“What’s wrong?” Confusion is all over her face, but I don’t give a flying fuck. I’m so done.
“Out,” I say as soon as the limo jerks to a stop. I don’t even offer an explanation. I just push her toward the door. “Thanks for the fuck.” I’m not even sure I mean it.
I slam the door shut after she stumbles out, then gesture for the driver to roll, not even caring she’s standing on the curb with her mouth gaping.
He hits the gas. “Where to?”
Somewhere I know the girls aren’t looking to sink their claws into me. Where I can have a good time and leave it at the door.
“Take me to the best strip club in town.”
2
Ella
“Ms. Ketchum, you’ve got a client asking for a lap dance.”
I don’t even glance at the manager as he pops his head through the door. I’m too busy reattaching my eyelashes. Can’t have them falling off on a dude while he’s trying to get off, or worse, hanging from my eye like I’m some kind of hot mess. Hell no. I’m a pro.
“Give me five,” I call, and he disappears.
“Oh my God, Ella, what is this? Like, your third lap dance tonight?” one of the new girls asks, her eyes wide like I’m her fucking hero or something.
I shrug. “Something like that.”
Looking at the costumes, I reach for a brown wig and tuck my long blonde waves inside. I like to change it up, especially when I’m doing lap dances.
With one last glance at myself in the mirror, I head out toward the semi-private booths where we do the lap dances, a sultry smile on my red lips.
I know I look fucking hot. There’s a reason I’m one of the most in-demand strippers at the club. I’m good at what I do. I can make a guy cum without even touching him. Though it’s a lot more fun for both of us if I do touch.
What can I say? I like sex. A lot. Everything about it.
So when I graduated from Harvard with a degree in economics right in the middle of the financial crisis, working on Wall Street was the last thing I wanted to do. Stripping was the obvious alternative.
Why, you ask?
Because if I learned one thing about economics, sex is a booming business that isn’t going anywhere, no matter what the economy is doing.
Stripping is fucking smart. The fact that I love to cum on the regular is icing on the cake. A cake made of fat stacks of cash.
Plus, I’m the one in charge of my body. If I want to feel good, and I get off on making other people feel good, too, I don’t see the problem. Best choice I’ve ever made.
When I push through the doors separating the back from the main floor, the music that was just a bunch of muffled beats starts pounding through my body. My steps automatically fall in time with the pulsing bass, my hips swaying. Every eye falls on me, even the ones that should be occupied by the tits and asses flashing on stage and in their laps.
I’m used to it. I fucking thrive on it.
When I get to the booth where my client is waiting, I can tell he’s already hard. Just by looking at me.
I fall into character, letting the sensual beat of the music and the lush colors and fabrics of the club settle in, putting me in the right mood.
I smile down at the man, trying to ignore the fact that his comb-over does nothing to hide that he’s balding. His eyes widen when I bite my lip and reach out for him, resting my hand on his shoulder, dipping my finger under his collar teasingly.
“What can I do for you tonight, sugar?”
I lean forward, giving him a great view of my tits that are spilling out of my bra. He’s practically drooling.
Ugh. I have to admit, this guy might be a challenge for me to really get into. But I get straight to work, pulling on his t