His dappled-brown eyes flick to my legs and quickly back up again. I want to insist that he can linger, but everything about him screams innocent; my guess is he has never talked intimately with a woman, much less an exotic dancer. He is as skittish as a wild kitten seeing a moving vehicle for the first time. Or, more fittingly in his case, a baby deer.
“Twenty,” he answers. After several beats he works up the courage to pursue the conversation, first taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. A waft of vomit travels my way, and it takes a bit of effort to not gag at the smell. “How about you?” he asks.
“Twenty-four,” I provide.
“I turn twenty-one on Friday,” he rushes out.
I give a low, playful whistle. “Whew. The big two-one. How ‘bout I buy you a drink on your birthday?”
Or give you a proper lap dance.
“I… I… Coyote would probably not like that very much,” he stutters.
My mouth curves up to the side. “Coyote doesn’t like anything very much — except for money and a good fuck.” I lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “Can you keep a secret?” His eyes widen again. I tell him the secret anyway: “I love fucking with Coty. Makes fucking him even funner. Get him all jealous and riled up then be on the receiving end of that possession in the bedroom? Hell. Yes.”
“O-okay,” he responds.
“So, your birthday is on Friday. That makes you a… Scorpio.” If this guy can keep up with my flighty conversational skills right now, he deserves to be a Hell for Leather member. He nods again. “Well, I’m a Cancer. You know what that means, right?” He shakes his head. “Cancers and Scorpios are compatible. Funny thing about some Scorpios with relationships, though, is they generally suffer from emotional and sexual repression.”
His mouth pops open in a small O. I steal the moment of surprise and attempt warming him up again by standing, easing down onto his lap, and finally running my fingers through those amazing blond curls. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my name is Lace. What’s your name, hun?”
“Z-Zane,” he stutters.
“Nice to meet you, Zane. Are you from around here? And once your initiation is over, what will your position be?” I inquire.
“North Georgia. Brodi and I went to the same high school.” He clears his throat for the next part. “And… um… club Chaplain.”
All focused seduction and witty conversation zaps right out of me, and my hand darts to my mouth to cover a bark of laughter.
Damn, I’m gonna have some fun with that.
I school my features and give him a demure eyelash flutter, wiggling my ass against him a little and earning a small jump of the thick muscle beneath.
Based on what I just learned, I suppose he has never used that particular muscle for the right reasons. There’s no mistaking he is working with something substantial, though. The awkward, skittish ones always are for some reason.
In my present state, I have all manner of questions: Are you a virgin? Do you pray on your knees? Can I pray on my knees between yours? Do you offer confession? Do you even swear? Can I make you swear?
But I don’t ask any of them because even though his cock is bulging rock hard through his black riding cargos and the conversation sounds fun, there’s a manicness in his eyes, and all those questions would only make him spiral even more.
Determining a different course of action is in order, I stand and hold out my hand. As our fingers twine together, I notice the deep maroon of dried blood under his nails that I had not spotted before.