StripperwithSpice, page 4
“As you know, tomorrow is the final day of our event,” the woman continues. “We’re thrilled to give away a grand prize. Two of our men will have a two-hour fantasy date with two lucky ladies!”
The ballroom erupts with such loud shouting I almost fly out of my chair with surprise.
“Who’s it going to be?” someone yells.
The announcer tilts her head toward backstage. “Guys? Come on out.”
My heart skips a beat when Rolf and Carlos walk onstage wearing brown head-to-foot hooded robes. With their hair covered, it’s hard to recognize them at a distance, but I’d know Carlos anywhere. His eyes, walk and stance are already burned into my memory.
The announcer minces around them with gesturing arms as if she’s a game show hostess. “The winners will enjoy some one-on-one time with these charming guys. They might take a walk or have drinks. All the rules still apply, of course. No hanky-panky.”
Someone in the audience groans with disappointment.
Zena grabs one of my hands and one of Dorothy’s. “We’ve got to win! We’ve just got to win!”
My entire body goes numb in my chair. A two-hour fantasy date with Carlos? Just thinking about it blows my mind to shreds. I pull my hand away and sink my nails into it. There’s no point thinking about something I probably won’t get. I never win a thing. Even worse, some other woman will win the date with him. I definitely can’t handle thinking about that.
When the first blast of jungle music pierces the room along with a red strobe light, I focus on them to get my mind off the grand prize I won’t win. The other two men—also wearing long brown robes—join Carlos and Rolf. What are they supposed to be, monks?
“Those robes sure aren’t very sexy,” Dorothy remarks.
Zena giggles. “That’s because they’re coming off.”
A gong sounds and the men circle around each other in a swirling pattern that makes the robes billow around them. Then I realize the robes aren’t fastened in front. Bare pectorals peek out, teasing the audience. Women’s screams shatter the room, giving the loud music serious competition. If I ever attend another one of these, I’m bringing heavy-duty earplugs.
Then, one after the other, a man dances to the front of the stage, pulls back his hood and flings off the entire robe, revealing a snug, tiger-striped loincloth.
Dorothy snorts. “Men. Why do they always throw their clothes on the floor?”
Rolf takes his turn, wiggling his lean hips from side to side while flinging his long blond locks.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.”
My head turns to see who at my table is so sick or in pain. Of all times. I don’t want to miss Carlos’ solo dance.
“What is it?” I hiss.
“I think Zena just had an orgasm,” Dorothy mutters.
Our friend’s head is bent back and she’s taking big gulps of air, but she looks healthy otherwise.
My fingernails dig into the tablecloth until my cuticles ache when it’s Carlos’ turn. Seeing him dance is a new thrill to add to the others. If only I could share the stage with him now as I did at the photo shoot.
Pick me up, honey, and wrap my legs around that loincloth.
When Zena laughs and growls, I realize I said that aloud. I put my hand over my mouth while every cell inside my body melts at the sight of his performance. He’s so good. How can a mere man be so damn good? He’s going to have to be pretty arrogant to turn me off now.
All too soon, the performance is over. The stage darkens and the men sashay out of sight. Then new lights come up and some party dance tunes play.
Zena grabs my arm along with Dorothy’s. “Let’s dance. I need to air out my wet crotch.”
So do I.
“Where are the men?” Dorothy frowns. “I thought they were going to dance with us.”
“They will,” Zena promises. “They have to change first.”
When a half hour passes, I’m ready to return to my room and call it a night. Dancing with a bunch of women isn’t fun for long, but the men do reappear and insert themselves into the dancing crowd. Instead of robes and loincloths, they wear tight pinstriped black pants, red suspenders and white collars with red bow ties.
For a while, I just watch them while my body goes through the motions.
As Carlos dances with one woman after another, I wonder if he’ll ever dance with me. Finally I realize he never will. Why is this so hard for me? In school I accepted that some guys weren’t interested in me and never would be. Plenty of other cute ones were.
