* * *
“Oh.” She straightens. “He broke up with you?”
* * *
I sling my bag over one shoulder and slam the locker. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
* * *
I push past her before she can argue the lie.
* * *
My hand tightens on the strap of my purse as I come to a stop. The man turns away from the group and lifts a chin to me, his eyes flitting down my dress and then back to my face.
* * *
“You ready?”
* * *
“I’d like to take a photo of your driver’s license.” I practiced the words in my mind before I spoke, yet they still come out stiff and unsure, as if I am asking for something that is negotiable.
* * *
Even in the dim light, I can see the flicker in his eyes, the tightening of his chin, a subtle shift of his shoulders.
* * *
“That’s not really—” The words, spoken by a beefy suit to our left, are cut off by just a glance from the stranger.
* * *
His eyes return to me, and a knot of tension in my chest relaxes a little when he reaches into his back pocket. “Smart girl,” he says quietly.
* * *
Smart girl? I haven’t been a smart girl for a very, very long time. A smart girl would run away from his delicious mouth and intoxicating scent. A smart girl wouldn’t be trading cash for her safety and respectability. Still, a part of me preens at the empty compliment. It’s been so long since a man has admired anything but my looks.
* * *
I reach out and take the driver’s license he offers, examining it briefly before digging into my purse for my phone.
* * *
Nathan Dumont. An unsmiling photo that matches his handsome face. Born eight years before me, which puts him at 35 years old. An address in Nashville. A Tennessee man in our little beach town? Random.
* * *
I take a photo of the license, and text it to Jez, briefly depressed by the fact that my life has degraded to the point where my only friends are strippers. I add a quick message. In case I die, call the cops on this asshole. Sending the message, I pass the card back to the stranger, one now with a name—Nathan—and a location. I tuck my phone back in my purse. Smart girl. Maybe I am. Maybe somewhere, underneath the glitter and the desperation, there was still a little of the person I used to be.
CHAPTER 5
As a teen, I always pictured limos and strippers paired together—like peanut butter and jelly. Now, I step onto the parking lot in five-inch heels and try not to gawk at the stretch limo that idles, the door smoothly opened by his security detail. I stumble at the door’s opening, trying to figure out the most ladylike way to get in while wearing a mini-dress. I end up doing some sort of dippy crawl that is a disaster, my face flushing as I right myself on the leather seat. The door closes and I have a moment of silence.
* * *
It’s sad that I feel at home. The mirrored ceiling, with twinkling stars set into the headliner, is straight out of the low ceilings of Sammy’s. The black leather seats, ice chest of beer and wine, a velvet pillow lying against the front seat – it’s all Stripperville, USA. And for me, it’s all incredible. High-class, fancy living, incredible. I am in a limo, with a wealthy stranger, pulling away from Sammy’s. If I squint hard enough, this is just like Pretty Woman’s final scene. Maybe I can be Julia Roberts. Maybe I can have a fairytale ending, despite my poor planning.
* * *
I shut down my fantasy when the other door opens, his tall body making an easy transition into the car, nothing like the fumbling giraffe I had been. I fix my mouth into an easy smile, crossing my legs and leaning forward, assuming the pose that makes my breasts appear biggest and causes my cellulite to disappear. “Where are we going?”
* * *
He ignores my question, unzipping his pants and leaning back in the seat. “Come here.”
* * *
For such a smart girl, I’m an idiot. My fantasies scamper away, and I remind myself of my reality—one where I should count my blessings if I manage to survive the night. I keep my smile, and hope the disappointment doesn’t shine through my eyes. I slide closer along the seat, and he nods toward the floor. “On your knees.”
* * *
I almost say please, almost demand that he treat me with an ounce of respect. But I don’t, and my first limo ride ends in the way that most stripper rides do. My head between his thighs, automotive carpet rough against my knees, his hand on my hair, pushing my head onto his cock. The car drives, I suck, and any excitement I have for the evening ends in his finish.
* * *
After his orgasm, there is only silence, an uncomfortable ten minutes where I look out the window and consider pulling out my phone. Would it be rude to fit in a level or two of Candy Crush?
