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"Men will fuck anything that's hot. I never said we were smart. Our dicks don't care about mental state, just pussy size. She's some man's kind of crazy; just not mine. I'll admit, she was fun for a while, but now I know the difference. Come to me, beautiful."
"Where are you?"
"I'll send you the address. Don't make me wait long."
"Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can get a cab."
I disconnect the call and turn around, walking back toward the curb, only Meredith standing there now. "He's gone," she says as I approach. "The second you left he said he had some thinking to do or something. Mumbling really. Hell I don't know. I'm still angry."
I raise my hand to hail a cab. "We're going to find the boys."
A rush of excitement floods my belly. Those green eyes consume my thoughts. That smile makes me smile. And that beard sends a shiver all the way to my thighs. I can already feel the tingles as if they're there, skimming across my skin. Looks like this night is going to be more fun than I originally thought. A strip club and my favorite man. The man that calls me Ty.
The trouble we'll get into . . .
Bryant
I've watched her down shot after shot for a while, throwing 'em back like she's a damn drinking champ. And surprisingly, I'm pretty fucking sober. A little buzz from the slow and steady drinking with bitch boy that will give away his freedom tomorrow, but nothing that hinders my mental capability of making responsible decisions like when I'm with Joel. Saxton never was much of a partier, even in college.
Ben and Meredith dipped out the second the girls arrived. He looked pretty pissed at the turn of the night's events. Or maybe it's that things would have been awkward the second Saxton and Kambry went to a private room. Don't know. Don't care. Because right now, I've got a beautiful brunette grinding her ass on my cock to the beat of the music as she knocks them back, her eyes glued to the stage.
The room is dark, the colors of neon scattered around the room, spotlights over the stage. A new stripper takes the back, beginning her dance routine. I've been a fan of strip clubs since I was old enough to get in. For once I'm not worried about the girl on stage, but the girl in front of me. Tynleigh hollers out from where we sit directly in front of the stage, a drunken excitement flowing through her lips. Not once in my twenty-six years have I been with a woman to a strip club. Usually this is a man's domain. This is our secret hideaway to a forbidden place. This is our temporary getaway—the place we can escape from normalcy in our lives for a few hours while gawking at hot, topless strangers and then leave them here. No harm, no foul.
Most women don't appreciate a place like this. It becomes a shunned place that only bad men go, or want to go, and suddenly every girl that is okay with flaunting their tits for money labels themselves as whores. In reality, a strip club is like Disney World for grown men and the strippers become the naughty version of the Disney princesses. Just ask any one of us. Jealousy can be a double-edged sword. There are times it's needed, and there are times it will kill everything in its path. But this—watching her have fun, and verbally cheering the strippers on like she's at a fucking Giants game makes my dick hard. Nothing is sexier than a woman comfortable around other beautiful women.
The stripper spins around the pole, descending from the upper part she started at with ease, wearing only thongs, her tight bubble ass staring us in the face as her heels prepare to touch down on the stage surface. Tynleigh puts her thumb and index fingers in her mouth and whistles. My hands graze up the outside of her thighs, my fingertips dipping beneath her short skirt as my chin inches over her shoulder. "Have I mentioned how sexy you are when we go out?"
Her hand reaches back, her fingers immediately threading in the back of my hair. "Maybe not verbally," she says. "But I can tell you like my clothes tight and short."
"I didn't think you'd come."
"Why not?"
"Girls don't usually approve of strip clubs. It's a man's fun land. And some find it offensive that men want to be at them at all."
"Anything can turn a good time, baby. It's all about perspective." As the last word sounds from her lips, the stripper hits the end of the stage, dropping to her knees with her hands on her tits, her hips rolling to the beat. Without missing a second, Tynleigh grabs cash and folds it over the string of her thongs. "Nice rack, babe," she yells, the slight slur from the alcohol coming out. The long black-haired girl slightly smiles, smothering it before it disrupts her sexual poker face, before standing and moving to another section of the stage with bills flying in the air.
The server from earlier returns with another beer and a mixed drink for Tynleigh, filling our order from her last round check. She's lost her flirty nature since the girls joined us, keeping things professional. I lay the money on her tray and she walks away. Other strippers are scattered throughout the room, mingling and interacting with customers. Occasionally one disappears here and there to a back room. This place is mellow, but the action never stops. And there are tits everywhere.
I take a sip of my beer and set it down on the table, before turning her around to face me. She's nursing on the straw of her colored drink. My hands slip under her skirt, before finding their way to her ass where they want to be. "Anything?" I ask, watching the smile spread across her face.
"Have something in mind?"
I sit in the chair at our table, pulling her on my lap. "You could be my own personal stripper."
"I'm not stripping in the middle of a strip club. I'm not modest, but I wasn't born to flaunt like my brother either, and I'm not getting paid like the rest of the tits in this bar. I'm not against it at home though."
"Oh, come on. We can keep it PG-13. Tits out here are equivalent to sweaty bodies at a nightclub. No one would even think twice."
She turns her body and sets her drink on top of the table to accompany my beer, returning to me. Then, without saying anything, she lifts her tight shirt up her body and pulls it over her head, before taking an end in each fist and wrapping it around my neck like a towel, pulling me toward her, our lips connecting without instruction.
My hands explore her body, feeling her soft skin as her tongue interlocks with mine. Her center grinds against my lap in a choreographed routine, her body rolling and swaying, hardening my dick more than I was already. Her shoulder blades emerge from hiding and she pushes away when my hands reach the hook of her see-through, black, lace bra; her lips leaving mine. I drink her in. There is absolutely no padding, yet her tits are perfectly shaped and full. If you study the cups you can see the two tones where her skin shows through the fabric.
Her nipples are hard, giving the bulbs in my face a multidimensional form. "Compromise," she says, her lower half still dancing on top of me. "The bra stays on till we get home."
Home.
For some fucked up reason I like the sound of that. Who would have thought . . . I lean in asSmack Thatby Akon starts to play in the club, my teeth skimming her mouth-watering cleavage, before sucking it into my mouth to taste her. The smell of her perfume assaults me first, intoxicating me.
