by E. R. Whyte
“Tell me why. Why a lap dance? Why me?” I ask. “Somebody got you hot and bothered?” He tenses when I trail my fingers down the side of his neck and along his outstretched arm but doesn’t answer.
I walk in front of him. “Need to let off a little steam?” I press. “A little frustration?” I stand for a moment in front before him, meeting his eyes through the black of my mask. How can he keep up this charade? Pretend that we’re strangers, that this is okay? My heart thuds in my chest in tune with Portishead’s sultry chorus, and I close my eyes. I can’t look at him.
This dance will change everything in profound ways, I know. It’s an admission. A confession. Yes, I feel it, too. Yes, I want you.
I drag my hands over my sides and up, up along the swells of my breasts, my neck, my cheeks and into my hair. “Do you need to be in charge?” My last question is a whisper.
Beth Gibbons’ round tones fill every corner of the small room and the nuanced beat thrums in my blood. Give me a reason / to love you / Give me a reason to be / a woman.
I place one hand on his shoulder and begin to sway, shoulders and hips moving in languid counterpoint as I rock closer. He reaches out to touch me and I move his hand firmly back to his lap.
Retreating, I lower myself to my knees, reach beneath my tee shirt, and unhook my bra with clumsy fingers. He’s focused intently on me, mouth unsmiling. How is he so composed? I’m a mass of nerves. Masking my turmoil with a smile that taunts, I whip the bra out from beneath my tee and swiftly flick it at him.
And then, mind made up, I lower myself to all fours and begin to prowl toward him.
21
Gunner
It was frustrating to have to put pause on Shiloh’s meeting with my dad. I have the feeling that I need to speed up the timetable on getting her out of that club.
Since I can’t force her to quit immediately, my options are limited. All I can do is to be there with her.
It was obvious to me when I texted her today that she was going to be working. Instead of shooting me down immediately, she hedged and said she had something to do. Any other time she would have told me to stop texting her, or I was her student, or I was too young. She was flustered, more than likely because her mind was on what she was going to be doing.
I called Kendrick’s to confirm that Miss Cherry Pie would be in Saturday night, and lo-and-behold, I was informed that she was on the schedule for the following two days.
A quick conversation and some strategic name dropping later, I’ve booked her entire evening.
So here I am, pretending like I don’t know it’s her under the mask and wondering what went through her head when she saw it was me waiting for her. I’m surprised that she didn’t turn around and walk out. I thought for sure I’d lost her when she told me she’d find me another dancer.
I’m glad she didn’t, regardless of the circumstances. If I’d let her leave, she’d have been right back on that stage or in a peep box, dancing for some other guy. I guess I could have told her we could just talk, like I did in the peep show, but I’m past that. At some point she needs to admit to what she’s feeling.
Because she will be feeling.
I almost don’t catch her bra when she whips it off from beneath that tiny top and flings it at me. It reminds me of another bra that I currently have tucked into my sock drawer. When she drops to all fours and starts crawling toward me, back arched and her sweet ass tilted up and just right… well, fuck me sideways. All rational thought flees.
My hands tighten on the back of the couch I’m sitting on and it takes everything I have not to grab Shiloh and finish stripping her bare as she makes her way to my legs and rises into a squat position, hands on my knees. Raising her hips in the air, she swings them from side to side in a lazy, circling motion before swinging her hair over my cock and rolling her body languidly into a standing position, ensuring she brushes against everything vital as she does. I groan at the sensation and think hazily that I need to call a halt to this before it goes much further. Shiloh will be pissed when she knows I know it’s her.
“Like that?” she whispers.
“Fuck, yeah.”
She undulates in another circular motion until she’s facing away from me. Looking over her shoulder with an inscrutable glint in her eyes, she begins to lift the hem of that tiny tee shirt with excruciating slowness, offering the barest glimpses of a tit in profile as she twists first one way and then the next. Then the shirt is on the floor and my hands are on my knees as I battle the urge to put them on her. “For someone who’s never done this before, you’re damn good at it.”
