StripperwithSpice, page 3
In fact the track lights above give his exposed skin a warm, bronzed glow. Sun-warmed, carved wood comes to mind and my cold, clammy hands heat up as I imagine touching him.
Dorothy tugs on the neck of her sweatshirt in a fanning motion. “Is it hot in here?”
“Steamy,” I reply.
Watching one suggestive pose after another has raised my temperature several degrees too. The men must work some kind of magic to get each woman’s face to light up. Carlos exudes it tenfold. My gaze catches every one of his smiles and movements until I’m sure I’ve memorized them all for the rest of my life.
Zena waves at us from the sidelines. “I’m going to get your pictures too.”
My vision and hearing dim when I realize I’m at the head of the line.
Dorothy gives me a gentle shove. “You’re up, Janice.”
Getting my feet to move toward the stage is harder than learning how to walk when I was a toddler. I can’t do this! Why did I come? Why did I sign that stupid paper? When I look up, Carlos looks back at me. Nothing exists but those dark eyes. They reach out to me, pulling me up.
I’m sure my heartbeat has exceeded one hundred-twenty beats per minute as I concentrate on climbing the stage stairs without tripping. As if on cue, the music changes to something slow and sultry with a Latin beat. The other models melt into the background while the audience blurs into a cloud behind the lights shining down on us.
Just inches away, Carlos’ gaze locks onto mine with the force of an earthquake. I take a slow, deep breath to keep from trembling and looking stupid.
“So what do you want to do with me?”
A blush scalds my cheeks. Please tell me I didn’t just say that.
“Put your foot up on the chair,” he says with businesslike authority.
Luckily I wore sandals instead of sneakers and remembered to paint my toenails. A thrill races down my spine and settles in my belly. Hmm. I kind of enjoy having him tell me what to do. It’s too bad he’s not my boss at work.
What’s he going to say next? Take off your clothes? At this moment, I’ll do anything he asks. After all, he’s the model and knows what he’s doing. To hell with the audience.
“I can lift you up.”
Say what? The way he says it reminds me of the construction foreman who renovated the office. We can knock out that wall. The quick analysis and decision quickens my pulse even more.
I guess it’s a good thing I skipped dessert last night. Before I can form another thought, two strong hands grip the undersides of my thighs. Now I understand why he told me to put one foot on the chair. It gave him easier…um…access.
He lifts me as promised. In a sitting position, with my legs hanging down at the knees, my body rises with the smoothness of an elevator ride. I guess I’m supposed to touch him now. Not that I don’t want to. God, I long to kiss the hell out of him, unzip his sexy jeans and run my hands all over his naked body.
But this isn’t a date. I hardly know him and he’s only doing this because it’s his job. With careful deliberation, I rest my palms on his wide shoulders. Mmm, he feels fantastic. His warm skin has the perfect consistency. Not too velvety-boyish and not too rough. It’s as smooth, hard and warm as a polished wood carving baking in the sun.
My breasts surge against the stiff lace of my bra. The nipples tingle as they harden, aching to taste his bare skin against them. He tucks his head near mine. We’re so close I feel his breaths against my cheek. And the more I breathe, the more his spicy, mesquite scent swirls in my head, dizzying me with lust.
His waist is solid and thick between my thighs. Instinctively I curl my legs around him. It’s a good thing I’m wearing the old cotton panties today because the thong would never catch all the wet heat seeping from my cunt.
If only all these damn clothes weren’t between us.
So many sensations overload me from head to toe I’m ready to blow a fuse. I’m vaguely aware of the photographer snapping pictures. One click and flash follows another while my heart thunders against his sculpted chest. Without her having to tell me, I know I’m supposed to vary my poses.
“Pose sexy!” Zena yells.
I move my head to the side and then down. Unable to stop myself, I even tip it back in ecstasy. It’s a good thing he has a good grip on me because when he presses his mouth to my neck, my body convulses and I almost do a backflip out of his arms.