* * *
He doesn’t seem concerned about manners or small talk. As soon as he finished, he had zipped his pants, helped me back to my seat, and then gotten on his cell, his fingers busy across the screen, emails sent and replied in rapid succession. I curl my knees to my chest and lean against the cushion, watching the lights of Destin, then Santa Rosa Beach, then gulf-front homes, go by.
* * *
“Here.” He holds out his jacket, covering my goose-bumped legs. “You look cold.”
* * *
“Thank you.” I tuck my hands in between my thighs and wonder where we are going. Maybe Panama City Beach, though they have their own strip clubs there. Chances are, if he came to Sammy’s, we are probably almost there.
* * *
The limo slows in a bit of late-night traffic, and I watch the stark-white homes of Alys Beach, a neighborhood of the uber rich who all prefer cookie-cutter homes devoid of any color. I wonder what they do when they get drunk at their wine dinners and stumble home. Do they get lost in their mirrored maze of identical homes? During the spring, is their all-white landscape tinted yellow from the pollen?
* * *
Watercolor, then Seaside passes, the tiny communities filled with preppy teenagers on bikes, their Vineyard Vines polos bobbing through the crowded streets. I watch two girls perched on the hood of a Range Rover, cell phones in hand, the screen’s glow lighting up sun-burnt young skin. I want to roll down the window and scream at them to all go home, to study, to appreciate the fact that life blessed them with fucking perfection. They’ll never be in a polyester minidress and leopard-print hooker shoes, trading dignity for greasy bills.
* * *
I close my eyes and relax against the headrest.
NATHAN
These kids are assholes. Not that he can talk. Twenty years ago, he was stealing sips of bourbon in the fucking box at the Derby. Spending spring breaks in Kiawah, and fingering Stacy Hanover against the side of her dad's Ferrari on Christmas Eve.
* * *
His parents’ death almost saved him, in the twisted cruel way that God worked. Their car accident cut off the cash flow, and made him realize exactly how quickly a trust fund could be depleted. He’d been practically broke when his sister had bailed him out, loaning him ten million dollars and believing in his vision of redeveloping a struggling neighborhood in Nashville. That loan, and her faith, had been the building blocks of Dumont Development, and the man he had become. Her investment, and her expectations, were the only things that had saved him from the future that waits for every one of these rich teenage pricks.
* * *
He looks away from a cluster of giggling teenagers and over to the tiny curl of a body, pressed against the limo's opposite door. She couldn't be farther from him, her position one that lights every protective fuse in his body. He turns away, his hands instinctively tightening into fists. He's not here to protect her. He's here to use her. And the sooner she understands that, the better.
CHAPTER 6
We end up in Rosemary Beach, at a fancy hotel where a valet opens my door and helps me out whil
e staring at my legs. I clutch my purse to my chest as we ride up the elevator, this time with only one bodyguard beside us.
* * *
I lean toward Nathan and lower my voice. “Is the bodyguard staying in the hotel also?”
* * *
He glances up from the phone in his hand. “Does it matter?”
* * *
I shift, watching the numbers climb on the elevator’s display. Does it matter? Probably not. He seems to be there to protect Nathan, not myself. If anything, should a bad situation arise, it’d be better to fight off one man than two.
* * *
The elevator sounds, and the doors open. The bodyguard gestures me forward, and I step out.
CHAPTER 7
“Stop.” Nathan’s word is a growled command and I instantly obey.
* * *
We are just inside the suite, a pale room decorated in blues and creams. The windows are dark, and in them, I see a small reflection of myself, a thin slice of vulnerability, framed by the two men. To my left, a large dining table. To my right, Nathan. I look to the table, and wonder if the tremble in my bones is visible to the men.
* * *
His hand touches my back, sliding my hair over, pulling the strapless minidress down, over my breasts. There is the light dig of his fingernails, and then the clasp of my swimsuit style top is undone.
* * *
I turn toward him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches up and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls it away. I wet my lips, stalling. “We haven’t discussed money.”
* * *
“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile, and the first real stab of fear hits me.
* * *
I shiver in the cool air, feeling the fabric brush against my nipples as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.
