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Hell, I don’t even want her to strip anymore. Right now, I can manage that. I already know how many lap dances she gives on a typical night, information from Karl, and I’ve already given Karl the money to make up for that. He tells her I’m a VIP and she is to only pay attention to me when she’s off stage. He has no idea we do more than what he sees here at the club. She does nothing now but her regular stage act and then sits down with me.
She thinks she’s getting paid to hang out with a guy she already enjoys time with. She doesn’t know I do all that to make sure she doesn’t end up on top of any of the guys in the lap dance booths or at their tables.
I’m not happy about going home. I’m not happy about that at all. Considering how desperate I am to live the city up until yesterday, that’s surprising to me.
I want more than what we have so far. Despite me not believing in love at first sight, I can’t rule out that the feelings I feel at the moment are exactly that. I can’t rule out the possibility that I’m already in love with this girl. I understand how unwise that is. I mean, I know that she likes me but liking me and wanting something serious with a guy who doesn’t even live where she does are two separate things.
Still, as I watch her sway on the stage, I can’t help but wish that things were different, and that we could have something impossible.
God, the way she dances is incredible. I never really think about the way strippers dance. I mean, the dancing isn’t really the point. They’re not really even dancing, not normally. They’re just showing off their bodies and moving as though they were being fucked so that the men watching them can imagine fucking them later, or in some cases, not imagine.
The way Sapphire dances is different. I could see how men would be content simply to watch her dance. Maybe content isn’t the right word. I mean, I’m certainly not content. I imagine that anyone who watches her dance would be desperate for more, but if I knew I couldn’t get any more, I would go home, jerk off, and still think that it was the best dance of my life.
But I’ve had more, and I know how she moves underneath me. I don’t need to imagine that the movements she makes on stage are the same movements she makes in bed. I know firsthand they are, and I want that. Now that I’ve had it, I don’t think I can ever be content to go without it.
But I have to. I don’t have a choice. It’s not like I can ask her to move home with me.
That thought gives me an idea I shouldn’t have, but I don’t follow through on it. I know better than to allow my imagination to run that far away from me.
I swear it’s not just her body. I know, I spend so much time talking about her body and how good she is in bed that it’s hard to convince anyone that I don’t only want her for sex, but it’s true. When we’re not in the middle of fucking each other, she is sweet and funny and even a little goofy. She really is girlfriend material, and I can’t quell the thoughts I have of making her mine for more than just a few stolen moments.
When her dance ends, I stand and tip her generously, then head across the street to wait for her so no one knows she’s leaving with me. As I wait, I continue to speculate about how wonderful it might be for us to have more than just this game we’re playing.
Is this even a game? I mean, I can tell she really enjoys our time together, but does she ever think more of what we do? Does she ever wonder, like I do, if we could have a future beyond these occasional trysts?
I see her coming out of the club and smile. I head over to her, and when I see several drunk patrons stagger over and start to paw at her, my smile fades.
Looks like I’m kicking some more ass today.
I head over and I’m enough of a man to admit that when she sees me, and her face floods with relief, I feel a rush of pride and excitement. She knows that her man is going to protect her, and I’m that man.
Only one drunk man is foolish enough to take a swing at me. I don’t even hit him. I sidestep and shove him to the ground hard. His head smacks the pavement when he lands, and he lays still.
His friends mutter apologies and cast a hurt glance at Sapphire. “We were only having fun,” one of them slurs as they struggle to help their groggy friend to his feet.
“It wasn’t fun for her,” I retort, “And you’re lucky I didn’t hurt you worse. Now fuck off.”
They do exactly as I command, and Sapphire and I head to the hotel room. On the way, her hand strokes my dick under my pants. She strokes me just enough to keep me on the edge of orgasm without pushing me over, and when I look at her, she smiles teasingly at me.
God, she’s so fucking hot. She’s so fucking perfect. She’s everything I ever wanted and more.
We get to the hotel room and when the elevator door closes behind us, my hands slide under her panties, and by the time we get to the hotel room, she is shuddering from the force of her orgasm and I am tearing her clothes off.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sapphire
I hate that he’s leaving.
That hate drives my urgency right now as I kiss him and try to rip his clothes off. Naturally, images of the man dealing so effectively with the drunks outside of the club help drive my arousal, too. It’s strange to me that in three years working at the club I never once deal with patrons being unruly to me other than the occasional ass grab. Now, a group of college guys try to gangbang me, and then two drunk guys go after me in the same week!
But Adrian is there.
And he attacks them just like a hound might attack a rabbit.
God! I don’t want him to leave.
I know I’m being foolish but it’s pretty damned hard to stop my mind from feeling this way. I don’t know if it’s just that he’s the man who gets to claim my virginity or if it’s something else that makes him so irresistible, but the last few days don’t feel like we’re just having fun. I mean, sure, it’s fun as hell but it feels like more.
