Текст книги "Stripped"
Автор книги: Lauren Dane
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Behind closed doors, the real games begin…
Winning it big. That’s the name of the game at Las Vegas’s Liege Hotel and Casino, where the hottest fantasies hinge on a roll of the dice…and the tantalizing knowledge that anything could happen before sunrise.
Dahlia is a burlesque dancer with a brain for business and a bod for sin. Her latest admirer may be a sweet-talking Casanova, but despite what he thinks she’s not giving anything away for free.
Also available from Lauren Dane and Carina Press
Second Chances
Believe
Goddess with a Blade
Blade to the Keep
Blade on the Hunt
At Blade’s Edge
Coming Soon
Diablo Lake: Moonstruck
Diablo Lake: Protected
From Lauren Dane and HQN Books
The Best Kind of Trouble
Broken Open
Back to You
From Lauren Dane
And Cosmopolitan Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin
Cake
And watch for the sequel to Cake, coming soon!
STRIPPED
Lauren Dane
To Ray—forever and ever and a day more than that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Laura Bradford because she always believes in me. That means more than I can say. It’s kind of mushy and all, but it’s pretty cool to have your agent be your friend, as well. I’m fortunate to be able to say so quite honestly.
Susan Swinwood—who has a fabulous sense of style and made me laugh a lot at the RT conference. Thank you for buying this story, for your editing suggestions and for dealing with all my pestering with patience.
No list of thanks would be complete without Megan Hart and Anya Bast—both such lovely friends and great sources of advice and information. A more fabulous set of crit partners a girl could not ask for. Dahlia and Nash’s story is far better for your critical eye (or rather, eyes). You read so many incarnations of this story and you never complained. Thank you also for petting me when I got low and kicking my butt when I got whiny.
Mom and Dad—who never censored what I read, who cheered every success, who raised me to believe anything I wanted to do was possible if I worked for it. You raised me to love words and to believe in myself. Those things come in pretty handy. I love you both.
My beta readers: Tracy and Renee—you both rock my socks. Thank you for dropping everything to read for me. Your advice and feedback are invaluable, as is your friendship.
My readers, because without you reading my books, well, I’d be writing this note to myself pretending I had a book deal.
There’s a scene in The Matrix where Trinity is being chased by agents. She’s at the bottom of a set of stairs, pointing her weapons, frozen in fear. She says, “Get up, Trinity. Get up,” because she knows to be frozen by fear is to never make it to where she needs to be. There have been times when I was there, frozen by fear, and an old friend reminded me of that scene. Thank you, Luahiwa.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
CHAPTER ONE
The low, sensual beat brought her onto the stage like a siren. One gloved arm wove through the slit in the curtain, parting the fabric as she stood, framing her for a long moment. Her dark hair was piled up on her head artfully. Long, fake lashes framed big brown eyes. A deep blue satin dress hugged every curve lovingly. Her breasts pushed up and out of the scooped neckline and as she walked, the slit on each side of the dress showed glimpses of her legs to the upper thigh.
She let the music grab her senses and her rhythm as she slowly sauntered out onto the narrow stage. Dancer’s heels, still very high, led her through the beginning of her routine as she carefully maneuvered the long feather boa to keep from tripping.
Caught in the music, Dahlia’s muscles burned as she did a high kick leading into a round kick, swiveling her body away from the audience—all in a seamless set of movements.
A feather from the boa stuck to the sweat on her neck as she slowly rotated her hips in time with the horns in the jazz band. Her hands rose, slowly winding the boa around her body. Down it went until she finally stepped over it, kicking it to the side.
Giving her back to the audience, she raised one hand into the air as she turned her head, winking over her shoulder.
Rocking her hips from side to side to the smoky jazz beat, she brought the tips of her gloved fingers to her mouth to bite the material and pull it off slowly.
The first glove went over her shoulder, into the bar pit the stage encircled. As she stood in front of the trumpet player, she peeled off the second glove, winding it playfully.
With a bump and grind she circled the band and lay down on the side of the stage near where the bottle service tables were. Kicking a foot into the air, she gave the audience a lot of leg to look at as the folds of her dress slid open. Rolling up onto her knees, she unzipped the front of the dress and shimmied out of it. Then she turned, coyly giving them her back and a view of her boy-short bottoms with a winking kitty on the ass.