* * *
“What, leave the club?”
* * *
“No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his cock into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back, winning the fight.
* * *
His eyes are thousand-foot depths with flecks of blue domination in them, his tan skin stretching over perfect features as he speaks. “Ten grand.”
* * *
I swallow as his hands slide down my sides, pushing the minidress lower. I feel a cheap stretch of fabric as he slides the polyester over my hips and then drops it to the floor. His fingertips, a little rough on their surface, trail back up, over the curve of my ass, and I feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down is necessarily an option. “Okay.” I’m not sure if I actually speak the words or just mouth them.
* * *
He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am naked, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and colliding with the man who stands at attention, watching us.
* * *
“Your man,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my breasts the current object of their focus. I am a woman conditioned to touch, conditioned to stolen gropes and caresses, some worshipful, some crude, all of which occur in the smoky air of Sammy’s. Here, in a room that smells of ocean and money, with a man that reeks of class and power—every point of contact is magnified, my senses overwhelmed, my heart crying out for more.
* * *
Ten thousand dollars. I hope he is gentle. I hope he is kind. I hope, what is about to happen, isn’t something that I will regret for the rest of my life.
* * *
His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch. “He stays.”
* * *
“But…” my voice is as weak as my knees. “He can see us.”
* * *
His hands still and he moves forward, so close that I have to tilt my face up to meet his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”
* * *
I shut my mouth, and swallow the questions. Why do you need protection? Why does he have to watch us? I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the man, his eyes following our movement. He steps back, almost to the wall, and it helps slightly. He’s already seen me give head; this isn’t much different.
* * *
But sex is different. I may have gotten to the sad point where occasional hand and blowjobs occur, but sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.
* * *
He leans forward and kisses me. The image of dollar bills disappears. Everything flees in the moment his lips touch mine.
* * *
A soft, sweet kiss. Not what I expect. He brushes my lips softly, and they part for him, wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. His tongue dips inside and I respond eagerly, my body taking over, shoving aside my thoughts as a wave of desire hits. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me further into the suite, my heels skittering over wood floors, till the edge of the table bites into the back of my thighs.
* * *
His hands settle on my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table. The glass surface is cold, my bare pussy shocked by the sensation, my arousal throbbing to life. Oh, hello there. Haven’t seen you in a while. The feeling is so foreign, so long-forgotten, that I almost smile.
* * *
“Lay back,” he bites out against my lips, taking one last, torturous sweep of my mouth before stepping back, his hands yanking at his tie.
* * *
I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows rest on the glass. I stay there, propped halfway up, and watch him unbutton one sleeve, then the second. His breath is hard, his eyes on mine and when he walks towards me, I can see the line of his arousal in his pants. He stops, still a few feet away.
* * *
He's an odd man. Cold to the point of being an asshole, and expecting me to perform as he demands. But I’m used to that. Pleases and thank you’s aren’t required, only appreciated. And despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it’s the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. But more likely it’s that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs for hands to run through it, a strong jaw and kissable lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.
* * *
My thoughts abandon me as he yanks his tie free and unbuttons his shirt, inch after inch of hard chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit, he commanded respect. Without a shirt, he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. I hear the yank of a zipper, and my eyes can’t help but drop.
* * *
He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, one that kept me awake last night and started a fruitless self-pleasure session. I swallow as he steps closer, his eyes drifting over my naked body, his hand reaching out and pressing on my sternum, lying me flat before him on top of the table.
* * *
His hands touch my legs, lifting and tugging them outward, opening me wide before him. He bends, his hands on my ankle, his fingers unstrapping my heel, a loud thud sounding when the platform stiletto hits the floor.
Then he moves to the other shoe, my foot lifting under his hand when it is free. He grabs an ankle in each hand and places my feet flat on the table, knees pointing to the ceiling.
* * *
“Touch yourself,” he rasps, stepping back and watching me, his hand settling on and gripping his cock. It juts out, swollen and hard. The knowledge that I’ve caused that reaction is powerful, the vision of him stroking his cock the most carnal thing I’ve ever seen.