With another look, she tucks her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts, bends from the waist, and begins tugging them off. And then her ass, clad in a bright red thong, is bare before me. Before I can take a proper breath, she’s straddling me reverse cowgirl, leaning back against my chest and grinding with slow, sweet deliberation against my cock. There’s something I need to tell her… a reason I should stop this.
Her arms, needing an anchor, rise up to circle my neck, giving me an unobstructed view of the most perfect set of tits I’ve ever seen. They’re pure cream and a generous handful, with small, tight nipples in a pale rose color. From my vantage point I can see a constellation of three freckles on the inside of her right breast, just above her nipple. I want to map it with my tongue.
Turning my face into her neck, I inhale the scent of her and graze my lips along her pulse. I can feel its flutter, rapid and strong, against my lips. “I need to touch you,” I mutter into her skin. “May I touch you?”
Her hands tighten in my hair at the base of my neck. She’s no longer dancing, just moving lazily, sensuously on my body, but at my words she stills altogether. For the longest moment she doesn’t move, and then, when I think I’ve gone too fast, she gives the barest of nods. It’s all the permission I require.
I move my hands to the span of her hips and grip, my fingers almost able to meet in the center. “I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time I saw you. These freckles. This skin. You are so fucking beautiful.” She squirms as I glide a hand over her stomach, feeling how sensitive she is in the fine trembling present under her skin. I cup a breast, feeling its weight in my palm and its softness offset by the hard peak of her nipple against my fingertips.
Moving my hands to her waist, I pick her up and adjust her on my lap, so she faces me, and then slide my hands down to her ass. Holding her eyes through the mask with my own, I dip my head and pull her nipple into my mouth. I need her to know I see her when I touch her. That she’s all I’m seeing. Shiloh sucks in a breath and clutches my head to her, whimpering when I bite down gently and tug. “Oh, God,” she moans.
I release her nipple with a small pop. “Like that?” I ask, turning her earlier question back to her.
“Fuck, yeah,” she breathes, and I grin as I tend to her neglected breast. Her hips rock involuntarily at the sensation, and I use the opportunity to search out that sweet spot between her legs. “Oh, hell,” she murmurs, jerking violently at the contact and dropping her face into my neck. She’s slippery and my finger moves easily past her thong, through her folds, and to her clit. Her fingers spasm on my shoulders.
The feel of her, hot and wet, almost pushes me over. I slide a digit into her, and my brain stutters at how tight she feels.
God, have mercy.
“Gunner, wait—”
I still, and then gently ease my finger from her heat. “Shiloh.”
She levers herself off my lap while I curse myself. “So, here’s the part where you either say you knew exactly who Cherry Pie was when you booked a lap dance—” She spits the words as she grabs articles of clothing, dressing with angry motions. “—or you tell me you didn’t have a clue and any woman would serve your needs.” Her normally clear hazel eyes are flat and dark and it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that either choice is a disaster.
Uneasy, I scratch my jaw. “Yes?”
“Are y
ou asking?”
“Judas Priest, Shiloh, obviously you knew who I was. What’s the problem?” Even as my mouth goes on the offensive, I know it’s a mistake.
“What was all of this, Gunner? A joke? A way to brag about getting in the new teacher’s pants?” Her voice breaks. “Are you planning on reporting me?”
I flinch. “God, no! I would never do that, Shiloh.” Now’s the time, I think. Tell her how you feel.
“Miss Brookings.”
“Didn’t we cross that line…oh I don’t know. Ten years ago? Besides, I don’t think you want me calling you that here.” She sends me a ball-shriveling look as I hold up a placating hand. “Look, sit down, please. Let me explain.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
“Stubborn ass.” I mutter the words under my breath, but Shiloh must have supersonic hearing because she pounces.
“What did you call me?”