The dress dropped as her forearms came up to cover her breasts and she bent, looking at them all upside down through the V of her legs.
The cheers and applause bolstered her confidence. Onstage she was beautiful and desired and that was okay. More than okay. It felt marvelous.
Still facing the band she reached out quickly, grabbing the hat off Timmy’s head. The trumpet player widened his eyes in a choreographed move and she spun, clutching the prop hat just so to cover herself.
Sensual smoke and mirrors. Dahlia didn’t show the audience any more than she’d show at the beach. They wouldn’t see her nipples, and her panties would stay right on her booty with the fishnets below that.
Still playing coy, she waved with one hand, pretending to almost drop the hat as she took the first step back up to the dressing room. And another step and two more. Once her body was in the doorway she turned and tossed the hat back to Timmy. With a hand over her mouth stifling a pretend giggle, she kicked up her leg and was gone behind the curtain.
Her robe hung just inside the doorway and she grabbed it, putting it on as she made her way back to her dressing area. She smiled as the music started for Roseanne, the dancer who shared the 10:00 p.m. time slot.
Tapping her foot to the notes of “Viva Las Vegas,” Dahlia took off her makeup and got changed. She usually tried to hang out at the club twice a week or so to watch her friends dance and also have a few drinks. She’d met a lot of interesting people and oddly enough, gained a following of sorts.
The Dollhouse was a burlesque lounge. The dancers did not strip totally nude, and Dahlia thought of the show as an elaborate celebration of women’s sensuality. The women there always reminded Dahlia of the Elvgren pinup-girl art her grandpa used to have in his garage. Dahlia loved the coy sex kitten she embodied onstage. She often felt as though Dahlia was her other half, the part of her she could release only up there for those minutes she was performing. The half she put away when she turned back into a pumpkin. Or, more precisely, a graduate student.
The club had only been open for six months and already had a hip, young following with lines outside every night. The lounge itself was small and intimate; it didn’t hold more than seventy-five people. The interior was subtly sexy with lush fabrics and deep-colored leather. A nice place to hang out and have a drink with her friends, a place she’d never have been able to afford were it not for the fact she worked there.
Emerging from the back of the club and walking into the lounge area, she searched for her friends. Catching sight of them, she also noticed her boss at his usual table. William Emery was a very sexy man. High-powered, charismatic and extraordinarily successful. He’d broken ground on the first retro-style burlesque club in Vegas, and now others copied him. He seemed to constantly be in motion, working twelve– to fifteen-hour days. She admired that, even if he did come off like a cold asshole sometimes.
He certainly liked a wide variety of women. Although she’d give it to him that he seemed to keep a professional wall between himself and his dancers. He flirted, but he didn’t prey on them. He paid her well and didn’t hit on her and she was down with that. Smiling, she sent him a wave and a wink as she made her way past.
* * *
Nash Emery sat with his brother William, the owner of The Dollhouse, and a bevy of beautiful women at one of the VIP tables. He’d been sipping a very fine Scotch when he caught sight of the statuesque dancer who’d just been onstage.
The smoky taste smoldered on his tongue as his heart sped at her saucy, sexy wink. He drank in every detail of her face and body—as much as he could anyway, in the low light of the club. Her black hair was drawn up into a chic, fifties-style ponytail, and bright red lipstick painted her carnal lips.
The captivating sway of her walk and the jiggle of her breasts in that dress mesmerized him. Her legs were miles long and she was all curves and valleys—the kind of woman a man wanted to sink himself into for days without coming up for air.
The kind of woman they didn’t make anymore. Coy and smoking hot all at once. Suddenly, he felt a little less jaded and a lot more interested.
He leaned into his brother. “Who is that?”
William’s eyes quickly raked over the woman before turning back to Nash. “That’s Dahlia. No shit, that’s her real name. From some hick town, grad student. She’s one of the favorites here. Not too often you see a package like that, even here in Vegas. Hot, isn’t she?”
“Hot isn’t a word that does her justice,” Nash murmured as he extricated himself from the knot of people at the table and moved to intercept her.
She hadn’t been paying attention and ended up bumping into him, her hand moving to his chest to keep from falling. That small touch sent electric warmth through him.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there.” Big brown eyes met his, and damned if his cock didn’t jump. Her voice, like smoke and whiskey, low and sexy, stroked over his skin.
