from him.
He grabs it out of my hand. “Thanks. Which one of you is the birthday girl?”
Rhonda, ever helpful, points her out again. He gives Cindy a big smile, takes the jacket and wraps it around the back of her, drawing her forward.
Hey! That’s the same trick he did to me when he walked me to the car on our date. At the time, it seemed heartfelt and special. Now I see it for what it is, a technique.
“Touch him!” Rhonda yells.
Someone put a muzzle on this woman before I choke her.
Cindy’s twentysomething hands skim his chest, tentatively at first and then with more enthusiasm. Easy, girl. I’m sitting close enough to knock your head off.
“What’s your name, querida?” Carlos asks.
Querida?! That’s what he calls me.
“Cindy.”
“That’s it, Cindy,” he tells her. “Rub me. That makes me so hot.”
I gulp the rest of my ginger ale as the worst nausea yet seizes me. Lap dances include dirty talk? Hearing that familiar honeyed voice say personal things to other women has to be worst sacrilege imaginable.
Meanwhile, Rhonda is busy stuffing bills into his G-string with her scarlet fake nails. My fingers clench the edge of the table until they ache. I should have invited Zena along for moral support. Better yet, I shouldn’t have come at all. Gathering the facts has never been this painful.
“Sit on the edge of your chair, honey,” he tells Cindy next, “and spread your legs for me.”
Say what? I hope the screaming has just given me auditory hallucinations.
He stands there, still moving, running his hand across the ever-bulging G-string. What the hell does he plan to do, fuck the girl right here?
“I’m so hard for you, Cindy,” he says, his voice dripping with seductive honey. “Do you want me?”
“Yes,” she croons. “Oh, yes.”
The ache in my fingers and nausea in my gut disappear. Now I’m completely numb. If I’m lucky, my senses will shut off too until I can no longer see his gyrating body, smell his unique scent or hear his suggestive words.
Resembling the proverbial deer in the headlights, Cindy slides to the edge of her seat as he asked.
Rhonda chucks her on the shoulder. “I told you to wear a miniskirt tonight.”
I suppose it’s a good thing she’s wearing jeans instead until he nestles between her outspread legs and thrusts, dry fucking her. Every ounce of my blood drains to my feet. Even worse, Cindy wraps her legs around him and kisses him on the mouth. He pulls his face away, but not fast enough, in my opinion.
Oh, my God. Get me out of here before I throw up, die, kill someone or all three.
My chair falls over during my hasty exit, but I’m sure the others don’t even notice. They’re too wrapped up in Cool Hand Carlos. His stage name ought to be Horny Hot Hands.
I run around the parking lot at least twice as if I’m a madwoman, looking for my car. I’m not in a fit enough mental state to recognize it, much less drive it. Fittingly it’s raining. When I find my car, I drop the keys on the wet, dirty pavement twice. My hands shake so hard I can barely pick them up.
A male hand reaches down, scoops them up for me and opens the door. I wince at the loud squeak that reveals its age.
“Carlos, get away from me. I just want to go home.”
He’s wearing jeans now, but still no shirt, and he pockets my keys. “You’re not driving in the state you’re in.”
When he lets himself inside to sit in the passenger seat, what choice do I have except to sit in the driver’s seat? Not that I feel the rain. My body is as numb as a slab of Arctic Sea ice.
Part of me wonders what he’ll think of my sun-bleached dashboard or the radio buttons with the color worn off from years of channel changing. The other part reminds me it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me or my car. He won’t be with either for long.
“What the hell are you doing here, Janice?” he demands as soon as I close my door, enclosing us inside.
“I wanted to see what your job is really like,” I say quietly, staring straight ahead at the rain-pocked windshield. “I got a pretty good idea.”
“You shouldn’t have just shown up like this,” he tells me. “I planned to ease you into it gradually and warn you about what to expect.”
I shake my head. “That wouldn’t have helped. Everything I saw tonight shocked me. You practically had sex with that girl right in front of me.”