“I said you’re stubborn… as… hell.”
“Hmmm.”
I can’t help the smile that touches my lips as she crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. “I’m sorry, but I had to do this when I realized you were working tonight. I caught feelings for you, Shiloh, a long time ago. I’ve still got them—yes, even three years later. And sue me, but I don’t like this.” I gesture around me. “I don’t like the idea of other men watching you, thinking about you. Getting off.”
She frowns at me. “There’s a lot wrong with that statement, Gunner.” She starts ticking items off on her fingers. “You’re my student. I don’t even know how the hell you got in here. I work here because it’s damn good money and I happen to need money. You don’t like the idea of other men checking me out, but you’ll sit here and do the same.” I run my hand around the back of my neck in frustration. This isn’t going as I expected. “I’m not going to stop working here because you’re hung up on me.”
“I get that. I don’t expect you to just quit. That’s why I paid for your time tonight.”
Shiloh huffs and raises her arms before flopping them back down at her sides. “You can’t just do that! That’s crazy, Gunner. And if you have feelings for me, how could you…pay for me?”
“I’d pay every night for the rest of my life to sit here and let you ream me a new one, Shiloh, if it keeps you from climbing on that stage.”
“Gunner…” She bites her lip. “You’ve gone mad.”
“It’s just money, dolcezza. It’s nothing when I think about what’s right here—” I motion between us. “—between us. I know you feel it. You wouldn’t have let me touch you if you didn’t.” She shakes her head. “At some point you’re going to have to acknowledge it. Acknowledge us.”
She sighs. “No more. I mean it. Sammy’s going to be coming home pretty soon and I can’t risk my job.” A look of suspicion crosses her face and she worries the corner of her bottom lip. “I have a question and I want the truth.”
I make the cross my heart sign and wait.
“Did you give me a bracelet a few days ago?” Her expression is blank, but I can tell the question is loaded. I answer it cautiously, frowning.
“No, Shiloh. I’ve given you coffee and a doughnut. Is this about your stalker?”
She ignores my question, sighing again and opening the door. “Please stop. You’re too much for me right now. And you’re too young.”
With that, she disappears down the hall before I can say another word, making me feel as though I’ve simultaneously won and lost a pivotal battle.
22
Shiloh
I can’t sleep. I’ve been laying in this bed, sheets twisted around me, sweating at the memory of Gunner’s hands on my body. His mouth on the pulse of my neck. That smirk on his lips echoing in his eyes when he looked up at me, my nipple clenched lightly between his teeth. I pull my pillow over my face, muffling the scream rising in my throat, and then toss it off the bed.
I let things go too far. I wanted to see how far I could push him, how far he’d let me go before he revealed himself, but the panic rising in me, the restless itch just under my skin… they tell me he flipped the script in a big way. I thought I was in control, but I guess I was a player on his board.
Restless. I can’t remember ever feeling so on edge and frustrated. I kick the covers off, reminding myself of a child throwing a tantrum. Damn him. I don’t want to admit it, but I know exactly what the problem is, and my only consolation is that he’s no doubt suffering, too. I have a big old case of lady blue balls and the nagging feeling that there’s just one real solution for my problem.
And aside from that, I like him. A lot.
It’s so wrong. He’s my little brother’s friend. My student. I shouldn’t be feeling these things. Shouldn’t be craving these feelings. If he were anyone else, I could embrace this with a clean conscience. He’s the first man who’s made me feel like trying. He’s not anyone else, though. I can’t go there.
Giving up, I climb out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I lean against the old-fashioned apron sink in the kitchen and let its cold ceramic chill my heated flesh as I sip at my water. Maybe it’ll be enough to help stifle these feelings and let me go to sleep. I have work in the morning. The sink is cold through the thin cropped tee shirt and boy shorts I end up wearing to bed most nights. It’s more comfortable than a bra but less confining than anything with swaths of fabric to entangle me, which even as a child made me feel claustrophobic.
I look out the window as I drink, past the cover of the broad porch and the expanse of the front yard to the street beyond. Something snags my attention, but it’s unclear without my glasses and so fleeting I’m unsure of its origins or what it might have been. I grab for my glasses on the counter and slip them on, and then search the night, knowing I won’t rest easy until I find the cat or possum or whatever it was that caught my eye.
There’s a single streetlamp just past the mailbox, its warm yellow spreading in a circle at its base. Just outside the streetlamp’s glow, the shadows deepen. The moon is a sliver tonight, providing the faintest of illumination other than the occasional porch light and the single pole streetlight.
I wait patiently, eyes burning with the need to blink but refusing to do so on the chance that I might miss whatever it was I saw moving across the street. Just when I’m about ready to chalk it up to fatigue and paranoia I see it. In the sparsely wooded lot just past the streetlamp’s bounds across the road, there’s the unmistakable arc of a cigarette butt as someone pulls on it briefly and then tosses it to the ground. A flare of red, then a hiss of orange against the black of night as it arcs and fades almost immediately. I imagine a boot grinding the cherry into dust against the hardened winter clay.
Looking at the clock, I see that it’s past two a.m. Who’s out there smoking in the wooded lot across from my house? I set my water glass down as a chill skitters along my spine.
Maybe it’s just a kid. Maybe he just found the vacant lot to be a prime piece of real estate for getting out from under the parental figures’ watchful eyes in order to smoke a joint or hang out. It could be the asshole that called me, though; the thought of which makes my fingers tremble on the countertop as I stare out the window in indecision.
My mind spins with potential scenarios. It could be a random burglar, casing this lower middle-class neighborhood in the middle of a freezing cold night from a distance. Or a psycho serial killer with a preference for baby boomers.
I scrub my hand through my hair in frustration. I can call the police, I guess, but what would I say? Hey, officer, sorry to bother you. Someone’s smoking. Yeah, outside, around thirty yards away from my house. Get a life? Okay, will do.
Leaning on the cops has gotten me exactly nowhere. They’ve come out, written up their reports, and left, with nothing being discovered. Nothing changed.
I take a deep breath and give myself a mental pep talk. Pull up your big girl panties, Shy. What would Mom do?
&n
bsp; For a moment, my throat closes at the thought. A proud, independent investigator, she never, not in a million years, would have stood here allowing fear and indecision to rule her actions. She would have investigated, damnit.
And if I want to have anything actually settled, I’m going to have to investigate, too.
I walk back into my bedroom and slide on a pair of fuzzy-lined slippers and belt a thick robe tightly around my waist. It covers me from neck to toe, so I feel covered. I pick up my phone and set it to video. With a serious expression, I start a live recording on one of my social media accounts. I don’t want to be stupid, after all.
“Hey, guys, it’s Shiloh at just after two a.m. on the morning,” I begin, walking with my phone in front of my face toward the door. I can’t help but feel a little badass, like Buffy. “When I couldn’t sleep tonight, I noticed a mysterious figure in the field across the street smoking…” I trip on the stairs and catch myself. “… oomph… something. I’m going over there to tell whoever it is to get lost. I figure it’s probably a kid but just in case I turn up missing I wanted to put this video out there, so people know where to start looking.” I pause by the car as a few comments start rolling in. I’m surprised people are still awake.
“Are you insane? Get inside and lock the doors.”
“Call the cops!”
“Do not go out there!”
“HAHAHA!”
The next one shocks me. It’s Gunner. I have a public profile for my photography, so I guess he started following me at some point. “Get the fuck back inside and lock your mother fucking doors,” he says.
“What crawled up your ass?” I bite back.
“You have no idea who’s out there, Shiloh! This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen someone do!”
Stung, I cover my hurt with sass. “Want to see how hard I can roll my eyes?” I roll them so hard my head hurts and start walking again. He can kiss my butt.