The scent of her perfume just beneath the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and sweat in the club tickled his senses. Reaching out, he put his hand at her waist. The abundance of her body and the incredible beauty of her face knocked him out. Damn, he couldn’t recall being so excited by and interested in a woman in a very long time.
“No need to apologize, honey. I’m Nash. Why don’t you come and join us?”
One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose slowly. Imperiously. She took a step back, out of his grasp. “That’s all right. I have friends waiting.”
He reached and took her forearm, caught sight of the cherries on her dress, the red fingernails and toenails through the open toes of her very high heels. The woman was a fucking sex bomb, and he wanted to detonate her right then and there.
“Wait. Can I give you a call? I’ve got a very nice penthouse here on the Strip. What do you say we go there? Drink some champagne while I scrub your back in the bathtub. You can show me what was under the hat. You know, be my private dancer.” He laughed, teasing her.
Her lip curled in a sneer as she pulled out of his grip. “Private dancer? Like a whore? Oh, sure. Give me your number and I’ll just show up, blow you and be on my merry way. Because that’s what all showgirls do, right?”
He put his hands up in defense. “I…uh, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Her fisted hands rested on her hips like an angry Amazon. “What the hell else would I be? You don’t know me from Adam and you’re propositioning me thirty seconds after you bump into me? Didn’t your mother raise you with any manners?”
Holy shit, was this going badly. He’d really fucked this one up. It’d been a long damned time since a woman had turned him down, about as long as it’d been since he’d misjudged one so severely.
“You’re right. I apologize. It was rude of me. In my defense, you’re so beautiful I sort of lost my mind. I do hope you won’t hold my terrible behavior against me in the future.” He bowed. “Can we start over? I’m Nash Emery and I really was raised with manners, I swear to you.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that. That was the fakest apology I’ve heard since, well, since the last rich asshole hit on me.”
Nash might have been offended but he couldn’t help but like her fire. And he had been an asshole. Cocky was a fallback position for him. Women usually dug it. Not this one. A smile crept back onto his face.
“You’re a hard woman. I’m sorry. I was a jerk. But I meant it when I said you were beautiful. And you do knock me out. Can we start over?”
He held out a hand. Cocking her head and hesitating a moment, she took it. “Emery, huh? I suppose you’re the playboy brother I’ve heard all about. Although frankly, I’d expect some more original lines from someone with your reputation. ‘Private dancer,’ gee, I’ve never heard that one before. I’m Dahlia Baker and I am not a round-heeled tart. I’m getting my MBA at UNLV.”
He laughed, chagrined. Okay, okay, so he’d made some snap judgments. He’d taken one look at the eye-popping body and face, added it to the fact that she danced in a burlesque show and made some assumptions.
“I don’t know if I’d say I was a playboy, and I’d love to know what you’ve heard about me. Can I buy you a drink, Dahlia? I promise to be on my best behavior.” He sent her his most charming smile.
“I bet you would.” One dimple at the right corner of her mouth showed as she fought a smile. Nash wanted to lean in and lick it. Until she continued speaking. “No, thank you, Nash. I don’t have drinks with patrons, and my friends are waiting for me.”
“Oh. Well, all right. Have a nice night, Dahlia. Again, I apologize for offending you.” He wanted to argue he wasn’t a patron but he’d done enough damage for one night. Dahlia Baker tickled his fancy, and Nash Emery wasn’t a quitter. He’d be back to wear her down until she went out with him. He just needed to come at it better.
She shrugged and turned on her heel. “Just behave yourself.”
* * *
“What the hell was that all about?” Roseanne demanded, looking over her shoulder at the table where William and Nash sat.
Dahlia had been heading to her friends’ table, knowing Roseanne was in the back changing and would be out to join them soon. Then she’d run into a very hard, hot and fragrant wall of man.
And oh, my, what a man! She’d looked up into a pair of sexy, half-lidded green eyes and melted a little bit. His face was handsome with an edge of pretty. High cheekbones and a strong chin covered in one of those beards that would look disheveled on most men but it just made her think about spending the weekend in bed. All his features had a bit of sloppy about them—mussed-up, tumbled-out-of-bed sexy—but it worked. He looked elegant, but the hint of rakish good looks only made him more attractive. The kind of man that set off her bad-boy alarm and made her simultaneously want to wrap herself around him and run for the hills.