Now my life is filled with work and available men are few and far between. Maybe that’s why I cling to some young stranger who’s just not that into me as a kid clings to an old teddy bear she’s long outgrown.
Zena shoves me in his direction. “Go dance with him.”
I shake my head. Being aggressive might be her style but it isn’t mine.
“Fine,” I say when she makes chicken noises. “One dance.”
What better way to prove he’s an arrogant jerk than get myself rudely rejected by him? Even though a short, heavyset woman is in the middle of doing the bump with him, I cut in on their space and make eye contact with him. He gives the woman one last bump and turns toward me with another one of those cryptic, hesitant smiles.
He can’t smile for me or get hard for me. Why is he dancing with me at all? And why am I putting myself through this? His touch on my arms as I turn around is warm enough to make me want to throw myself into his embrace. But something’s missing. The photographer might have captured magic in our pictures but there’s none happening now.
So much for fantasies.
“Are you enjoying the conference?” he asks loud enough to be heard over the music.
“Yes. I enjoyed the photo shoot with you too.” I drooled over the pictures in my room afterward. How about you?
“Okay, ladies, grab your nearest partner. It’s time for the lap dances.”
Huh? When I glance toward the announcer, I notice four chairs in a neat row across the front of the stage.
“What’s going on?” I ask Carlos.
Where’s Zena when I need her? She’s supposed to warn me about this stuff.
He looks at me with smoky, dark eyes and takes my hand. “You’re going to do a sexy lap dance for me.”
“I-I don’t know how.” Then I remember the dancing workshop from this morning, a million years ago.
The realest smile yet warms his face. “I’ll teach you.”
He sits on one of the chairs and I stand facing him with wobbly knees. Why did I have to wear these damn high-heeled sandals? What if I fall headfirst onto his crotch? Slow, sultry music replaces the fast-paced dance song. Feeling like an utter fool, I observe what the women beside me do to their men. I can’t help laughing when I see Zena and Dorothy both dancing for Rolf with Zena giving constant instructions.
Carlos’ voice pulls my attention back to him. “Relax. This is supposed to be fun.”
How can I dance, much less move, when my body is a block of ice? All I can do is stare at him and study the way his eyes smolder…and his smile. It starts slow and spreads over his face as the sun does across a dawn sky. Forget every complaint I made about his previous half-assed smiles. This one makes up for them all.
The smile must have thawed the ice because my hips rock of their own accord. My hands drift to his shoulders as if powerful magnets lay hidden under the muscles. My fingertips feast on the smooth familiar skin I touched during the photo shoot. I have to have that smile—kiss it, taste it, devour it.
His mouth is shaped like a majestic bird in flight. When my lips are an inch from his, I remember one of the lessons from this morning. Tease your subject. Just before my mouth touches him, I drift back out of reach and raise my arms over my head, swaying them in a serpentine motion. The music has found a hole in my armor and crept inside my body, filling it and moving it. Remembering I’m not supposed to touch him now, I let go.
God, I must look like a hooker. Am I really doing this? I hope no one is watching except him.
He slouches in the chair a little, getting more comfortable. Another flashback from this morning’s stripping lesson hits me. Check for eye contact. Bubbles of delight fill me when I notice his gaze glued to my body. So far so good…
Then I remember to emphasize my body angles. I haven’t been this focused on my appearance since I was a teenager. First the exotic lingerie, then my face angles with the photo shoot and now my body angles. It’s too bad over-forty modeling isn’t a career.
I finally realize where he’s looking, especially when I bend over. My low-cut lace blouse has given him a birds-eye view of my new push-up bra. Based on the smile that hasn’t left his face, he likes what he sees. The realization sends a million volts of electricity straight to my cunt.
His gaze locks on to mine and intensifies, as if to tell me he wants more. More what? What am I supposed to do now, grab his crotch? No, that wouldn’t be subtle or seductive. I do need to touch more than his shoulders, however. When I remember how good it felt to have my legs wrapped around him during the photo shoot, insatiable heat roars inside my core, drawing my pelvis toward him with a force I can’t control.
