I smile at the idea of toying with her, teasing her, taunting her.
I’ve never been one for long-term commitment, but don’t get me wrong, I’m also not someone who doesn’t respect other people’s vows. But there’s a drastic difference in actually taking a woman who’s already betrothed to bed or simply making her fantasize about it.
I move my hips to the beat of the music, slowly, seductively, and I don’t miss the way Belle’s breath gets tangled up in her lungs for a second or two longer than it should.
It’s a damn shame this woman is about to be someone’s wife…
Obviously, not for the guy she’s about to marry, but for me. The two of us could definitely make magic happen between the sheets; I’m sure of it.
When the song switches over to Lenny Kravitz singing about an “American Woman,” the women in the room lose their ever-loving shit.
Yeah. I knew this song would be a hit.
I quirk an eyebrow at the bachelorette as I begin to unbutton and unzip my pants. She clenches her eyes shut, and I don’t doubt, if it weren’t for my shirt over her arms, she’d be covering her eyes with her hands.
Maverick gave me shit when I refused one of his stupid banana hammocks and baby oil to grease up my muscles, but I knew that sticking with the au naturel look, without all the weird stripper shit, was far sexier. Women like strong men. Real men. Not a greased-up monkey.
I shake my ass a little as I slide my pants down my legs, revealing my favorite pair of black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and within seconds, I feel dollar bills being shoved into the back of my underwear, followed by hoots and hollers.
“Oh, yes please!”
“Hellll yessss! Take it off!”
“I’m so jealous of you right now, Belly!”
“Show us your cock!”
I chuckle at the last one, untie the knot at the front of Belle’s chest, and lean forward to whisper into her ear, “Wrap your legs around my waist, gorgeous. It’s time to really give your friends a show.”
She gasps as I lift her from the chair to the small stage in the corner of the room, flip her upside down, roll her to the floor, spread her legs, and do a spinning handstand in between them. As I fall to a push-up position over her body, she squeals, and the other women shriek as I put my head between her legs, careful not to touch anything, and blow.
She shivers hard, really fucking hard, and my heart kicks up in my chest. Did she just…?
Holy shit.
Sophie
The water is cold and angry against my heated skin as I splash another handful on my face and lean into the Club Craze bathroom sink. Makeup be damned, I feel like my skin is on fire. Belle’s in one of the stalls, happy as a clam, and for all intents and purposes, that should be a good thing. The only problem is, her happiness has come at my expense, and I am officially scandalized.
Tell me…is it ever possible to recover from the shame of having orgasmed in public—discreetly, I think—all because of the stupid exotic dancer I hired for my sister?
Because, if not, I won’t bother sharing this with my therapist when we have our next session.
“Oh my God!” Belle yells from the stall, her feet teetering on my heels as she tries to squat and hover over the toilet. I swear, if she pees on my one and only pair of Jimmy Choos, I will hex her so hard. “Did you freaking see that guy? He bent you over backward and planted a baby in your womb through your dress, I swear to Jesus.”
“Uh, yeah. I saw,” I comment on the absurdly obvious. But truthfully, I didn’t just see anything. I felt his heat and his heart thrumming in his chest and smelled the undeniably intoxicating subtlety of his cologne. I felt the stretch in my muscles as he manipulated my body left and right and sideways and upside down, all while somehow managing to make the ridiculousness of a male stripper seem sexy.
The only time I could truly say I saw, I suppose, was during the out-of-body experience I had while he straddled my body in the sixty-nine position and straight up sent me into purgatory. There I was, just hovering by the ceiling of the room like Mary fucking Poppins and the kids when they go to have tea with the loopy guy, wondering if that was really my face under his superior crotch or if it was all just a mirage.
And then I had to go and fucking orgasm, like a teenage boy in the middle of a wet dream.
I shake my head to clear it again, thanking my lucky stars that, in this situation, I was at least afforded the luxury of being a woman. No boner. No jizz-filled underwear. Just a hard twist of arousal and a pair of damp panties.