His cologne was just right. Not the kind that strangled you and held you down as you gasped for air, but the sexy hint of masculine with a bit of spice. Nicely dressed. The feel of the fabric under the palm she’d laid on his chest when she’d bumped into him said money. Even with her stilettos on he stood a good three inches taller than she was. All in all, a very winning package.
She’d been close to just leaning in and taking a whiff of him when he’d thrown cold water all over her naughty, naked fantasies. Teach her to get all gooey over a man before he opened up his damn mouth and proved himself to be the ass he truly was. It wasn’t a novel experience, getting hit on by the moneyed jerks who hung out at the club. But Nash Emery had hit buttons she usually ruthlessly ignored when others made their play.
Dahlia avoided the question until she could take a swig or two of her drink. That little interlude had left her off balance. Ass or not, there’d been no small amount of sparks between them. It’d been a while since a man had lit her fuse that way.
“Is that who I think it is? The lady-killer brother?” Roseanne went in for another pass, and Dahlia knew she’d never stop until she had an answer.
“Yes, that’s Nash Emery.”
“Ah! He’s usually here on Friday nights. But I haven’t seen him up close until now. I saw your head whip around and your hands were on your hips so you must have been giving him what-for. What did he do wrong?”
Dahlia had Friday nights off because it was her heaviest class day, so she’d been spared the arrogant hotness of the younger Emery brother.
“He’s certainly not hard to look at, even if he is an arrogant asshole.” Taking another drink for good measure, Dahlia related the story and they all looked surreptitiously toward Nash’s table.
“Well, a man like that makes a girl want to be slutty,” Roseanne said matter-of-factly.
And while Dahlia could agree that Nash Emery and his honey-blond hair, two-day beard and piercing green eyes made her nipples hard and her pussy ache, she also knew that no man was worth being slutty over. She wasn’t allergic to a good time in bed, but it wasn’t going to be with a man who took one look at her and thought big boobs equaled Good-Time Sally.
When she was up on the stage with the lights so bright she couldn’t see the audience, it was okay to be sexy and sensual. Dahlia Baker from Liberty, Washington, was a distant memory when she embraced the thing that had made her an outcast simply because she had a wicked body and a beautiful face.
She hadn’t gotten the hell out of Liberty to come to Las Vegas and lose her head over a man. Especially a man like Nash Emery. He might be the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on, but her legs weren’t going to fall open at the flash of perfect teeth and a Rolex, either.
Oops, open legs and that mouth…Heat flashed through her at the thought of looking down her body as his head bent over her pussy, licking and nibbling. She’d sift her fingers through his hair as she held him in place. Dahlia fanned herself with her napkin and pressed the icy glass to her forehead, trying to cool off.
Nash had sent over a round of drinks, which she wanted to refuse, but her friends grabbed the glasses off the tray and told her to shut up about it.
Throughout the rest of the evening, she snuck looks in his direction and found him looking back with unabashed interest. There was something exciting and discomfiting about it all at once. A man like Nash had powerful charisma and presence; as guarded as she was, it still appealed to her.
Of course, when she left after one o’clock, she didn’t fail to notice Nash wasn’t hurting over her rejection. Three women stuck to him, and each one of them looked as if she’d feel at home on a high-fashion runway. He’d get his champagne bath with someone tonight.
Even so, he sent her a courtly bow and raised his drink at her as she passed.
CHAPTER TWO
She thought she’d be able to put Nash out of her mind but he showed up a week later.
“Hey, Dahlia. Nice job tonight. You’re really good at those high kicks.” He sat down at the table with her and her friends, and all conversation stopped as the women stared at him.
“Uh, thanks.”
He looked around the table. “Hello, ladies. I’m Nash.”
Grudgingly, Dahlia introduced him to her friends and wasn’t surprised when he bantered and flirted with them. However, he kept the bulk of his attention on her.
Being the center of his interest was flattering and totally overwhelming. Yes, she’d seen his type a few hundred times, but there was something more about Nash Emery. He was charming, witty and really smart, yet there was something indefinable about him, too. More alluring than she wanted to admit to herself. He was dangerous to her peace of mind.
