PJ lets out a sigh and closes his eyes for a few seconds before opening them back up to stare at me again.
“You’re doing exactly what you accused others of doing to you. You’re looking at me, but you’re not seeing me,” he finally says. “You think I’m sitting here all casual, like I don’t have a care in the world? Look closer. I’m sitting because I’m trying really fucking hard to hide the hard-on I’ve had since you sent that damn picture of your lingerie, which got increasingly worse and more painful the minute you walked in here in that dress. I haven’t been able to stop picturing you in one of those items under that dress. And yes, Melissa was the type of woman I’ve been with before. In the past. Someone who looked good on the outside, but didn’t have any substance on the inside, which is why she’s in the past. I couldn’t even get up from that weight bench, and it was a struggle to string together complete sentences when she walked up because my dick was still hard from watching you rub that fucking cap over your lips, and I couldn’t stop wishing I was that fucking cap when you dropped it between your tits. You didn’t even notice how many men in that gym were staring at you, and it took everything in me not to kick all of their asses.”
My mouth drops open in shock at every word that comes out of his mouth, and butterflies start flapping around in my stomach when he keeps going, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees with his hands still clasped together between them, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m sorry my texts have been terse and unwinky, whatever the fuck that means. I was worried I might have come on too strong, and then when I got that picture from you, I was worried I’d scare you away completely if I replied with what I really wanted to.”
My tongue darts out nervously to wet my dry lips, and I hear him growl low in his throat as he stares at my mouth.
“What did you want to reply?” I whisper, taking a step toward him.
His eyes move back to mine, and the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach flutter like I just went down the hill of roller coaster. There’s no mistaking it this time—there’s definitely want and need written all over his face, and the next words out of his mouth confirm that.
“That I have never wanted to fuck someone more than I do you, from the moment I first saw you pass out in your front yard, to when I first spoke to you at the Halloween party wearing that ridiculous princess costume. I’m not just casually folding my hands in my lap. I’m cutting off the goddamn circulation in my fingers because I’m trying really hard not to rip that dress off of your body.”
I don’t even realize I’ve continued moving toward him while he speaks until I’m standing right in front of him where I can, in fact, see how tense the muscles in his thighs are and the whiteness of his knuckles. He sits back in his chair, keeping his hands clenched together in his lap, hiding the erection he mentioned that I suddenly want to see more than I want to take my next breath.
“You’re a very confusing man,” I whisper, trying not to shiver when he finally releases his death grip and reaches out to rest his palms on the outside of my upper thighs, right below the hem of my dress.
He adds a little pressure, forcing me to take another step forward until my thighs bump into his knees.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks softly, staring up at me as his thumbs trace small circles against the skin of my thighs, his hands not moving from their spot even though I want nothing more than for him to slide them right up and under my dress.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m just not used to all this. I’m not used to someone saying things like that or looking at me like that,” I tell him, my heart practically beating out of my chest when he removes his hands from my thighs, grabs my wrists, and yanks me toward him. I topple forward and have to grab the back of the chair to hold myself up above him.
He pushes his knees against my thighs and I take a step out with each foot to make room for him between my legs. I’m still bent over at the waist above him, with a death grip on the back of the chair.
“Like what? Like that small taste of you I got in the middle of your front yard wasn’t even close to being enough, and I want more? Like I can’t stop thinking about the way your body moved when you gave me that lap dance, and I’ve jerked off to the memory more times than I care to admit? Like watching you come out of your shell and seeing you take charge of your life is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen? Well, get used to it. It’s appalling no one ever looked at you like this before or said things like this to you before,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling me roughly down onto his lap.
It’s all I can do not to purr like a kitten when I feel his hard-on pressing against me, with nothing but the thin nylon material of his shorts and the lace of my thong separating us. He lets go of my hips and moves his hands up between us to cup my cheeks.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly, flexing his hips and pushing up harder against me until my eyes almost roll into the back of my head.
I nod my head instead of answering him verbally, afraid I’ll ruin the moment by whining, crying, stomping my foot and screaming that it’s more than okay, and if one of us doesn’t start moving soon, I might pick up the closest chair and chuck it across the room.
“See that remote on the table next to us? Grab it, and hit the big button in the middle.”
With my eyes locked on his, I reach one of my arms out blindly for the remote, pressing whatever buttons I can feel until I finally hit the right one. The sound of a piano suddenly fills the room, the slow beat of drums joins in a few seconds later, and then a man starts crooning through the sound system. The song instantly amplifies everything I’m feeling. It’s slow and sexy and makes it impossible for me to just sit still on PJ’s lap when there is an erection between my thighs begging for me to rub all up on it.
“It’s called “Bloodstream” by Stateless,” he says, telling me the name of the song before I even have a chance to ask. “Don’t think. Just listen to the music and move.”
He lets out a small groan when I do what he says, rolling my hips and sliding myself against his hardness.
