I’m thinking of making my excuses and leaving when the music changes yet again, stopping me. The sexy thump of Madonna’s Justify My Love strikes me as an interesting yet odd choice for a dance, and it draws my attention back to the platform.
From the left side of back stage, a girl emerges. She walks slowly along the runway. The spotlight follows her and I see that she’s wearing a man’s dress shirt and tie. And nothing else.
Her legs are long—with the stilettos she’s wearing, even longer—and perfectly toned. Dancer’s legs. Strong. Graceful. Sinful.
Each step she takes is a sexy, sensual movement of them. Slow. Deliberate. I sit up a little straighter in my seat. I’m immediately catapulted from mildly interested to extremely intrigued and I don’t really know why. I’ve seen hundreds of dancers do hundreds of dances. But I’ve never seen this one. And something about this one has all my senses on point.
As she draws closer, I can see that her rich brown hair is covered by a hat that sits at a cocky angle on her head. In her hand is a shiny black cane. When she gets to center stage, she stops, swinging the cane once before propping it out in front of her body. In one excruciatingly measured movement, she stiffens her legs and bends forward, showing off the length of her perfect thighs as they ease into the curve of her perfect ass.
Before I’m finished looking, she straightens, twirling the cane up over her head and taking one end in each hand. She arches her back, forcing what looks like some luscious tits up and out. Then, still moving slowly, she eases the cane down the front of her body.
Each action is smooth and unhurried. Each movement is sexy and fluid, her body melting from one into the next in perfect time to the music.
I glance up at her face. Beneath the shadow of her hat, all I can see is her mouth. But damn, what a mouth it is! Her lips are painted bright red and are probably the lushest ones I’ve ever seen. They’re what I’ve always called dick-sucking lips—plump, pouty and perfectly formed to slip down over the head of my cock.
Not having been overly enthused about coming tonight or about the entertainment, I’m surprised that my dick twitches when she pulls her lower lip between her teeth and bites down. But damn if it doesn’t.
I feel a groan build in my chest when she drops slowly to her knees, sliding the cane away from her body like she’s doing a push-up, slinking down onto her stomach. After a few beats, she abandons the cane and eases over onto her back, her hips turning last, like a cat that’s getting ready to stretch. I can almost feel the purr.
Legs flat on the stage, she runs her hands from the tops of her thighs to her stomach, pulling the hem of her shirt up just enough to give a teasing glimpse of what she’s wearing underneath before moving on to her breasts and throat. Her nimble fingers work loose the tie, dragging it slowly from around her neck. Purposefully, she twists her hands, winding the silk around her wrists.
For a few seconds, it’s just me and this girl. Alone in this room. With nothing between us but this music. And that damned tie. All too clearly, images of me tying her up with that scrap of red material flit through my mind, making me throb behind my zipper.
Languorously, she stretches one leg straight up into the air, the other lying flat on the stage. She reaches up and grabs her ankle, skimming her bound hands to her knee, pulling that leg toward her face. Her thighs widen into a perfect split that reveals little black, satin panties. When I see them, all I can think about is kneeling between those legs and kissing that silky material.
I see her lips pucker as she puts one chaste kiss on her knee. I’m enthralled. But it’s when I see her tongue flicker out that I feel like I could punch a hole through the bottom of the table with my hard-on. There’s something about her that’s so understatedly sexy. It’s like she doesn’t even know we’re here, like she’s lost inside her own head. And God, how I’d love to be part of what she’s imagining!
I feel a hand on my arm, interrupting the scene. I’m instantly aggravated by the intrusion. I jerk away, not even bothering to turn around until I hear a voice.
It’s my brother. And he’s determined to get my attention. Finally, I turn, not even trying to hide my agitated glare.
“Can you take us back home? Sloane’s not feeling well. Something she ate earlier maybe.” He gives me a meaningful look. It takes me a second to fully disengage from the girl that had me so rapt, but eventually (reluctantly) I do. And I remember that Sloane didn’t drink her shot of tequila. Then I remember why. Hemi told me she’s pregnant, but that they haven’t told her family yet, so he asked me not to say anything.
“Oh…right,” I respond a bit too sharply. “Yeah, I can take you.”
Hesitant to leave just yet, I glance back toward the front of the room in time to see that the dancer is on her knees again, throwing off her hat. A mane of silky chestnut curls falls down. I only get a brief flash of her face. Her hair swirls around to obscure her features. But not before I get a glimpse of one pale green eye. And the way it widens when it meets mine.
Instantly, I’m transported back in time. Years and years ago. To the soft grass of a clearing in the woods. And the smooth skin of the girl beneath me.
I remember those eyes. That mouth. I remember a slightly ganglier, less mature version of this woman’s body. How it felt to touch her, to hold her. How she laughed, how she tasted. How it ended.
And how I could never forget.