It’s not just his hot body. It’s him. If any of those other guys stood in his place, even Rolf, I know I wouldn’t enjoy this a tenth as much. I’d want to get it over with so people would stop staring at me.
Maybe too it’s the way he holds me, as if he’ll never let me go or let anything else bad happen to me. My mind drifts back to the hell I endured when I lost my previous job and almost my entire career. If I’d had him there holding me this way, I could have faced it so much better. After stumbling on my own feet for so long, it feels good to be carried in a pair of strong arms. As if reading my mind, he tightens his grip, drawing me closer.
The heat of his hands penetrates my jean-clad thighs and his chest slides against my sweater, filling it with heat too. Never let this moment end. Never let the strength leave his arms so that he has to drop me. I change my grip so my fingers cover the intriguing tattoos. Muscle and man flex beneath my fingers as his hips dip a bit to one side. The movement only makes me grab him tighter.
But without being told, I know it’s over. After all, there’s a line full of women patiently waiting their turn as I did. Much as I would like to, I can’t make love to Carlos up on this stage for the rest of the afternoon. The photographer lowers her camera and Carlos eases me back to a standing position as carefully as a piece of china.
“Thank you,” I tell him, amazed I can manage to speak.
He answers with his eyes and a slight dip of his head. If I’m reading them right, he enjoyed it too.
I’m so high from the hormones rushing through my body I practically float off the stage. When Dorothy steps up, a twinge of jealousy courses through me. Now that I’ve experienced my moment with Carlos, I can’t stand to watch a repeat of it with another woman in my place. Even Dorothy, a friend. Seeing it would make me feel as if I’m an interchangeable part, as if the moment weren’t special at all.
“Somebody hold her glasses,” Zena says.
“I want Rolf.”
Dorothy’s voice is louder than usual as she yanks off her glasses and hands them to the next woman in line. Did that meek housewife really say that?
“Go for it,” Zena calls from the sidelines. “Get your man.”
Rolf flings back his long blond tresses as he struts toward her. The special request must have stroked his ego. He takes Dorothy’s hand and wraps his arm around her back, sweeping her into a tango motion.
Carlos steps back to the group of other men against the wall and watches. I glance up at him and smile. It takes a moment for him to look in my direction but he finally does. His smile is hesitant at first, almost as if it’s a chore, then warms to full intensity. To be honest, he looks a little down.
Great. I depressed the man. If a photo shoot with me does that to him, how would he feel after having sex with me? Luckily we’ll never have to find out.
I remind myself this is just a job to him. While I was up there, it felt as real as real could get. I didn’t realize until this weekend how man-deprived I am—something I’ll have to remedy when I get home. This fantasy stuff is dangerous and addictive. If there’s another silly photo shoot or “fantasy” exercise, count me out.
Suddenly it’s too loud and crowded in here and I want to escape to my hotel room. After Dorothy’s shoot, I’m out of here.
“More! More! Give it to him. Show Rolf what you’ve got.” Zena yells encouraging comments to her while shooting pictures as fast as the photographer.
In what seems mere seconds, Dorothy walks off the stage and retrieves her glasses. I blink. How could her shoot be so short when mine felt like hours of bliss? Stowing her phone, Zena grabs Dorothy’s arm and then mine.
“Th-that was amazing,” Dorothy stammers. “My glasses are fogging up.”
Zena turns to me. “What about you? Was he hard?”
I stop in my tracks. “What?”
“Everybody could see your pelvis glued to his up there. Please tell me he felt big and hard as a rock.”
“I don’t know if he was or not. I forgot to check.” Or, more likely, I hadn’t noticed because he wasn’t.
The parts of me that could get hard, such as my nipples and clit, stood at full attention up there. Obviously I didn’t affect him the same way. I was only one out of a long line of women. What did I expect?
“Have you all had lunch?” Dorothy asks. “I’m starved.”
“Sure. I could use a drink,” Zena replies. “What about you, Janice?”
“Thanks but some other time.”
Dorothy glances at me with motherly concern. “You look pale, dear. Are you all right?”
