“Are you in trouble?”
She quickly shakes her head.
“You can tell me if you are.”
“I—” she opens her mouth and then snaps it shut, her eyes darting to that camera again.
“They paid for two songs.”
“Darlin—”
But she steps right toward me, and when more sultry music comes on, suddenly, she starts to move. And just like before, I can’t look away.
She sways her hips, and there’s more confidence this time than she had on stage as she starts to dance. She sways towards me, reaching back and pausing for one second, and shivering, before I see her undo her bra. She holds it in place over her tits as she moves closer, and when she steps up onto the banquet seat I’m sitting in, I growl.
Fuck, why am I hard?
I don’t do strip clubs. This is not my scene, and this is nothing I want. But she, on the other hand, is everything I want, and when she slides into my lap, something fierce burns through me. She grinds on me, and fuck if my cock doesn’t start to respond. Swelling, thickening, bulging against her. Her breath catches, and she swallows again, her cheeks pink even in the neon blue lighting as she sways and moves.
She pulls the bra away, and I groan as my eyes drop to her perfect—fucking perfect—breasts. Full, and soft, and perky, with these hard little rosy, puffy nipples capping them. My cock pulses even harder, and I know damn well she can feel it when she gasps quietly. She moves on me, a little awkwardly, but the room is still pulsing with this sexual energy as she gets up, turns, and then settles back down on me. I growl as I feel my cock nestle against her tight little ass, and when she starts to rub and grind, my jaw clenches tightly.
One song ends, and as the second one starts, she leans back, swaying against me and letting her arm raise. Her fingers thread into my hair, and my pulse races.
Goddamnit, maybe I am one of those guys. Maybe it’s not that she’s this innocent little broken doll I’m obsessed with because she seems too innocent for a place like this. Maybe it’s just that she’s that good.
She spins again on my lap, straddling me and looking me dead in the eye as she grinds faster and harder. My cock pulses, my balls swelling with cum as the gorgeous, nubile little tease on my lap drags me into her world. I’m falling in headfirst, and I’m lost in those eyes. But as she leans in close and lets her hand slide up her body and into her hair, suddenly, the string on the mask pops, and it drops away. And my whole world goes upside-fucking-down.
…Because I know her.
Actually, it’s about ten thousand times worse than just knowing her. It’s how I know her. It’s the fact that it’s not a stripper sitting on my rock-hard cock in sexy lacy panties with her tits about six inches from my face. It’s that I see her almost every day, wearing a white blouse, a plaid skirt, knee-socks, and flats.
…It’s that her name is Brynn Henley, and she’s a fucking student at Winchester Academy.
She’s eighteen. She’s a senior. Her family is beyond loaded. And yet here she is, giving me a topless lap dance in a strip club champagne room.
Our eyes lock, her face white and mortified looking before suddenly, it’s like she’s been electrified. She bolts off of my lap, grabbing her bra and gasping as she backs away from me.
“Brynn?” I say quietly, my eyes locked with hers.
“Please… don’t… I mean, this isn’t what you…”
She swallows, her face paling.
“Please, Principal Kane.”
And just like that, she whirls, and she’s out the door, leaving me lost, shocked, and trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
Oh, and hard. She leaves me achingly, confusingly, damningly, sinfully hard.