Still, the parade of beautiful women constantly inserting themselves into his face served as a powerful reminder of his reputation. It helped her turn him down when he asked her out again. Even so, when he gave her a sexy pout, it took a lot of willpower not to lean in and grab that bottom lip between her teeth.
The next week, he didn’t come to the club, but he sent flowers—dahlias in vibrant colors.
“Why can’t the man send roses like every other schmuck?” she mumbled, annoyed at herself for being touched he’d sent something unusual and special but not extravagant. If he’d thrown money at her on some typical thing like roses, he’d be easier to blow off.
* * *
Two weeks later, he’d caught up with her as she exited the side door after her set.
“Dahlia!”
She spun and smiled as she saw him approach. “Hi there. I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”
They walked to her car. “I can’t seem to stay away when I know you’ll be here.”
She wished it sounded like a line, but the more she was with him, the less clichéd he sounded.
After tossing her things in the backseat she turned and they began to chitchat. Until politics came into the discussion. Dahlia’s politics were decidedly more liberal than Nash’s and once they got started, the heat built as they debated hammer and tongs for an hour.
“Damn it, you’re sexy when you argue,” he said, a grin breaking over his features.
She groaned. “You’d be a lot easier to resist if you were a Neanderthal or an asshole. Not that your political and economic ideas aren’t totally wrong, mind you.”
He leaned in so close she smelled his skin and saw the pulse beat at the base of his throat. “Why resist?”
Her heart stuttered a moment and she swallowed hard. “You and I are not in the same league, Nash. I have to go. Have a good night.” Quickly, before she lost her resolve, she got into her car and drove away.
* * *
Nash placed Dahlia’s usual drink on the table in front of her and sat down. “I’m liking this new act. You look gorgeous in red.”
Dahlia had given up asking herself why a man as scorchingly hot as Nash Emery would hang out at the club on her nights. She’d also given up fighting her pleasure at seeing him as she walked out into the lounge from backstage.
He’d asked her out several more times and she’d turned him down, however reluctantly. What they had was the beginning of a great friendship.
Not that he didn’t sneak looks at her tits when he thought she didn’t notice. But he seemed to actually care about what she said. It was irresistible, and her resolve to resist his romantic and sexual charms weakened a bit more every time she saw him.
Part of that, she knew, was how she’d been treated in the past. All her life she’d been judged after one look and written off as a bimbo. Even when she’d been working her way through college the office jobs she got were nightmarish. Either the men hit on her mercilessly or the women hated her. She’d taken to wearing jeans and hoodies to keep people from focusing on her body, and even at work she often chose muted colors to try to blend.
It was odd, but dancing at The Dollhouse was the first job she’d felt comfortable going to every day. Strange but true—in a lot of ways, it had changed her life. Being seen as something more than her body and face meant something to Dahlia. It meant something that the friends she’d made had gotten past stereotypes and looked deeper, getting to know the real Dahlia.
She knew her looks were her Achilles’ heel. Her lack of money and the way people had reacted to her outward appearance throughout her life made her jumpy and distrustful. It took a long time for people to earn her trust. It drove her nuts that she was so confident in other ways but she found it hard to believe in people’s good faith.
She shook off her mental dialogue and smiled. “Thanks. I thought something with a Latin feel would be a good change of pace.” Her new routine was a sexy-hot number with hip rolls and some slinky moves on her hands and knees. The crowd especially loved the hair flipping as she artfully covered her bare breasts with the fan she used as a prop.
“You’re a really good dancer. Have you had formal training?”
“Fifteen years’ worth. My mother thought it was important for every girl to have dance lessons so I had tap, ballet and jazz.”
His eyes glazed over a bit. “Were you a cheerleader?”
Unable to resist, she leaned in a little closer to him. “Why? Do you have cheerleading fantasies, Nash?”
His eyes slid down to her breasts and then back up to her face. “Where you’re concerned, Dahlia, I have a lot of fantasies.”
God, three months of this and she was past frustrated and well on her way to insane. She knew she shouldn’t flirt but she couldn’t help herself around him. She’d spent most of her life downplaying her sexy side except for those minutes onstage. But something in Nash called to her, made her feel playful.
That and she hadn’t had sex in six months, and this man’s regular presence in her life had caused her battery bill to go through the roof. There was only so much that handheld silicone and the showerhead could do.