“Rest up for the dance tonight.” Zena points a finger at me. “The men are going to perform dances onstage for us.”
I don’t care if they run around naked and masturbate in front of us. The day is only half over and I’ve already had more than enough of Crave-a-thon.
* * * * *
After reading in my room for a couple of hours, someone shoves a brown envelope under the door. What the hell? I carry it to the desk. Bracing myself in case it’s a nasty surprise, I ease it open with the delicacy of a surgeon. It’s a photo envelope. I flip it open to find a handful of photos of me with Carlos at today’s photo shoot.
Wow, that was fast. I plop into the nearby chair and forget to blink as I examine each one. In fact I’m studying these photos harder than I’ve studied for any test. At first I focus on me.
I’m definitely not the world’s most photogenic person. To my surprise, some of the shots turned out pretty good. Others should be burned immediately. My profile is definitely not my best feature.
The most arresting poses show me surrendered to passion. My head is tipped back and my eyes are half-lidded as if I’m drugged. Blood drains from my face. Good God. Is that wanton woman really me? The glossy paper proves it is. I think about my past relationships. Has any man ever made me look or feel that way? I can’t recall anyone who has.
Then I focus on him. My mouth literally waters at the sight of him. He’s definitely photogenic. The lens captured his glossy hair, flawless skin and the subtle tension in the carved muscles of his arms as he holds my weight. Even his hands, splayed under my thighs and butt, look masculine and sexy.
I peer closely at a small scar near his eye, wondering how he got it. This is also the best opportunity to study his tattoos, which suggest mystery and movement even in a still picture. I’ll have to ask him about that eagle story he mentioned. There’s more to him than a nice body, I just know it. Something has to explain this mysterious attraction.
During the shot, my senses were overloaded with the women’s yelling, flashing cameras and the novelty of being lifted in the air. Not to mention being plastered against Carlos’ half-naked body. Now the impact of our passionate embrace hits me full force. These photos captured magic. We truly look as if we can’t wait to jump into bed together.
I hold one up closer. What is the magic? My eyes analyze the details but can’t find the answer. I remind myself it’s just a photo. This fantasy stuff can be pretty convincing. It takes effort to slide the photos back into the envelope and close the flap. For some reason, I want to stare at them for hours.
Have I lost my mind? Is there love potion in the water here? This is not the normal behavior of a professional businesswoman. It’s not normal, period. Hopefully I’ll regain my senses when I go home and back to work.
Unable to stop thinking about him, I pull up Facebook on my phone and look him up. Before I can stop myself, I send a friend request. I take in the scant information in his public profile. Let’s see, he’s male. Obviously. Then I read the birth year.
Crap. He’s only thirty. The proof kicks me in the chest. It could be worse, I tell myself. He could be twenty-five or even twenty. I’m not realistically old enough to be his mother. Still, thirteen years is nothing to sneeze at.
No wonder he didn’t get hard.
I take a shower and put on evening makeup, including some glittery eye shadow I’d bought years ago. The only reason I’m going to the dance tonight is because Zena and Dorothy expect me to. Who am I kidding, I ask myself as I put on my sexiest shimmering lipstick. I want to see Carlos dance. I need to see him dance.
I’m in total lust with the man.
Shit.
How and when it happened, I don’t exactly know. I shouldn’t have done the photo shoot. The magic in those pictures has taken over my mind and body.
My brain is too fuddled to figure out what to wear yet, so I pick up my phone again. To my surprise, Carlos has accepted my friend request already. If he’d spent the afternoon calling or texting a girlfriend, he probably wouldn’t have had time. That’s somewhat comforting, anyway. Maybe he’s in his room thinking about me too as he gets ready for tonight.
A girl can hope, can’t she?
I return my attention to the Facebook screen. Now I have access to a lot more information. Geez, I feel as though I’m a stalker. I read his recent posts and peruse the photos of himself he’s posted. Some are of him in a black satin thong. Well, he definitely appears hard there. I prefer the pictures of him in jeans. They leave more to my imagination, which is working double time this weekend.
