by Nyla K
And the fact that I still think about it all the damn time.
And picture it when I’m fucking other women.
I clear my throat. “Let’s go grab dinner.”
Damien lifts a brow and glances at his watch. “It’s barely six. Are we going for the early bird special?”
I chuckle and pinch his shoulders, shoving him toward the door. “I was thinking more like happy hour at Lucky’s. Half-price drinks then greasy burgers and bottomless onion rings. My treat.”
“You still know the way to my heart, even after all these years,” he sighs in a teasing fashion, and I laugh as we leave his office.
I’m relieved that he’s feeling a little better, but I know this thing with Traci will keep eating at him until he hears from her. Which is why I’m fully prepared to locate her myself, just to get some peace of mind to my best friend.
After all, Damien’s heartache is my own. Always has been.
Blue eyes, wide and bright. Shimmering like the sky over the ocean on a clear day.
Long lashes fan over high cheekbones when she blinks, slowly, as if whatever she’s thinking requires an ellipsis.
Blink. Dot dot dot.
There’s a slope the leads to her top lip; a curve that points like a small arrow to the bottom one. The one that’s even fuller and juicier, pillowed into a permanent pout. But it doesn’t look sad, or whiny. It’s cute. Adorable, actually, and sexy as hell.
That mouth has the potential to do so many things.
Not all of them dirty. It can speak words that have meanings. It can whisper comforts I’ve only heard on rare occasions. It can bite, physically and metaphorically, both equally enticing.
And then there are the things that tempt me; the things I shouldn’t want from that mouth. I imagine them anyway, even though I know it’s bad.
I can’t help it. It felt good to taste it, like innocence and lust. Something sweet and savory.
The most exquisite meal.
She steps over to me and crawls onto my lap. I want to touch her so bad, but I can’t. I’m not allowed to, and drives me mad. The desire sweeps me up, like a tornado, full of potential destruction, but fascinating, nonetheless.
Her full breasts press to my chest and the warmth between her thighs sits snugly above my growing erection. Her small fingers trace the nape of my neck and I hum, because that’s always felt good to me. I want her lips there…
Reading my thoughts and ill intentions, she brings those sweet lips to my throat, soft like butterfly kisses. My eyelids droop and I groan as she flicks her hips into mine. Ride me, baby…
“We… can’t…” I try to protest, but I know she can tell I don’t want to stop, regardless of what my words say.
“But you’re mine,” she purrs, kissing a line up to my ear, before nibbling on my earlobe until I grunt.
My cock is rock hard, throbbing beneath her. I imagine tearing off her skimpy clothes and impaling her with it. It pulses out wetness in my pants.
“None of them know you like I do…” she breathes, scratching down my chest with her nails.
No, they do not.
“Don’t toy with me,” I growl, finally grabbing her by the hips to hold her down on me, grinding her small body against my thick, aching length.
She chuckles seductively. “But it’s so much fun.”
“I want…” My voice evaporates in the air and we both begin to vanish.
“Tell me, Lazarus,” she grabs my face, her perfect mouth hovering over mine. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you. I promise.”
All kinds of dirty things pour from my mind at once, the words mingling together.
I want to fuck you own you claim you touch you eat you taste you bite you fill you cherish you make you scream squeal break come hard fast heavenly desperately take me all of me every inch every drop every day every night all the time any time be mine… all… mine…
“Lazarus.”
A whisper in the dark accompanied by a hand on my shoulder wake me from that covetous dream, and I realize I’m panting. Sweaty and disoriented, and so fucking hard my balls are sore.
I suck in air and reacquaint myself with my surroundings. I’m in my bed with the girl I brought home. I don’t remember her name at the moment, but it’ll come to me.
Jesus… What was that?
I’m out of it. I still have the young blonde girl in my brain, swimming through my subconscious like a vast ocean beneath the stars. I’ve never felt this sort of bizarre, uncomfortable longing before. It makes me shake as if I’m withdrawing from hardcore drugs.
“Hm,” I grunt at the woman with her fingers dancing across my abs.
“You were talking in your sleep,” she speaks softly, wasting no more time fisting her soft hand around my erection.
I swallow over my dry throat. “Was I?”
“Mhmm.” She kisses my neck, and it feels nothing like it did in my dream. It feels empty, and I don’t know why. “Were you having a sex dream about me?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Not you, no.
I don’t answer her, and she takes my silence as an invitation to stroke my cock, which I allow, because I need to erase the memories of the girl I shouldn’t be thinking about. And how sweet she smells, and tastes…
This girl, the one who’s actually here, kisses down my chest, teasing my nipples and along the dips in my abs. I close my eyes and breathe.
Falling asleep with her here was a lapse in judgement, but I’m not regretting it so much now, because I need this. I need to wash away that dream with real sex. Not more memories. No more fantasies.
Brushing my fingers through her hair, I push her mouth onto my cock. She sucks easy, using her honed blowjob skills to slurp and throat every inch of me, while I struggle not to let my mind wander again.
Not her. Anyone but her.
The mouth moves onto my balls, and I part my legs for her while she does her thing. And I resist the temptation as much as I can.