“Nash, darling, how are you?” One of the usual random beauties pushed her way between them at the table and stuck her rack in his face.
Dahlia suddenly remembered why a showerhead was preferable to a swelled head. She hated that she couldn’t get in a normal conversation with him! It was disappointing it happened so damned much, but she just wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she turned into one of those women who threw herself at him. And Dahlia refused to get into the game-show-for-men business. She would never compete for a man’s attention like that, and she wished these other women had some self-respect.
Tipping her head back, she drank the last of her club soda and stood. “Good night, Nash. See you around.”
Nash got up and unsuccessfully tried to extricate himself from the octopus in stilettos who had wrapped herself around him. Frustration on his face, he reached in Dahlia’s direction.
“Wait, we barely even got to talk.”
“It’s late and you’re busy. I’ll see you the next time you’re in town.”
* * *
Helpless, Nash watched the tantalizing sway of her hips as she walked out of the place. Sitting back down, the woman who’d perched in his lap—Darla? Kendra? Whoever—made breathy sounds, and her hand found its way down his pants and around his cock.
A year ago, Nash would have been fucking her in a bathroom stall by now. Not only would he have thought it was great, he most likely wouldn’t have given Dahlia a second look. If one woman wasn’t interested, there were three more who were, sometimes at the same time.
But in the past few months, even before he’d met Dahlia, he’d begun to realize how empty his life really was.
He had his job. Essentially, he introduced people to make deals—songwriters to musicians, actors to directors, screenwriters to producers, CEOs to other CEOs—he had all sorts of connections and people hired him to facilitate whatever it was they were looking for. It was a career that took him all over the world.
But he came home to nothing at the end of the day. Sure, he had women in his bed all the time, but they weren’t there when he came back to Vegas a week or a month later.
He had very few true friends because he couldn’t always trust people’s motives. People had agendas. He didn’t even share all of himself with William. They were close, but after his older brother’s engagement had broken off several years before, William had closed himself off from everyone with his work and a parade of women that boggled even Nash’s mind. Nash’s one true confidante was his personal assistant, whom he trusted with his fears and ambitions.
But Dahlia Baker was real. She was a genuine person who cared about everyday things and lived a normal life. Or as normal as you can get living in a city like Vegas.
When he was with her, he was more than the rich playboy. She saw beyond that, beneath that, and made him feel special. Conversations with her weren’t skillful mind games where the only real goal was to get the most out of the other person. He wanted to know Dahlia and to be known beyond the surface.
Not that he didn’t ache to touch her. There was no denying she was the hottest damn woman he’d ever met. God, he wanted her so much that he walked around hard every moment. The woman on his lap could easily be on the cover of a magazine, and he couldn’t have been less interested in fucking her.
Making his excuses, he finally freed himself from his admirer and headed home. Once there, he stood at the windows and looked out over the Strip.
Living in a hotel had appealed to him because it was easy. He could order room service if he wanted. Housekeeping looked after the maintenance. If a button was missing on one of his shirts, the concierge took care of it. But it wasn’t warm. Nash bet Dahlia’s apartment was warm.
* * *
The Dollhouse was dark on Tuesdays, and that’s when Dahlia did the majority of her schoolwork for the week. Sitting in the library, she was supposed to be working on a paper, but she could not get her mind off Nash. The man was a damned distraction.
The thing was, she was pretty sure she could have sex with him and it wouldn’t be slutty. At least, she’d talked herself that far. She knew him well enough to understand he liked her. He saw her as a person, respected her, even if he was a terrible flirt.
She’d run the benefit cost analysis on sleeping with Nash, and so far, fucking him was outweighing masturbating herself into frustrated blindness.
But she’d be ten other kinds of frustrated if she didn’t finish the paper in front of her! She was graduating in one more semester and did not have the luxury of fantasizing about getting on her knees and unzipping his pants.
She knew he’d have a nice cock; she’d seen it pressed against the front of his pants after she danced often enough over the past three months. When she licked around the crown, would he groan or hiss? What would his skin taste of? She could imagine the weight of his balls in her palm as she slowly wrapped her lips around his cock and slid him as far back as she could. She’d hum in satisfaction and his hands would tighten on her shoulders. Or would he grab her hair? A thrill at the thought slithered through her.
