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I ignore the DJ introducing her as Brandy, my eyes locked on her lithe, sure legs as she climbs onto the sticky stage. The woman who has been fucking with my head and heart for as long as I’ve known her is currently up there in nothing but a skimpy cheerleading outfit with pom-poms in her hands. I’m so shocked that I’m incapable of moving. When the house DJ plays that old song by The Waitresses, “I Know What Boys Like,” the irony isn’t lost on me, since the pretty waitress that has consumed my every thought with all the things I’d like to do to her is about to throw one hell of a sucker punch to my gut.
The loud catcalls and cheers grate on my every nerve. She throws her cheerleading accessories to the ground and does a high kick, making these fuckers drool up a storm with her flexibility.
I can’t take my eyes off her, studying her every move. It’s sick, wrong. I should leave or take her with me, but I can’t stop watching the graceful slope of her back as she spins or her perky round ass as she bends. But unlike the girl who smiles when she gives me coffee at the diner, here, Layla is all business. She doesn’t crack one grin as she sashays over to the pole, wrapping her leg around it like it’s her new best friend. My gaze travels down every curve of her body, and my chest tightens at the sight of her defined rib cage. I knew she was getting skinnier by the day, but never to this extent—not that any man here cares if she’s too thin. To the patrons looking on, she has all the right curves in all the right places, starting from her double D tits under the small white crop top to her perky, pear-shaped ass in the skimpy skirt. My cock begins to swell as I imagine pushing her breasts together so I can slide my dick between them, jerking at it until hot spurts of my cum coat every inch of her chest.
I shift uncomfortably on my stool, watching Layla bend down and give her captive audience a perfect view of her thong-covered pussy underneath the little belt she calls a skirt. She continues to dance, ignoring all the shouts about how they want her wet pussy in their faces.
But she’s not wet.
In fact, nothing about this gets her hot.
I’ve met enough strippers to know that some get off on the attention—but not Layla. Even if I didn’t see the proof of her dry panties, I can tell by the blank expression in her eyes. This is just a means to an end. She looks almost dead inside, and that’s what pushes my arousal away, replacing the feeling with anger.
Why is she doing this? To what end?
Why, Layla? Why?
I want to scream it at her, but instead of getting up and demanding answers, I remain on my stool. My furious, horny state prevents me from moving, and I’m too transfixed on what she’s going to do next. Layla shimmies out of her skirt first, her plump ass making every man here salivate to get a bite.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The fantasies that assault me just from her ass alone has precum coating my now very hard, very visible throbbing dick. I lick my dry lips, palming my shaft just to ease some of the misery I’m in. To the tune of the beat, Layla continues to put on a show, dancing away like a fucking pro. When she feels the crowd getting antsy, she takes off her crop top, revealing her glorious braless tits, and the horde of horny men roar in delight. The only thing that slaps me awake is when I catch the slight tremor in her fingers as she tugs at the sides of her thong.
That’s it!
I’ve had enough of this bullshit!
I’m hard and angry, and if I don’t do something this very minute, I’m going to lose my shit.
Before she even thinks about showing these motherfuckers what’s mine and only mine to enjoy, I push my way to the front of the club and jump on stage. When she sees me, her eyes widen in recognition, and a pretty shade of pink coats her cheeks. If I had it my way, the only color her body would blush into is the red imprint of my five fingers on her ass.
“You,” she gasps.
“Yeah, me,” I growl, picking her up by the waist and hoisting her over my shoulder.
A loud chorus of boos ensues when I pull her off the stage. I was half expecting her to protest with my caveman behavior and sling her fists against my back, demanding to be put down. However, that’s not what happens. Instead, Layla’s body slumps over mine in complete defeat.
I push through the crowd and into a side corridor, heading away from their grabby masses.
Once I have her backstage, I stride to the dressing room where the rest of tonight’s strippers are getting ready for their set. It’s only then, once I set her feet on the floor, that she shows an ounce of embarrassment for her nude state. Her arms instantly cover her breasts. As much as I would love nothing more than to have another peek, or better yet, suck on her pretty pink nipples until she comes in ecstasy, now is not the time to mess around.
“Grab your shit. We’re leaving,” I order, leaving no room for argument.
With her head bowed, she walks into the dressing room, stuffs her clothes into her bag, and opts to only put on her coat and shoes. It’s cold as shit outside, and I’d feel better if she had more clothing on underneath her trench coat than just her panties, but I’m so fucking pissed that I don’t even insist she should dress appropriately. Right now, all I want to do is get her out of here and burn the memory of tonight from my mind—it’s either that or get the names of every guy who saw my woman naked and pay them a nasty visit. She shuffles toward me, and once she’s close enough, I grab her hand and pull her the hell out of there.
I have to remind myself she’s fragile, so I loosen my grip when all I want to do is drag her to my car, bend her over the hood, and smack her ass red for daring to do that.
The minute the cold air hits us outside, Layla starts to shiver beside me. Although I’m pissed as all hell, her discomfort unsettles me. I drop a warm arm around her shoulders and pin her to my side. She melts into my heat as we both walk back to her apartment building in total silence. I’m not sure why she hasn’t pushed me away or why she’s letting me lead her—to God knows where, for all she knows—without putting up a fight. If I were thinking rationally, then maybe I could make sense of it all, but as far as my logic is concerned, it all flew out the window the minute I saw her dancing on that godforsaken stage.
We get to her street in less time than it took her to go to work. The best thing for me to do is drop her at her doorstep, go home, cool down, and talk to her in the morning. Unfortunately for me, my torn heart won’t settle in my chest until I get down to the reason why I found her working at Tease in the first place. So instead of leaving her and bidding her goodnight, I force her to cross the street to my car.
“Get in,” I order, and again, the submissive way Layla obliges has me cringing. Taking a moment to suck in the cold air, I try to settle my possessiveness with a quick glance. She’s sitting in my car, waiting for me like a good girl. Shaking my head, I round the front and open my own door, sliding into the driver’s seat.
I slam the door behind me and turn to face her.
“What the fuck were you doing there, Layla?” I yell, unable to keep my temper in check. I’m still too angry that other men’s eyes lingered on her porcelain skin. “Why the fuck did you feel the need to leave your sick sister all on her own in the middle of the night to go fucking stripping?”
Her big green eyes stare back at me, her jaw slack in shock as she’s left speechless for a spell.
