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PRESENT DAY
I’m a master at getting myself off. Every woman will tell you that if it were a contest between a man making her orgasm and herself, she’d win every time. But I have to admit that Lorenzo is a very,veryclose second.
I don’t know where he learned to move his fingers like that, but he should put on a class for all men. I haven’t been with many, but I know from experience that most of them don’t know how to do what he does.
“I can’t hear you, kitten,” he growls in my ear. “Why can’t I hear you meow?”
I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. There’s no other explanation for the out-of-body experience I’m having. It’s as if I’m watching this gorgeous, older man finger me to completion instead of being the stripper he’s getting off.
“Lorenzo, I don’t think—” I’m the reason I never finish the sentence. I’m about to tell him I don’t think we should be doing this when I feel his middle finger enter. I sharply breathe in and toss my head over his shoulder, giving in to the sensations instead of my reservations.
Stop, don’t do it,the little voice says.Call the security guard. End this before it goes too far!But the little voice is too late.
Energy pools in my chest before drifting lower. With each passing second, it travels toward my core until it explodes at my center. Pleasure radiates outward from my pussy as Lorenzo swirls his middle finger inside me while strumming my clit with his thumb.
“That’s a good girl,” he praises with a hum. “Now be areallygood girl for Daddy and do it again.”
I don’t think I can. I have to wait a few minutes between orgasms when I’m pleasuring myself. When a mancanget me off, it’s a one-time-only kind of thing. The sex is over. Everybody needs to pack it up and go home for the night because it isn’t happening again.
Lorenzo doesn’t see this as a one-time-only kind of thing, though. He doesn’t even withdraw his finger from inside of me. Instead, he reaches into the cup of my bra and fondles my breast. He tweaks and pulls the nipple until the new stimulation draws fresh pleasure from my body. His thumb is still caressing my clit with a lazy strum, and somehow, the sensations wring a new orgasm from my body.
I feel like a rag that has been twisted and churned until all the liquid has been squeezed out. Except instead of liquid, it’s every ounce of my strength. I am a puddle of weakness splayed across Lorenzo’s lap. If he wanted me to get up and dance for him right now, I don’t think I could move.
“You’re so beautiful, Havana,” he whispers. “Let me take you home.”
It’s a struggle to convince my lips to form the right words. “I’m working,” I protest.
“But my fingers are still inside of you.” True enough, I can feel his middle finger working in and out of me at a slow, leisurely pace. “Iwant to be inside of you, Havana.”
It would be so easy to give in to his demands. I could let him take me home and fuck me until the sun rises. I’d get more than my fair share of cash, and I’d have a good time. A man that can move his fingers this good must be a pro with his cock.
But going home with Lorenzo is showing him a side of me that none of the customers at Mustangs needs to see. My mama would have said it’s showing him how the sausage is made. It’s one thing to be a fantasy onstage or the girl that gives him lap dances before he goes home to his wife. It’s something else entirely to go home with him and let him get a taste of the real thing.
I am breathless in my pursuit to get away from him. “No, we can’t.” I struggle to get off his lap. He holds me tightly as if letting me go will destroy the illusion we’ve created.
My quest to put space between us is far from ladylike. The tall, never-ending stripper heels hit the floor and it’s a perilous attempt to get to my feet without breaking an ankle. I’m dizzy and ready to topple over by the time I face him. “You aren’t supposed to touch the dancers.” The words feel like acid in the back of my throat and they threaten to burn my esophagus like the lies they are.
Lorenzo is controlled—in his words, in his actions, in the sexy little way his lips curl into a smile as he gets to his feet. “I didn’t just touch you, Havana, I possessed you. And just because you climb on your stilettos and tell me that I’m not allowed to do that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to happen again.”
I open my mouth to tell him that this can’t happen again. I’m willing to admit my mistake and refund him his money for renting out the Diamond room. Instead, I’m faced with a gun.
My jaw drops when I see it appear at his waist. When I was on his lap, I didn’t even feel it. But there it is. A small, lethal 9 mm pistol pointed right at me.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” Lorenzo’s smiling face is replaced with a look of utter seriousness. “This gun is for the guard and anyone else that gets in my way,” he explains as he reaches out to grab my hand. “We’re going to get your things and leave. You’re never coming back here, Havana. Do you understand?”
The little voice in my head says that he’s just as bad as Nicholas Calvino, maybe even worse. “I-I-I can’t go with you,” I stutter. “I have to go home. My father needs me.”
“I agree,” he replies with a nod of his head. “But he doesn’t need you tonight. He needs you tomorrow afternoon for his weekly chemo session. He needs you to swing by with groceries this weekend because he’ll be too weak to go to the store. He needs you to do his laundry, wash his dishes, and every other little household chore that’s too much for him.” Lorenzo doesn’t look the least bit off-put by my father’s needs. “And we’ll come back tomorrow afternoon to see your dad. We’ll make sure he gets to his chemo treatment. We’ll get his groceries and we’ll do his laundry. We, Havana, you and me. We’re in this together.”
I’m torn. On one hand, the cavalier way that he walks me through Mustangs to gather my things makes me angry. Who does he think he is escorting me from the premises with a gun in hand?
Conversely, I think I like having a protective man around. Lorenzo isn’t afraid to shove a fist into the security guard’s mouth. He’s polite to the dancers and only gives a menacing look to Hattie when she says she’s going to call Nick.
“Yeah, you call him,” Lorenzo threatens, “you tell Nicholas Calvino that when he wants to square up for what he’s done to these girls, he knows where I’m at.”
Hattie’s eyes shift back and forth from Lorenzo to me. I can tell there’s more she wants to say, but she snaps her mouth closed and turns on her heel. She tears off into the back like she’s in hot pursuit.
“Fucking pussies,” he mumbles. “That woman is probably responsible for all the coke in this place.”
