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There are certain things I just don’t do on the job. I don’t let anyone touch me, ever. I don’t do one-on-one gigs—they’re too risky compared to the usual parties, and the tips aren’t as good. And I never, ever, ever fuck a customer.
Somehow, today I was going to break every one of those rules.
I took the job today for the same reason I do anything—I was restless, a little bored, in an impulsive mood. When I get this way I usually kill it by taking my clothes off, so I called up Candy Cane and asked what was on the roster. They had this gig. Some guy ordering up a stripper for his buddy’s birthday gift. It was better than nothing, so I took it.
And now I was on the wrong guy’s lap, naked except for a scrap of lace between my legs, my knees gripping his hips, my breasts in his big hands. And I didn’t want to leave.
How did I get here? I’d noticed him from the minute he opened the door. It was hard not to—he was big, with a dark brown close-cut beard and mussed dark brown hair. Sexy. Not my usual type—I prefer well-groomed guys, clean shaven, well dressed. A guy who knows his way around an expensive restaurant menu and which is the best kind of wine. This guy had a kind of animal charisma to him, more like a guy you’d find somewhere deep in the woods, and he’d be a lumberjack chopping wood, and he’d see you and he’d drop his axe and he’d bend you over, and then he’d—
That was how it started.
I’d met Devon Wilder, my sister’s new boyfriend, and he was one juicy steak of a man, but this guy was different. His muscles were bigger, like he lifted weights. He was wearing a t-shirt—washed so often the cotton was thin, the neck stretched over one perfect collarbone—and worn jeans over his muscled legs. His biceps were works of art; women have wet dreams about biceps like that. The right one featured a tattoo I couldn’t quite see, snaking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt. He squinted at me like I’d interrupted something, and his voice was rough like he didn’t use it often. He looked warm and powerful and slightly grumpy, and I wanted to push him down to see if he’d push me back.
But this was a job, and I’d done my act, trying to do it like I always do. So what if I was attracted to a customer for the first time ever? I could get in and out, escape this big bear of a man without embarrassing myself. No problem. Until I had him pinned on the sofa, doing the move that every guy likes, and I looked into his eyes.
When they get a strip show, most guys like it, but it embarrasses them, too. They laugh to cover it, or they wave their hands—okay, okay, fine, get this over with—or they roll their eyes. The shyer ones cross their arms and clam up, waiting for it to be over while their buddies laugh and clap. The real showmen whoop and holler and do a little dance move, like we’re putting on a show. I’m used to all of it. Whatever, as long as I get paid.
This guy didn’t do any of that. He just sat on his sofa, his hands palm down on his thighs, his expression intent. His gaze ate me up. His chest rose and fell. And when our eyes met, I saw everything. I saw that he was smart and fascinated and turned on. I saw that he was unaware of how hot he was. I saw that he had some kind of sadness, deep behind his eyes, that had nothing to do with me.
And I saw the raw fact that he really, really wanted to fuck me. Hard. And he was keeping himself in check.
You want me to do this? he asked, his hand on the zipper of my dress.
The words went through me like wildfire. I was close enough to catch his scent, the tempting smell of male skin, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body and hear the rasp of his breath. And I wanted him to rip my clothes off.
So I told him to. The music had stopped. When I got on his lap, his heat was like a furnace, making me shiver, and his hand fit my hip perfectly. He kissed me exactly the way I was craving—deep, dirty, a little bit rough, like he wanted to devour me. My skin sang everywhere he touched me. I could feel his cock hard in his jeans, rubbing just so against my clit when I pressed my hips into his, the sensation making the blood pound in my ears and even harder between my legs. That. I wanted that. Inside me, right now.
He undid my bra and cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I didn’t care about his name. I didn’t care about my own name. I cared about raw, primal, no-holds-barred sex. With him.
I told him I didn’t care, and then I kissed him again. He kissed me back, his hands squeezing me, and then one hand dropped between my legs, into the scrap of my panties, his fingers sliding into the friction between him and me.
I made a noise and moved my hips, grinding on him slowly. I was so wet I slid easily over him, the pressure slick and perfect. He was breathing hard, watching me. His other hand left my breast and moved up to the back of my neck, where it wound in my hair, his grip strong. I closed my eyes, the pleasure sparking through me. I could come like this, just on his hand. I could make myself come so easily. But I wanted more. I wanted everything.
As if he was reading my mind, he pulled me down so his mouth was against my ear, his hand still on my pussy. “I am going to fuck you so fucking hard,” he growled.
I nearly came with just that. “Do it,” I panted, nearly frantic. “Do it.”
He pushed me off his lap, tossing me so I was on all fours on the sofa. I gripped the arm as he yanked down my panties, and then I felt his weight shift as he got on his knees, heard the click of his belt and the zip of his jeans. And then he gripped my hips with both hands and thrust inside.
I dropped my forehead to the sofa arm, closing my eyes. It felt so good. He was big and powerful, stretching me just right, and I was so wet he just slid in. He stilled, then moved out of me slowly, then back in again. I wiggled, pressing my ass back against him.
“Fuck,” he said when I did that. “Give me a second. Just—fuck,” he said when I did it again. “Hold on, woman.”
“Harder,” I said, opening my eyes.
He leaned forward, over my back, braced himself on one big arm, that magical, sexy-ass bicep right next to my cheek. His other hand stayed on my hip. “You’ll get what you want,” he promised, and then he started to move.
I closed my eyes again and made myself breathe. Bliss. It was pure, absolute bliss. I moaned and melted into him, and slowly we found a rhythm, my body in sync with his. It was slick and perfect, and we made the sofa creak, then thump as we moved harder. I felt his mouth drop to the back of my shoulder. “Fuck,” he said again.
“Don’t stop,” I told him.
He didn’t, but he slowed—I practically cried—and dropped the hand on my hip down and around, between my legs, pressing gently against my clit. The friction was just what I needed, and I felt my body arch.
“Faster,” I told him.
He bit my should
er gently as he felt me move, felt how close I was. “Nope,” he said.