I straddle one of his legs, rubbing my corduroy-clad crotch up and down the length of his thigh. When scalding fluid drenches my thong panties, I hope it doesn’t seep through. Luckily two layers of pants lie between us.
Geez, look at me now. I’m truly acting worse than a dog in heat. If anyone records this on video, I’ll be absolutely mortified. Even a picture would be too much. As if on cue, the LED light on Zena’s phone flashes in my face.
Carlos shifts in his seat, more forcefully this time, making the metal legs squeak. Uh-oh. Is he trying to throw me off him? I struggle to remember more of this morning’s lesson, but my brain has stopped working.
The only message firing in my neurons right now is I need him and I need him now. Confusing me more, he touches my hip and then drops his hand as if burned. Does he have cellulite detectors in his fingers or something? Then I remember he’s not allowed to touch me either. Who invented these stupid rules?
I lean close to his face again because what I really want is a kiss. As much as I’d love to have wild sex right here in this chair, I’d rather go through each of the bases first. Someone this delectable is meant to be savored.
To avoid putting my lips too close to his, I concentrate on his neck instead. As his unique mesquite scent fries the rest of my brain cells, I actually blow in his ear. Is that immature or what? I feel more awkward than a thirteen-year-old during her first make-out session. He’s probably laughing inside at my clumsiness. Can I help it if my life has been all work and no play for longer than I can remember?
My lips brush the skin of his neck, which is hot and buzzing with a rapid pulse. Oh crap. I’m lost. Lost! I’ve lost complete control.
I lean into him until I’m literally in his lap.
“I want you, Carlos,” I say into his ear. “I want you so much!”
The sensible part of my brain finally wakes up and resumes control. Get out now! My stomach clenches into a tight ball and I quake all over. Oh sure. Why not throw up on him? That would be sexy, wouldn’t it?
Pushing off his shoulders, I stumble to my feet. My heels wobble as I struggle to keep my balance. Couldn’t I have worn flats? Confusion and concern swirl on his face, but I can barely focus on it. He holds out a hand as if to steady me.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I mutter.
My heels clatter down the stage steps louder than gunshots. It even drowns out the music. The nearest door is a million miles away. I sprint toward it, wondering who’s staring at me. Not wanting to know.
Once I reach the lit corridor, I lean against the wall, panting to catch my breath. A cramp seizes my left foot but I barely feel it. Needing to get farther away, I hobble down the hallway toward the yawning expanse of lobby. The last thing I want is an interrogation from Zena. Other people pass by. Pairs of them lean against the wall, deep in private conversation.
I’ve barely passed the cash bar when I hear rapid footsteps behind me despite the thick carpet. Thinking I’m in someone’s way, I look back to avoid getting run over. My throat clenches when I realize it’s Carlos. Terrific. I don’t want him to ever lay eyes on me again. I’ve never made such a fool of myself with any man, especially one over ten years younger than me.
I try to step out of his way but he follows me.
“Janice, wait!”
My eyebrows lift. What could he possibly want?
He takes my arm and draws me toward the wall under a cluster of decorative lights and a painting of a stormy landscape. His warm touch penetrates the black lace of my sleeve, stripping away the thin veneer of control I had left.
“Are you okay?” he asks, dropping his hand. “You stormed out so fast.”
Concern makes his eyes darker, I realize. Two black coals burn my face.
“I’m sorry I made such a fool out of myself.” I move my gaze to a safer place—the floral pattern in the carpet.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I couldn’t help myself.”
My brows knot into a big frown. Is he referring to touching my hip? Why is that a bad thing? I shake my head, grasping for some logic. If I can sit down and analyze complex spreadsheets, why can’t I figure this out?
Music and cheering, so faint it sounds a hundred miles away, emanates from the ballroom.