Even though it’s no use. Eventually, my mind always drifts.
My orgasms always belong to someone else.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lazarus
If I didn’t have such exceptional hair, I’d be tearing it out.
I’ve spent the last five hours drinking, fake laughing, and pretending to give a shit about whatever pretentious nonsense these phony assholes are raving about.
They’re our new client, Kenneth Haskill’s rich partners from New York. Two interchangeable white guys with boring names… Matt and Dave. Real original. And then the calmer of the three, Tyler Chen, who I think I could have an actual interesting conversation with if the dudebro’s weren’t around. He’s the numbers guy out of their little group. Go figure.
Haskill had dinner with us and then had to dip out for some charity function his friends weren’t interested in attending. And now I’m stuck club-hopping with the three of them. Strip-club-hopping, to be more specific.
I took them to La Roca for dinner on the Westright account, to show that we can put up. The bill was five grand, which surprisingly isn’t the highest tab I’ve run up in that place. At least the food is phenomenal, and all the waitresses love me, so it makes me look like the man when I bring out-of-towners.
We plowed through two bottles of wine while talking just enough business for me not to feel completely used, the alcohol priming the guys for the night to begin. After that, I brought them to the bar at Blue, a restaurant that also specializes in every scotch whiskey known to man. Damien and I know the owner, Ray, so it’s one of my favorite places to bring potential clients.
The three of us burned through almost an entire bottle of scotch there before the guys decided they wanted to meet girls. Different girls than the ones at Blue apparently, who were a bit too… well, clothed.
I also happen to know the owner of Vita - I know lots of owners - a club with topless go-go dancers, known to host celebrities from all over. It makes one hell of an impression on visi
tors. Unfortunately, Matt and Dave spent more time in the bathroom doing coke than actually talking to any of these girls they were allegedly so interested in.
By midnight, they wanted to hit a real strip club, where they could pay women to touch them, since they seem to have very little game, and even less interest in flirting and laying the proper groundwork to get someone into bed. It’s offensive to me, because I’ve never understood the concept of paying for sex. Where’s the sport in that? What happened to making a little effort?
Anyway, the guys were getting more fucked up by the minute, and I couldn’t have them embarrassing me in my town, so I agreed to take them to a strip club a bit more off the grid. I went down the list of places Lana sent me, and found one called Cheetah’s, which sounds like a Bostonian saying Cheaters, and I feel like that’s an apt name.
It was dark, filled with smoke, and way seedier than I go for, but I chose not to complain and continued gritting my teeth - not in the way Matt and Dave were - while playing the dutiful host, or tour guide. We were there all of twenty minutes before Matt tried to grope one of the girls, then Dave stood up for him by shouting up at the bouncer who towered over his skinny, pompous ass.
Needless to say, we got kicked out. Tyler and I were secretly relieved, because we assumed this would mean it was time to go home.
No such luck.
The guys were wired and belligerent as we stumbled into the cab we’re in now, which has driven us to Little Haiti, an area I would never go to get my knob wobbled. This whole thing is beginning to feel like a cruel punishment.
I’m no longer at the helm of this excursion, so I’ve officially decided to see them inside this strip club, have one last drink, and call it a night. I’ve done my due diligence for the evening. Haskill could build an island off the coast of Fiji shaped like my face and it still wouldn’t convince me to spend one more second with these tools.
I pay a new, even bigger bouncer at the door, and the four of us enter one of the diciest strip clubs I’ve ever been in, called The Boom Boom Room. Corny name aside, this place actually looks dangerous. We’re not in the best neighborhood, but because these idiots are from New York, they think they’re invincible. I get it. I felt like that when I first moved here, too. But everyone from New York eventually finds out that there are way more dangerous places in the world, usually in an overly cocky display of macho fearlessness that can only come from growing up in a place like New York.
The Boom Boom Room calls itself a Gentleman’s Club, which means you won’t see boobs unless you’re paying extra, likely in the back somewhere. But the guys don’t seem to care, staggering behind a couple scantily-dressed ladies over to an available table, while I look around and observe my surroundings.
Not only is this club scary, dark, and filled with black-lit neon stuff, like a homemade haunted house, but it also doesn’t feel very sanitary. I’m afraid to touch anything, and I decide to stay away from the walls and furniture, lest I get pricked by a needle or a rusty nail.
The music is too loud, bass pumping so hard my veins are rattling. There’s a large stage that curls along the edge of the room, complete with three poles, and cages at each end, girls in pasties and thongs dancing inside.
Cringing, I look for a waitress or a shot girl, really anyone with booze. I’m not drunk by any means, because while the guys have been ordering doubles, I’ve been ordering singles, and sneaking glasses of water in between each drink. I’m the babysitter, after all. Granted, I’m not exactly sober since dealing with these morons sans substances in my bloodstream doesn’t sound like something I’m capable of. But I can’t get cocked when business is involved. That’s a no no.
Movement catches my eye, and I realize that the dancer on the furthest part of the stage is now on the platform directly in front of where I’m standing. I’m not typically all that impressed by strippers, but this girl is really moving. It looks good.
Real good. Almost elegant. The way she dances is hypnotizing; twirling her hips around and around, the muscles in her arms flexing as she holds herself up on the pole. She stomps her heel down on a twenty that a guy was holding out, dragging it toward herself.
It makes me grin. She has attitude, in such a small package, too. She can’t be more than five-three, with curves in all the right places. A full ass that looks like it could sit in my hands with a hearty squeeze, perky tits that provide the slightest jiggle while she dances, nipples covered only by hot pink heart-shaped pasties, matching the color of her lipstick.
My head cocks a bit as I continue to watch her. The slopes of her body seem familiar. The creaminess of her skin, like blushed silk draped over every inch. Her legs grip the pole as she swings around, a sharp line of jet black hair brushing her shoulders.
I take a step forward. Why does she look so familiar?
It’s very dark in here, and I haven’t gotten the best look at her face from where I’m standing, but there’s just something about her. I can’t put my finger on it.
It’s possible I’ve slept with her. I’ve certainly enjoyed my fair share of sexual encounters here in Miami, so the conclusion would be that I’ve fucked her before.
But that explanation doesn’t satisfy me, and I step closer still, slowly approaching the stage platform where she’s spinning. She leans all the way back while gripping the pole until her face is upside down before me. She has on a necklace that slides up her chin as she does. I can’t make out what’s on it, my head tilting in an attempt to read it from that angle.
The music is thumping, and guys are whistling for this sexy little thing with the black hair. She looks young. Almost as young as…
My eyes widen.
My heart stops.
The girl slides upright again, swinging around one last time to face the crowd, then bows to end her performance.
The pendant on the chain around her neck is now fully visible, and I read the word Trix as my blood somehow runs so cold and hot simultaneously, it feels like an explosion is happening in my veins.
Realization, then confusion, then anger. More than just regular anger…
Rage.
I hear myself growl as the music to her song ends, slipping right into the next beat while my teeth damn-near grind to dust. Despite all the black makeup covering her eyes, and the fact that she’s not blonde for some reason, I know for a fact that’s fucking Traci.
It’s Traci. Here, in this disgusting club. Barely clothed, dancing for a bunch of perverts.
I recognize her eyes so clearly now… Those big blue doe eyes slightly squinted and lazy. She looks drunk, maybe high.
And those are definitely her lips. The ones I’ve kissed before in a heated lapse in judgement I still happen to think about all the time, against my will.
Those rosy apple cheeks, her curved body, a slender yet defined hourglass. I’m momentarily stunned that the sexual being up on that stage is the same little girl who used to follow her mother around like a shadow.
The seven-pound peanut I held in my arms in the hospital room almost eighteen years ago. The first baby I’d ever held.
I gulp with a blinding fury like an electrical current searing through my veins, my jaw continuing to clench so hard it might just snap right off. Head bobbing around, I notice a handful of pricks who are about to lose teeth and possible motor functions if they don’t stop looking at her, my clients included.
Matt and Dave hoot from the table beside me, the perverse looks on their faces prompting me to stomp toward the stage. I’m practically running.
And then Traci notices me.
Her face drops, and she pales, even in the dim lights. I see her mouth the words oh, fuck, before she scrambles away to the other side of the stage.
You better run, little girl.
Stammering left to where she’s trying to escape into the back, my eyes stay locked on her like a target as she hobbles in her high-as-fuck heels that turn her regularly five-three frame up to five-seven, at least. They make her ass look fuck
ing delicious, but I can’t even scold myself for that thought right now because I’m so enraged I’m about to explode and breathe wrath all over this damn shithole like a flamethrower.
A couple girls are trying to speak to Traci, but she’s too busy scurrying away from me to pay them any mind. Good thing for me, she can’t run in those stripper heels, and I catch up, grabbing her by the arm.
She spins to me, the expression on her face one of pure guilty terror. She looks like she’s about to shit herself, which makes total sense.
I’m going to lose it. God, calm me down. Someone calm me dow-
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” I roar at her face, shooting her with flaming daggers straight from my eyes. Several people turn around because my voice can be heard over the obnoxiously loud music. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“Lazarus, please -” she tries to start, but no fucking way is she defending anything right now.
“Lazarus WHAT??!” I shout, crowding her until she flinches. The girls who were standing next to us scatter. “Tracien, I can’t even… I don’t even…” My words jumble together in my rage, temper shaken like a soda can that’s about to pop. “Get your shit. We’re leaving right the fuck now.”
She tries to tug herself out of my grip, but I squeeze her arm tighter, bruising her supple flesh.
“No… What??” Her face contorts from fear to confusion, then it morphs into appall. “You don’t own me. You’re not my father.”
A hard scoff of derision flees my lips before I narrow my gaze at her. “Funny you should mention him…”
“Lazarus, let go of me,” she seethes, and I’m shocked that she has the audacity to give me orders right now.
“If you don’t get your fucking shit right this second, Tracien, I swear to God, you won’t like what happens.” My face hovers over hers. “Don’t test me.”
“Is there a problem here, Trixie?” A booming deep voice calls from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see the giant bouncer from the door, walking toward us. He cracks his knuckles for effect, and I roll my eyes.