“Is this part of my lesson?” I whisper, the way he’s looking up at me with hooded eyes giving me the confidence to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer to me.
He sits up in the chair, dropping one of his hands from my face to wrap it around my body as I continue to grind myself against him to the beat of the music, the feel of him so hard and hot between my legs that I know nothing could tear me off of his lap right now even if the room was on fire.
This damn building could go up in flames right along with my vagina and I wouldn’t even care.
His hand on my cheek moves to the back of my neck and he tugs my face closer to his until my lips are hovering right over his.
“You definitely don’t need a lesson in this. Fucking hell, you feel so good. Better than my dreams,” he mutters against my mouth.
My thighs tighten on either side of his and I press myself down harder on him, swiveling my hips and moaning when he thrusts himself up against me, hitting a spot that makes me see stars.
All of the blood in my body rushes between my legs as I grind myself against him. I almost forgot what this feels like, the pulse of need, the tingle of desire, everything around you fading away until all you can think about and all you want is an orgasm and that blissful relief from the ache. I should probably apologize to him that this is going to be over before it even starts because three years is a long damn time to wait for something like this. Right now, it feels like my body is a live wire and my orgasm is on a hair trigger that I’m assuming a strong gust of wind could detonate right about now. Or a strong gust of PJ’s dick rubbing against my vagina.
His arms tighten around me, helping me move faster against him, and everything feels heightened with the way our lips stay close, almost touching, but not quite. I’m so turned on by everything that is happening in this moment that I can feel how wet the lace of my thong is with each slide of my bo
dy against the hardness straining against his shorts.
I should be embarrassed by how needy I must look to him, this man who works around strippers every night and definitely has more sexual experience than I do. I’m whimpering and grinding myself against him as I grab a handful of the hair on the back of his head and clutch it. I’m too lost in the beat of the music and the smell of PJ’s cologne and how bolstering it is to be wanted like this to worry about anything, too busy realizing how amazing it is to let go, stop thinking, and just feel.
Feel the heat from his body, feel how tightly he holds me against him, feel his hips thrust up to meet me, feel his hand move from the small of my back to clutch my ass and move me faster against him.
Every inch of my body is on fire from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Ripples of pleasure I haven’t felt in years, maybe ever, overwhelm me, until I feel like I’m struggling to breathe as I slide back and forth in his lap. PJ’s mouth is suddenly on mine and he swallows one of my gasps of pleasure.
As soon as his tongue darts into my mouth and slides against my own, I topple over the edge. I moan into his mouth as I come, and he deepens the kiss. My hips churn against him and I ride out the best orgasm I’ve ever experienced in my life, making noises into his mouth, while he continues kissing me, that I didn’t even know I could make.
PJ’s body suddenly becomes jerky underneath me and he yanks his mouth away from mine with a whispered curse as he continues to move against me. He presses his forehead to mine while I continue sliding against him, and the grip he has on the back of my neck tightens, as does his hand on my ass. A string of curses flies out of his mouth when he suddenly thrusts his hips up roughly and holds himself in place against me. I cling to him tighter when I feel his cock pulse and grow harder between my legs.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, while I try not to let out a victory yell that I wasn’t the only one with a hair-trigger orgasm waiting to explode.
With one last push of himself against me, he slumps back down into the chair with a groan. My body goes with him, sprawling against his chest as my head drops into the crook of his neck and I try to slow down the erratic beating of my heart.
“Jesus Christ,” he curses again, letting go of the tight hold he has on the back of my neck to wrap his arm around me and hug me tighter to him. “I just came in my pants like a fifteen-year-old boy. Never, ever doubt anything about yourself again.”
I smile against his neck before pulling my head away to lean back in his lap and look at him, a small tinge of mortification starting to creep in that I just got myself off on this man’s lap before one song even finished playing over the sound system. My legs feel like jelly, and even though we didn’t have sex, I already know he’s ruined me for any other man. I shouldn’t feel nervous when we both experienced the same thing, but I do. This is uncharted territory for me. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to act, and for the love of God, where does one put her hands when she’s sitting on a guy’s lap in a postorgasmic haze?
Do I clasp them behind my head, do I hold them up for a high five and an “’Atta boy!”? Are jazz hands appropriate? What about spirit fingers?
His hands drop to my bare thighs and he rests them there as he looks up at me, and I try to refrain from waving my own hands in his face like an idiot who doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Just so you know, I lied before. That was a lesson.”
With no other choice, since jazz hands aren’t really my thing, I press my hands against his chest and shift myself on his lap. My eyes fly to his when he takes in a sharp intake of breath and his fingers dig into the skin of my thighs. I forget all about my nerves as I watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows thickly. When I feel him start to harden against me again, I can’t stop myself from wiggling a little in his lap as I lean closer to him.
“And what lesson was that?” I ask softly as he looks up into my eyes.