Distracted, I struggle to put on hoop earrings. One misses my ear and pricks me in the nose. With trembling fingers, I finally attach both of them in the right place.
My eyebrows fly into my hairline when I read he works at a strip club about an hour away from where I live. That explains the thong pictures. I don’t know what surprises me more, the fact he lives so close or that he’s a professional stripper.
A stripper… Wow. I’ve never dated one of those before. Do they undress as provocatively in private as they do onstage?
Inspired by the visual image of a slow striptease, I ease on a black lace blouse—something else I blew hard-earned money on for this convention—and black cords over the sexy lingerie I’ve worn most all weekend. After I’m dressed, I give my hips a wild swivel that almost makes me lose my balance.
Wait a minute, Janice. STRIPPER. To get through to myself, I spell it in all caps in my mind. My conservative financial employer would surely not approve if I had a stripper boyfriend and hung out at strip clubs. Could I even lose my job over it? Didn’t the lengthy employment agreement I had to sign include something about how I must conduct myself professionally and personally? The thought flips my stomach over. Cool, clammy sweat blooms under my lace blouse.
He’s all wrong for me on paper—too young, too muscular and too damn sexy. Then what explains the magic that feels so right?
I slide my feet into my black high-heeled sandals and head to the door, deciding to find out. If I can uncover some reason not to like him tonight, maybe I can get this craziness out of my head once and for all.
Chapter Three
In the ballroom, I barely taste dinner before the dance, which is a shame because the beef with burgundy mushroom sauce is cooked to perfection. It’s several steps above the TV dinners I always eat because I’m too busy working extra hours to cook real food.
Cooking… I still wonder if I should have stayed home this weekend and indulged my cooking hobby instead. It was a safer passion than this.
Fake palm trees decorate the stage, and even the tablecloths are in the familiar leopard print. Looking at it makes me wonder if I’ll see spots forever.
Zena scrapes the last bits of crumbs of chocolate cake from her plate. When Dorothy and I shake our heads at her, she asks, “What?”
“We’re wondering how you eat so much and stay so thin,” Dorothy says.
I clear my throat. “Actually I wondered if you had an orgasm while you ate that cake. It sure sounded like it.”
“Nope. I’m saving that for the men’s dance.” She snatches a coconut from the centerpiece, knocks on it and hands it to me. “Speaking of men, this is what a hard-on should feel like, Janice.”
Frowning, I stuff the brown globe back into the centerpiece. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I remember what a hard-on feels like.”
A member of the banquet staff clears some of our plates. The restrained smile on her face tells me she probably heard every word of my reply. I never should have done that photo shoot!
Zena pulls out her phone. “Oh, I almost forgot. I took pictures of you ladies during the photo shoot.”
I grab the phone before Dorothy does and see a picture of me with Carlos that’s even more arresting than what the photographer shot. Without the bright flash of the photographer’s camera, the lighting is darker and more seductive. It looks as if he’s carrying me to the bedroom in a dimly lit house.
“Email it to me,” I say. “I’ve got to have it.”
Dorothy peers at my face. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look strange again.”
When Zena leans even closer to study me, I want to hide under the table.
“She’s not sick, Dorothy. Janice is in love!”
“I am not.” Yes, I am. I am I am I am. “I just got carried away by the photo shoot.”
“Maybe you can dance with him tonight after they perform,” Zena adds. “I plan to dance with each of them at least once.”
“Sorry, Rolf is all mine.” Dorothy sips her coffee. “You know, I expected these men to be arrogant but they’re so nice.”
That’s it. If I catch Carlos acting the least bit arrogant, I won’t be interested in him anymore. That should be easy enough. Someone that gorgeous is bound to act arrogant sometime.
The announcer, a lady in a tiger-striped cave outfit with a jagged hem, takes the microphone. She makes the usual announcements, hoping everyone is having a good time and thanking the organizers for their hard work. Then she gives out some gift baskets to audience members. My hands clap on autopilot. Just bring out Carlos before I go into withdrawal.
