An Improper Deal(3)

Not that I’d ever give in to such a messy impulse. That would be a one-way ticket to screwing up my life…which most people think is already a fucking mess. They can’t imagine that a guy like me, who taped his own sexcapade and put it up on YouTube, who parties wild and drinks like scotch is the elixir of eternal youth, could be orderly. But everything is carefully compartmentalized, neatly categorized and filed away, so my life doesn’t spiral down into chaos.

Shoving aside the urge, I drop my gaze to her body. And what a fine body it is. Smokin’ hot, short and compact with the kind of smooth, generous curves I’d love to trace with my hands and lips. Her tits are sweetly rounded and full, perfect for a man to lose himself in. And that ass… I can practically see myself grabbing a double-handful as I drive into her tight little cunt.

Damn.

Desire blazes through me, my dick swelling, and she hasn’t even started dancing yet. It’s not like me to want to screw a woman’s brains out at first sight. Clearly, I need to get laid soon. I’m not a romantic…or dumb enough to believe she’s one of a kind. All women—except of course my sainted half-sister Elizabeth—are pretty much alike.

The music starts. The other women move like snakes around their poles, and men watch them with lust smoldering in their eyes. I sit back, shifting to adjust my cock, and wait for her to bare it all, even as a part of me wishes she wouldn’t and that she’d just flee the damn scene.

Sadly, this girl is the worst stripper I’ve ever seen…and I’ve seen more than a few. At first she’s tense, which is understandable, but as the music goes on and swells to a climax…she doesn’t let go. Unbelievably stiff—she looks like she’d shatter if somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

What the hell was the manager thinking, hiring a girl like this? Doesn’t he audition the talent?

Maybe she was better one-on-one. Maybe she blew him. The latter idea pisses me off, but it really shouldn’t. Women have no problem falling to their knees and servicing a man if it’ll get them what they want. I should know.

I really should let her go home without a tip. That should tell her she has no talent for this kind of work.

But the unhappiness in her gaze says she knows she didn’t do well. And despite my less than sterling reputation, I’m not into kicking puppies.

When she comes close enough, I pull out two hundred-dollar bills and tuck them under her G-string, careful not to touch her skin. Her eyes widen, then instead of being grateful or offering to do me later on, fire erupts in their green depths.

So. She isn’t entirely dumb.

A mixture of amusement and new appreciation for the girl blossoms inside me. “You really ought to try something else. This isn’t your calling,” I say.

Her hands curl into fists; I hold her furious gaze, wondering if she’ll try to slap me. That would actually turn this unbearably dull night into something else.

Five heartbeats pass as I wait, my body hot with anticipation.

Her lips tight, she spins around and walks away without bothering to work the rest of the men along the stage. I watch her hip action, the switching bunch and fall of each ass cheek.

A sigh escapes, and my shoulders lower.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m actually disappointed that she didn’t try to slap me.





Chapter Two



Annabelle

My hands shake as I walk away. It’s impossible to ignore the feel of the crisp bills rubbing against my skin, but it’s the insult that scrapes me raw. I need a pity tip about as much as I need a pity fuck.

If anybody had asked me a couple of years ago if I could imagine myself stripping, I would’ve laughed in their face. Yet…

Here I am.

I duck behind the curtains for the girls’ staging area, then yank the money out. The amount makes me gape. Two hundred dollars? I was expecting maybe forty.

The dim light, my nerves and the man’s closeness made it hard for me to see how much he was giving me. My hand clenches around the money. I hate the insult it represents, but I can’t hurl it back in his face like I want to. It’s almost a month’s worth of groceries for me and my sister. Pride won’t put food on the table.

I take a peek at the man from a distance. It can’t be called “safe” since there is nothing safe about the response he elicits in me.

An odd ache pulses between my legs, and not from the waxing I got a couple of days ago. My nipples bead, and it has nothing to do with the cool temperature in the club. The air in my lungs thickens, and my tongue darts out and wets my lips. What is it about this guy?

And he perused me from head to toe with a thoroughness that was almost indecent. I can’t stand it when men just check me out like that. My skin crawls, and it makes me feel dirty and unsafe.