Fuck.
He hired her, and that just decreased Andrea’s chances.
“Who’s up next?” Simon asks me.
I glance down at the application I had filled out the day before and pretend I’m not overly familiar with the fake person it belongs to. “Nikki Oliver, but she goes by Nikki O… She said it means Nikki Orgasm,” I say with a snort, and Simon and Lance laugh along with me.
“That’s right,” Simon muses. “I thought that one had particular promise when you told me about her.”
I shrug my shoulders carelessly, as I don’t want him to get a hint of how much I want him to hire her. “No better than any of the others. I think they’re all easy marks.”
“That last one won’t be easy on the buyer we have in mind,” Lance says darkly. “But he’s got a bit of a whipping fetish, so he’ll enjoy knocking that smug smile off her face.”
My stomach cramps hard over those words, and I take another swallow of my Pepsi to coat my dry tongue.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hope I didn’t just condemn that girl to a nightmare of a life. My only hope at this point is that her potential buyer won’t be along soon to collect his toy.
“Nikki Oliver,” I yell out toward the stage. I know she’s standing just behind the curtain… ready to go. “You’re up.”
A slow, sexy beat of music starts… thumping almost ominously, rising in crescendo, until it’s taken over the loud pounding of my own heart. And there she is… striding out onto the stage.
And holy fuck… I almost don’t recognize her.
My jaw drops, but I pick it back up quickly, slamming my teeth together. Her golden hair is loose… long… flowing down her back in sexy waves. Her makeup is flawless with long lashes that make her blue eyes pop and fuck-me red lipstick is painted onto those full lips.
She chose to come out with guns blazing, because she didn’t bother with any type of clichéd fantasy costume—naughty nurse, spankable schoolgirl, or dominatrix professor. No, instead, she chose to come out in a sexy-as-sin, black bustier with a simple and very, very tiny black G-string.
The bustier was perfectly chosen… the cups covering yet plumping up what I now understand to be luscious breasts that she must have had flattened down behind a sports bra when I last saw her. The bottom half of the bustier is in black lace, coming to just above her belly button, and trimmed in dove-gray lace around the edges. It’s not an expensive piece of lingerie, the cups done in some type of faux leather, and I realize with admiration that she wore something sexy yet of obvious cheap quality so as to enhance her “down-and-out” character portrayal. My gut tightens as my eyes sweep over the G-string, the tiny triangle of black cotton stretched precariously between her legs, with thin straps arching over the most perfect-looking hipbones I’ve ever seen.
I’ve always had a thing for a woman’s hips.
She walks—no prowls—down the center of the stage, her eyes sweeping briefly over Lance, then Simon, and finally me. Her lips quirk up sexily and her eyes flutter closed briefly as she reaches a lazy hand out to the metal pole, and then reels her entire body inward toward it. Looping one long leg around the pole, she releases her hand’s grip and arches her back, tilting her head way back so that her the ends of her hair brush the lacquered floor.
Smoothly… sexily, she pulls her body up, unwraps her leg from around the pole, and starts a slow, gyrating dance. Her movements are silky… fluid, almost with a touch of hard-edged grace about her. Her body moves in perfect synchronicity to the slow beat of music, undulating like the current of a lazy river.
She moves with her shoulders squared proudly, yet with none of the stiffness I saw yesterday. She tempers that confidence with an almost coy attitude on the stage. It’s an enchanting mixture, and my eyes follow her avidly.
I can hear Simon say, “Fuck, she’s hot,” and Lance say, “I bet she’d fucking blow like a rock star with those lips,” and I while I don’t like hearing that about my partner, I can’t say as I disagree with them right now.
I’m mesmerized when Andrea… I mean, Nikki… reaches behind her back and with a well-practiced and highly coordinated move, releases the clasps of the bustier. In typical, teasing fashion, the back springs open and she deftly holds the material to her breast, hinting at what we might see, yet denying us what I’m betting will be fucking perfection.
Her body spins—a flash of a perfect ass—and the bustier drops from her hands. Her arms rise above her head, scooping up her hair while her hips dip and tilt to the cadence of the movement, only giving us the vision of her beautiful backside. When her arms are stretched sky high, she releases her hair and it floats down over her back.