“You just learned that you are never allowed to do anything even remotely close to that with a customer. Ever.”
Just like that, all of my anxiety melts away, and I tip my head back and laugh.
Chapter 22: I Want to Lick Your Balls
“Well, it’s not a dick in your vagina, but since it was in the general vicinity, I’ll count that as a win for your cobweb-addled lady bits,” Ariel tells me, holding her hand up for a high five, which I ignore.
“Why do you have to be so crass?” I complain, reaching for the stack of printouts sitting between us at my kitchen counter and grabbing an envelope.
“If you’d be crasser, I bet PJ would have spent the last two weeks sticking it in you instead of leaving you high and dry,” she replies, folding one of the printouts and handing it to me to shove into an envelope.
It’s been fourteen days since that afternoon at Charming’s. Fourteen glorious days of PJ taking me to lunch, taking me to dinner, watching movies at my house with me. We ended each evening making out like teenagers on my couch, hoping my daughter didn’t come down for a glass of water or anything. It’s not as if having sex on the one remaining piece of furniture on the first floor while Anastasia was upstairs sleeping would have been appropriate anyway, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering why he hasn’t pushed for more. Don’t get me wrong, I still had two weeks of orgasms from those make-out sessions, each one better than the last, but I wanted more. I just didn’t know if I was the type of person to ask for it. Or to ask him why he hasn’t asked for it.
Jesus, this is all too confusing.
“You need to just come right out and tell him to stop diddling you with his fingers and diddle you with his dick.”
Even with Ariel sitting right next to me, her words send me off into a daydream, remembering what it felt like to lie next to him on the couch with his hand between my legs. Good lord, that man knows what to do with his fingers.
“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, do you? I mean, every time I tried to touch him, he wouldn’t let me. He just kept saying this was all about me and I needed to just let go and enjoy it. It all sounded sweet and hot at the time, but now it just makes me worry,” I tell her.
“Well, you already know he doesn’t have a tiny dick, since you rubbed your naughty self all over it, so that’s not the problem. Maybe it’s crooked. Ooooh, maybe your hairy troll vagina isn’t the problem and his hairy troll balls ARE. He’s afraid you’ll get one look at them and need to fire up the weed whacker before you put them in your mouth,” Ariel muses.
“For the last time, nothing on my body is hairy like a troll. And I’m sure that’s not the problem. I just don’t know what is.”
Ariel smacks one of the printouts down on the counter with a huff.
“This is stupid. Why are we printing out flyers for the Naughty Princess Club? Are we really going to walk around the neighborhood and stuff them in people’s mailboxes? That’s got to be illegal,” she complains.
“Well, our website is up and running and we’re only getting like ten hits a day from Google searches, and no one has booked anything yet. Do you have a better idea?” I ask, continuing to stuff envelopes.
“It’s not like it matters even if we did get a booking. I mean, I can probably wing it, but you and Belle? Good lord, no. You have got to get over your stage fright of taking your clothes off for a room full of people. Ripping your top off in your front yard when you’re drunk doesn’t count. You can’t be drunk every time you strip,” she reminds me.
She’s completely right, but it’s not like I haven’t tried. Last night, Anastasia stayed at a friend’s house, which of course got me all hopeful that PJ and I would finally have sex. Instead, he decided to continue with the boot camp by turning on some music and making me dance for him. It was fine and it was going great until he told me to take my clothes off. I completely froze. The man has had his fingers all up in me and his hands all over my body and I couldn’t even take my clothes off just for him. What if I didn’t look sexy when I took them off? What i
f he didn’t like the way my body looked when I was standing there in my underwear in front of him, and he couldn’t hide the grimace on his face? If I can’t handle it with a guy who has given me multiple orgasms, how am I supposed to handle it with a roomful of strangers?
PJ didn’t make fun of me when I attempted to take my jeans off and froze, and he didn’t push me. He just told me it was fine and we’d try again another time. I quickly pushed aside my worry when he pulled me down on top of him on the couch and turned my brain into mush with his lips.
I need to get out of my head and just do it. Our website is set up with a photo of each of us in our princess costumes, and a customer can click on whichever princess they’d like at their party. At any minute, I could get an email that says I’ve been requested, and it’s not like I could turn it down. Vincent won’t wait much longer before he takes drastic measures. And even though I have no intentions of giving him any of the money he thinks I stole even if I had it to give, he could still take this house since Brian stupidly put the deed in Castle Creative’s name. We need to get paying customers fast in case I suddenly need to find a new place to live for Anastasia and I, and in order for them to pay us, I need to be able to give them the best stripping experience of their life.
“Let’s tackle the most important problem on our to-do-list and the one that will officially break you out of your self-imposed shell: Get Cindy Laid. Close your eyes and scream ‘FUCK ME, PJ!’ at the top of your lungs,” she orders.
“I will do no such thing,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes.