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She headed back to the smart system and clicked through the beginning of several songs until the room filled with Joe Cocker’s You Can Leave Your Hat On.
She turned and pointed to the chair.
Hell, he was no fool, so he sat.
And, fuck him, he left his hat on.
Chapter Seventeen
Finn stared straight ahead and waited. He swore the pumping organ in his chest had fallen into the stiff organ between his legs, since it pounded with every heartbeat.
He scrubbed his damp palms down his jean-clad thighs to avoid touching himself as she came around the chair to stand in front of him.
He was going to self-combust if she didn’t do something and do it soon. All that would remain in the chair would be charred fabric and a pile of ashes.
The condoms, out of his reach on the couch, were calling to him.
“You don’t have to do this, Mel. I don’t need a show.”
Her husky voice swept over him. “I want to finish what we started out on the stage.”
So did he, but since he had considered that foreplay, he was ready to move on to the main event.
“Just let me do this.”
His mouth opened.
Don’t say shit, you idiot. Just let her do whatever she wants to do for you. To you. With you. All of the above.
His mouth snapped shut.
She did the high-step strut as she circled him in the chair, dragging her nails across his collarbones, his shoulders, the back of his neck, until she stopped behind him. She tipped his head back until she could see his eyes under the brim of the fedora. They stared at each other for a moment before she plucked the hat off his head and tossed it onto his lap. She wasted no time grabbing the hem of his shirt to pull it up and over his head.
He didn’t turn around to see where his Henley ended up, because he really didn’t give a fuck right then and there. He had more important things going on.
She reached over, pressing her breasts to his back, snagged the hat and replaced it on his head.
“Have a thing for hats?”
“I have a thing for you.”
Well, fuck… The feeling was mutual.
She once again came around to stand in front of him and, using her knee, she knocked both of his open wider until there was space for her between them.
No lie, this was going to be the best fucking morning of his life. He already knew it and he still wore his damn jeans.
Squatting at his feet, she planted her hands on his thighs, threw her head back and circled it, causing her hair to fan out around her. As she rose once more, she rolled her body from hips to shoulders. Once… twice… and if she did it a third time, he would grab her at the waist, toss her on the couch and just take her without the fanfare.
His fingers squeezed the shit out of the sides of the cushioned metal chair, similar to one used at banquet halls, and forced himself to remain seated. He decided it was best he kept his mouth shut, too, since his voice might crack like a fifteen-year-old hormonal boy.
He only hoped that what happened during his first lap dance at twenty-one did not repeat itself at thirty-four.
He was more mature now, right? He had more control?
He wasn’t so sure when she climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs and ground her firm ass against his erection, driving him to the brink.
Jesus fuck. She was trying to turn his cock into Old Faithful.
“Mel,” he croaked.
She pressed a finger to her lips, gave him a warning look and a sharp shake of her head.
He blew out a breath and gritted his teeth.
She arched backwards over his knees until she could plant her hands on the floor. Then, fuck him, she hooked her fucking calves over his shoulders, bouncing her ass against his already volatile dick.
He bit back a whimper as he stared at her crotch only inches from his face. She dropped her feet back to the floor on either side of him, arching her agile body into a freaking bridge.
How the fuck was she so damn flexible?
Then somehow—it had to be sorcery—she rolled her body backwards off his lap—again, like a gymnast—and popped up onto her feet, plucked the hat off his head and placed it back on hers. She turned and strutted a couple of steps away, taking herself just out of reach.
With a glance over her shoulder, she gave him a slow wink.
Did he stop breathing? He might have stopped breathing.
Using her thumb and forefinger, she flicked the fedora off her head and rolled it expertly down her arm until it landed in her hand.
After the Joe Cocker tune, he had lost track of the music because he was so focused on Mel. What sane man wouldn’t be? Even so, he didn’t miss when the next song started—Partition by Beyoncé—and she began to move to the music, her hips and shoulders swaying with exaggeration.
