The fact is, there’s no one I can turn to for help. I’m all on my own. So I’ll go with the flow…
…for now.
* * *
Elliot
I stifle a yawn as another stripper gyrates to the music.
You’re slumming.
No shit, Einstein. I’m not in the VIP area, am I?
Even though I told all my siblings I would marry a stripper for a year, I just can’t seem to make myself proposition one. But the bride search isn’t too bad. After all, I’m not at some stuffy debutante event or—god forbid—out on a date. A shudder runs through me. So not my style. I don’t do romance, I don’t date, and I don’t have the kind of sterling reputation that gets high society mamas to push their daughters my way.
What I do have is a sizable bank account. That’s it.
A strip club is the perfect venue for what I need. All the merchandise is on display, so there won’t be any surprises. A lot of the girls are stacked, although I cross off all the ones with plastic tits. I put a premium on tactile sensation. What’s the point of having a wife you don’t want to fuck?
The problem is that I can’t imagine fucking any of them for more than one night. If I’m going to marry, I’m going to make sure I stay faithful for the duration. Not because I care about the girl’s feelings—I don’t, not really—but because I don’t want my father to be able to use my infidelity to fuck with me and my siblings again.
I consider calling it a night. I’m not gonna find any wife material here.
Then the girl shows up on stage.
I don’t know what makes me look at her face. Usually I check out the girls’ bodies first—I’m not at the club to admire cheekbones. But with her, I can’t help it.
She’s young. Maybe twenty? She probably can’t even drink legally. Hell, she’s too young even to know how to do her makeup right. That shade of lipstick clashes with her flaming red hair. And the smoky thing she did with her eyes overwhelms the rest of her face.
But there is a shadow in the emerald depths that says she’s seen and experienced things that nobody her age should have, and I can’t seem to turn away. I want to take apart the puzzle, solve the mystery and satisfy my curiosity.
Not that I’d ever give in to such a messy impulse. That would be a one-way ticket to screwing up my life…which most people think is already a fucking mess. They can’t imagine that a guy like me, who taped his own sexcapade and put it up on YouTube, who parties wild and drinks like scotch is the elixir of eternal youth, could be orderly. But everything is carefully compartmentalized, neatly categorized and filed away, so my life doesn’t spiral down into chaos.
Shoving aside the urge, I drop my gaze to her body. And what a fine body it is. Smokin’ hot, short and compact with the kind of smooth, generous curves I’d love to trace with my hands and lips. Her tits are sweetly rounded and full, perfect for a man to lose himself in. And that ass… I can practically see myself grabbing a double-handful as I drive into her tight little cunt.
Damn.
Desire blazes through me, my dick swelling, and she hasn’t even started dancing yet. It’s not like me to want to screw a woman’s brains out at first sight. Clearly, I need to get laid soon. I’m not a romantic…or dumb enough to believe she’s one of a kind. All women—except of course my sainted half-sister Elizabeth—are pretty much alike.
The music starts. The other women move like snakes around their poles, and men watch them with lust smoldering in their eyes. I sit back, shifting to adjust my cock, and wait for her to bare it all, even as a part of me wishes she wouldn’t and that she’d just flee the damn scene.
Sadly, this girl is the worst stripper I’ve ever seen…and I’ve seen more than a few. At first she’s tense, which is understandable, but as the music goes on and swells to a climax…she doesn’t let go. Unbelievably stiff—she looks like she’d shatter if somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
What the hell was the manager thinking, hiring a girl like this? Doesn’t he audition the talent?
Maybe she was better one-on-one. Maybe she blew him. The latter idea pisses me off, but it really shouldn’t. Women have no problem falling to their knees and servicing a man if it’ll get them what they want. I should know.
I really should let her go home without a tip. That should tell her she has no talent for this kind of work.
But the unhappiness in her gaze says she knows she didn’t do well. And despite my less than sterling reputation, I’m not into kicking puppies.
When she comes close enough, I pull out two hundred-dollar bills and tuck them under her G-string, careful not to touch her skin. Her eyes widen, then instead of being grateful or offering to do me later on, fire erupts in their green depths.
So. She isn’t entirely dumb.
A mixture of amusement and new appreciation for the girl blossoms inside me. “You really ought to try something else. This isn’t your calling,” I say.
Her hands curl into fists; I hold her furious gaze, wondering if she’ll try to slap me. That would actually turn this unbearably dull night into something else.
Five heartbeats pass as I wait, my body hot with anticipation.
Her lips tight, she spins around and walks away without bothering to work the rest of the men along the stage. I watch her hip action, the switching bunch and fall of each ass cheek.
A sigh escapes, and my shoulders lower.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m actually disappointed that she didn’t try to slap me.
Chapter Two
Annabelle
My hands shake as I walk away. It’s impossible to ignore the feel of the crisp bills rubbing against my skin, but it’s the insult that scrapes me raw. I need a pity tip about as much as I need a pity fuck.
If anybody had asked me a couple of years ago if I could imagine myself stripping, I would’ve laughed in their face. Yet…
Here I am.
I duck behind the curtains for the girls’ staging area, then yank the money out. The amount makes me gape. Two hundred dollars? I was expecting maybe forty.
The dim light, my nerves and the man’s closeness made it hard for me to see how much he was giving me. My hand clenches around the money. I hate the insult it represents, but I can’t hurl it back in his face like I want to. It’s almost a month’s worth of groceries for me and my sister. Pride won’t put food on the table.
I take a peek at the man from a distance. It can’t be called “safe” since there is nothing safe about the response he elicits in me.
An odd ache pulses between my legs, and not from the waxing I got a couple of days ago. My nipples bead, and it has nothing to do with the cool temperature in the club. The air in my lungs thickens, and my tongue darts out and wets my lips. What is it about this guy?
And he perused me from head to toe with a thoroughness that was almost indecent. I can’t stand it when men just check me out like that. My skin crawls, and it makes me feel dirty and unsafe.
But when he looks at me, well…maybe I still feel a little dirty. But in a good way.
Damn it. Damn it. Why now? Why this man?
Chuck is annoyed with me, although probably less annoyed than he would’ve been if I hadn’t gotten anything. He’s the manager, and he oversees the “talent.” He waves me toward him. Dirty blond with ash-gray eyes, he’s clean-cut, clean shaven, and wears a nice button-down shirt and dark slacks. In a different setting, he could pass for a bank manager.