He folds his arms and leans back in the seat. “I didn’t have sex with her. I gave her a lap dance. There’s a difference.”
“Not much,” I mutter.
“It was her birthday and I created a fantasy for her. La fantasía. It’s my job.”
I venture a glance at him, but that just makes my insides curdle even more. Everything special I’d felt about him had turned to ash tonight.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask.
He holds his hands out, palms up. “I’m just being logical with you. Isn’t that what you want?”
No, what I want is you—all to myself.
“Please don’t be mad.” He sighs. “Did you enjoy yourself at all tonight?”
“The dancing onstage I could handle even though I wasn’t crazy about having all those women watch you.”
“Did I make you hot?” he whispers.
My cheeks burn as I look away. “I’m not answering that, but I have a question for you. How did you get those pants off so fast?”
“They’re called tear-away pants for a reason.”
Of course. There’s so much I don’t know about this world. I’m not sure I want to know either.
“You got to watch the other guys dance too,” he points out. “It’s not all one-sided.”
I barely remember the other guys except the one with the fireman’s hose because his act was kind of funny.
He touches my cold, wet arm with his warm hand. “What are you really upset about? We’re not in a relationship…yet.”
Hmm. I know I’m upset but I’m not sure why. The urge to scream or sob courses through me, making my breaths hard and uneven. Emotions and analysis clearly don’t mix. Think, Janice. What do you usually do when an analytical problem throws you? Start asking questions.
“I thought the person getting the lap dance isn’t allowed to touch the person giving it,” I throw out there.
“That’s only when girls dance for guys because guys can be pretty aggressive.”
I think of Rhonda and her bill-stuffing, fake-nailed claws. “Some of those women looked pretty aggressive to me.”
“We have touching limits too,” he adds. “Mostly the women just fondle our chests, and if it wasn’t the girl’s birthday, I probably would have just straddled her waist.”
Gee, that’s reassuring. “Why can’t you just dance onstage? Isn’t that enough?”
He drops his hand. “Lap dancing is where I make the most money. I’d be broke if I didn’t do them.”
Get out of my car. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I want you out of my life. I wish you’d never entered my life. Now that you have, I don’t know what to do with you.
Feeling torn to shreds is worse than being alone. I should have stopped at the one-night stand.
I draw a shaky breath. “Okay, do you know what really upsets me? The time we spent together felt really special. Maybe that’s because I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Seeing you with those other women tonight made those memories cheap and meaningless.”
Emotion I can’t control surges through me, so I put up my right hand to shield my face from him. He yanks it down.
“What we had is not cheap. It was just as special to me as it was to you. Would I be here right now losing money if I didn’t have feelings for you?”
“Okay, maybe you let those other women feel you up just for the money. Doesn’t that make you a male whore?”
I clap my shaking hand over my mouth, shocked by my own cruel words. Why am I being so vicious? When I first met him, I didn’t mind that he was a stripper. It just made him sexier. Now that I’ve seen his world, though, I don’t see a place in it for me.
“That’s cold, Janice,” he says through gritted teeth, “but I’m glad you’re jealous.”
“Huh?”
He reaches over and traces my cheek with his fingers, sending delicious chills down to my toes.
“It means you care. It means you want me all to yourself. You want a relationship with me.”
I lurch against my seat, as if someone just trespassed into my deepest thoughts, and start the engine.
“Good night, Carlos. Call me when you retire.”
He turns the engine back off. “Don’t dismiss me that way. I’m not giving up on you without a fight.”
Taking a deep breath, I tense every muscle in my body as I enunciate each word clearly.
“Let me make myself perfectly clear. I don’t want you.”
“The hell you don’t.” Yanking the key out, he tosses it on the floor and tugs my arm. “Get on my lap.”
I frown at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re about to get the lap dance of your life, querida.”
Chapter Eight
Querida. The word sets off such a deep smoldering in my loins I almost forget the fact he uttered it to another woman earlier. When he looks into my eyes, I realize we are the only two entities in the car—not his career, his past nor all the women he dances for. Just him and me. Of all the things he could have done after the show, he chose to be here. I need this one dance before I can make up my mind about him.
He fists one hand in the hair at the back of my head, setting off erotic tingles of pain and pleasure across my scalp, while his other hand tweaks my nipples through the polyester fabric of the short-sleeved caftan.
Say no, my common sense tells me. Once I fall under his sexual spell, I know I’ll never be able to escape.
Releasing me, he fumbles with the controls on the right side of his seat and it leans back. Jealousy, raw and bittersweet, still flows through my veins, but instead of dampening my desire, it increases it. Picturing him bumping his hard cock between Cindy’s outspread thighs hardens my clit to an aching point because the other girl melts away. In place of her face and body, I see mine. Every dance, every smile—is for me. It’s too strange to figure out so I won’t even try.
My cock. My man. I’ve got to have him now.
The car is small, so I hitch the hem of the long caftan above my knees and clamber onto his lap with the grace of a disabled elephant. The friction from the cloth seats doesn’t help matters any. He pulls up the hem even more so I can straddle him face-to-face. Once I’m in position with my legs folded at the knees, I roll it up to my navel.
“Um, is this where you want me, Carlos?”
“Oh, yeah.” Because my left thigh is against the door, he strokes my right one from knee to hip, making me shiver. “You’re in position to give me a lap dance, not the other way around, but that’s fine with me.”
For a moment, all I can do is grip his bare shoulders and bury my face in his neck. The texture of his hair and his unique scent are so familiar. Maybe a stranger had taken over his body tonight. My Carlos is back.
On the verge of tears, my eyes sting.
“It’s all right, Janice,” he whispers. “We’ll work this out.”
His face turns, catching my mouth in a kiss as the smell of rain mingles with this scent. When I think of Cindy kissing him, my lips devour his with even more hunger. “I won,” I want to tell her. “This is my man. Now watch me!” It’s as if I’m sitting in that club, naked, spread-legged and starving for his cock to enter me in front of all those people.
The fact that this arouses me is so unsettling I have to turn away to catch my breath. Grabbing my chin, he pulls my mouth back to his and plunders me with the most passionate kiss I’ve ever experienced. His lips taste ripe and spicy as if he just chewed a stick of cinnamon gum.
The kiss sucks, pulls and claims every part of my trembling mouth. His fluttering tongue is a weapon—sparring to mirror our argument while teasing me and branding me as his at the same time.
I’ve never even seen a kiss like this in a movie. It consumes me from the inside out. “I’m yours and you’re mine,” it seems to say.
He slides down a little and tugs my hips as if to pull them forward, but my knees are already against the back of the seat. How do teenagers make out in cars? I don’t remember it being this difficult. Even the simplest movements require major planning.
Needing to feel him between my legs no matter what, I raise my right knee, resting my foot on the seat bottom beside Carlos’ thigh. Finally the crotch of my panties rests on the hard bulge in his jeans.
Although I order myself not to move, I can’t help myself. I rub my aching pussy across him, again and again, harder and harder. Using such force in this position is not easy on my knees, but the rest of me feels so good I tune out the discomfort. He moves too until my breaths lodge in my throat, strangled and raspy.
I splay my fingers across his chest to keep my footing, to keep my heart from being sucked into the vortex of this incredibly attractive man. But it’s too late. I’m losing ground. Every grain of resistance I’ve felt tonight erodes under my feet.
Fog from our heavy breathing coats the windows and I need more, more, more. His skin is so hot it nearly scorches my palms, chasing away the cool dampness in the car. I need to feel it against me.
Because his right arm is against the door, he strokes the damp cotton between my legs with his left hand, molding it to my crease. “Mmm, white cotton panties. I think I like these as much as the thong.”
Sweet sensations emanate from his expert fingertips, encircling my entire cleft.
“Nothing has ever made them this wet before,” I admit.
His grin is shadowy in the dim light from the nearby streetlight. “Let’s get these off and see how wet you really are.”