“I didn’t mind.” I say, rubbing my forehead. “But I can’t believe you came after me. Aren’t you supposed to be hanging out with the other women?”
He grips my upper arms and looks at me with an intensity that sets my insides on a slow sizzle.
“Right now all I’m worried about is you. I upset you somehow.” He releases my arms and holds his hands out in front of him, palms up. “How can I fix it?”
Hmm, I can think of a few ways. Whisk me off to Tahiti for a week-long love fest? No, the plane ride would take too long. How about taking me right now up against this wall? A warm, humid cloud forms in my belly.
“It’s all right, really,” I reply. “Please, just go. I accept the fact that someone like you wouldn’t be interested in me.”
He cocks his head. “What makes you say that?”
“During the photo shoot, you weren’t— I mean, you didn’t—”
Damn Zena for asking me the question in the first place and putting it into my head.
“Didn’t what?” he asks.
Didn’t get hard, you idiot. But I can’t say something like that out loud. When I glance at his crotch, though, understanding lights up his face.
He grabs my hand. “Come here.”
The sensation of his strong, demanding fingers curled around mine sends a roller-coaster thrill through my body. We just reached first base, I realize. I focus on staying balanced on my heels as he pulls me. We rush down the hall into a private alcove and then to a dim recess in front of a storage closet.
Before I can blink, his fingers seize my wrists, which he holds against the wall near my head, and Carlos—every glorious foot of him—is pressed against my body. His rib cage swells against my breasts with deep, rapid breaths—from dragging me down the hall, passion or both? A doorknob digs into my back, but something else gets my attention.
He’s hard. Very hard.
The thin dress pants don’t leave much to the imagination. Maybe I didn’t feel anything during the photo shoot because he wore thick jeans.
His mouth descends on the side of my neck, slashing, hot and wet.
“Is that hard enough for you, Janice?” he hisses into my ear.
My knees buckle. If his body wasn’t pressing the length of mine against the door, I’d collapse into a heap.
“Yes…” I whisper the word since I’ve lost the ability to speak.
He fixes his gaze on mine until I’m pulled inside the dark tunnels of his burning eyes. Every muscle in and around my mouth falls slack while his moves closer. His lips feel even better than I imagined, soft and strong at the same time. He teases me at first, nipping and tasting until I ache all over. I taste him too, the tip of my tongue savoring the faint essence of chocolate frosting.
My breath freezes when he draws back. It’s as if he’s wondering whether or not he wants any more of me. When he leans close again for a harder, longer kiss, my entire body shudders with need. I follow every movement with my own body as he works my mouth with unpredictable twists and turns that leave my heart pounding in my ears. Out of control, my face surges against his as if I’m adrift in a pool of water.
Second base…
The hot apex of his tongue teases and withdraws, pulling a moan from the depths of my soul. Luckily I suppress it before it escapes my mouth and reveals to everyone nearby what we’re doing.
A cold wave of air hits me when he releases my wrists and pulls back.
“Do you feel better now?” he asks.
Wait a minute. Didn’t he kiss me because he wanted me? Fake passion would be worse than none at all. Because he broke the rules to do it, he must want me.
Before I can look away, he grabs my chin and steadies my face. “You’re still unhappy.”
“I’m fine,” I say through stiff lips that still tingle from his kiss.
Every minute I spend with him turns me into a bigger and bigger fool. I’ve got to get away from him once and for all.
“I can’t do more than this.” He touches his mouth to indicate the hot kiss he gave me. “I’ve already broken the rules.”
I cross my arms. “You can drop the act now. I’ve had about enough of this fake fantasy stuff.”
He tilts his hip and glances down. I can’t help looking down too—at the abs begging to be touched, the low waistband riding his hips and the bulge of cock I’d felt pressed against my weeping cunt just moments ago.
“Did that feel fake to you?”
Coughing, I clear my throat. Well, no…
He sighs and runs a hand through the dark, glossy hair every cell in my body longs to touch right now.
