by Jodi Redford
Trig stuffed the candy cane in his pocket. “They’re full of the Christmas spirit.”
“Yeah, well, there’s one out there I wouldn’t mind filling with some Christmas spirit.” James waggled his eyebrows. “I’m half tempted to go visit her table and offer that suggestion. Though I guess that’d be a better line coming from you. Feel free to use it on her.”
“Appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.” He never hooked up with any of the women in the club. For one thing, you didn’t fuck your money. Several of the guys didn’t get that rule. Then they wondered why their best customers suddenly stopped booking private dances. It wasn’t merely the adage of not buying the cow when you could get the milk for free. Though that obviously held true. Additionally, the regulars tended to get competitive with each other. Which was fine if you kept it strictly professional. Usually it led to them trying to outdo each other in tips, and Trig would certainly never say no to that. The biggest inherent problem though was when a few of these greedy bastards got it into their heads—both the one upstairs and the other below the belt—to two-time their girls, thinking they’d never find out about the other one.
Like it ever panned out that way. Fucking morons.
“You sure?” James chugged another gulp of his water and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Cause she’s definitely not a regular. I know I’ve never seen her around.”
“Who you talking about?” Curtis, one of the old timers, demanded as he joined them.
“This hot brunette at table 5. I’m gonna have amazing wet dreams about her tits tonight.”
The mention of brunettes and wet dreams naturally sparked images of Marissa. Trig killed his groan before it could escape. On the up side, at least he’d have no trouble getting a stiff one. But he damn well needed to control his thoughts before they spiraled so out of hand that he busted out of his fucking bikini briefs. His act might be naughty, but it wasn’t XXX-rated.
“That good, huh?” Curtis rubbed his chin and glanced at Trig. “We oughta go verify if the kid is full of shit.”
James scowled. “I got impeccable taste. Just ask your mama.”
Curtis’s booming laugh shook his shoulders. “Now I know you don’t.” He shifted his attention to Trig and inclined his head toward the door.
“Can’t. I’m on in five.”
“Heh. Five. It’s like it’s a sign.” James pulled open the door.
“A sign that you’ve got a few screws loose, boy.” Shaking his head, Curtis trailed after Frank and the kid.
Grunting, Trig grasped the edge of the dressing table and did a couple of back and leg stretches to limber up. With seconds to spare, he wrapped up his pre-performance ritual before Frank returned to fetch him. They exited together the same moment James and Curtis stepped into the hall. Trig shot Curtis a questioning look.
“The kid wasn’t lyin’. But don’t worry, you’ll get to confirm that for yourself in a minute.”
Curtis and James exchanged smirks before doubling over in laughter and booking it for the dressing room. Trig suppressed an eye roll. Immature punks. He transferred his attention to Frank. “How much did they pay you to pull her up onto the stage?”
Frank shrugged. “A few bucks. I was feeling generous. But you’re gonna want to flip a Benny or two my way when you see her. Has a rack that’d make a blind man sit up and pay attention. Goddamn lucky bastard.”
“Do you ever notice anything besides tits?”
Frank stared at him like that was the craziest notion in history. Chuckling, Trig positioned himself on his mark behind the curtain. Frank signaled the DJ and gave Trig a thumbs-up before shuffling out of sight.
“Ladies,” the DJ’s voice boombed through the speakers. “How many good girls do we have in the house tonight?”
A smattering of catcalls echoed beyond the curtain.
“Dirty liars.” The DJ’s retort was met with raucous laughter from the crowd. “All right, now let’s hear it from all the bad girls out there.”
The entire club damn near shook under the exuberant “Woohoo’s” and “Hell yeahs” from the women.
“That’s more like it. Fortunately for y’all, we’ve got a special guest who flew in all the way from the North Pole to tantalize you with his own pole. Which one of you sexy bitches wants to sit on his lap and tell him about the big package you want stuffed in your stocking?”
More rowdiness erupted from the patrons.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
The volume of the ladies’ shouts and all around insanity increased by a thousand fold as they vied with each other to be the one picked. The hoopla was all for show and to get them worked up and their wallets loosened. The woman had already been chosen, thanks to James’s perpetual boner.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake and fucking hornier than hell.” The improvised line triggered the loudest series of hollers yet. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good. So you better be baaaaad, for goodness sake. Because we have the one...the only...Kinky Claus in the house!”
The velvet drapes lifted with a dramatic swoosh and the deafening cheers of the crowd nearly drowned out the opening bars to Santa Claus Needs Some Lovin’. Their excitement energized him, filling him with the heady rush he always experienced when he was in performance mode. In that moment, he was Kinky Claus.
Strutting to the center of the stage, he worked the ladies, teasing them with dirty hip rolls and promised flashes of skin he didn’t completely deliver on. The women ate it up, and several of the more rambunctious ones up front shook their tatas in encouragement. He’d been in plenty of strip clubs throughout his life, both as a performer and an occasional patron. He had to admit that women were hella more wild and crazy than his male counterparts.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Frank approaching one of the tables. Damn. He’d completely forgotten to check out Miss Five ahead of time. Not often he got the opportunity to do that before the female was hauled up onto the stage.
“Looks like we have our lucky lady.” The DJ’s announcement drifted over the cacophony of music and boisterous female chants of, “Kinky Claus! Kinky Claus! Kinky Claus!”
Taking that as his cue, Trig pivoted and claimed the chair set up to the left of him. In other routines he typically started off with the female seated, but this particular act initially called for a bit of role reversal. He glanced toward the stairs leading up to the stage, fully expecting to see Frank with the woman in tow. Nada.
Frowning, Trig peered toward the table to determine the holdup. Frank’s burly frame blocked most of the view, but from what Trig could detect, Frank was dealing with some reluctance from Miss Five. Occasionally they got a shy one. Not often, but it did happen. Usually everything worked out fine once they got up here and Trig put them at ease. Hell, half the time they ended up not wanting to leave the stage. It was always the quiet ones who surprised him the most and he had the best fun with.
The other women at Five joined in Frank’s efforts to coax their tablemate into abandoning her seat. Their encouragement must have done the trick, because Frank suddenly stepped aside with a pleased grin. That’s when Trig had his first unobstructed view of his soon-to-be lap partner. He stared at Marissa, shock punching him dead center in the solar plexus. Damn good thing he was sitting down, otherwise he’d be flat on the floor.
What the hell was she doing here?
Duh, you invited her, moron. Never in a million years would he have thought she’d take him up on it. Not after the way they ended things last night.
Shit. How was he going to get through this routine? All of the full-on body contact and suggestive grinding.
The candy cane.
Oh sweet Jesus. Not the candy cane.
The sweat forming on his nape had nothing to do with the overly warm Santa beard. Resisting the urge to tug the hat from his head, he shifted in his seat. Yeah, getting hard definitely wouldn’t be a fucking issue.
Fra
nk escorted the red-faced Marissa onto the stage. According to the way her gaze kept darting to the exit she was debating the possibility of making a run for it. She stumbled toward him. Her nervousness was killing him. He started to push up from his seat before he remembered that he couldn’t break his character. She finally looked directly at him, and he patted his knee in invitation. The music lowered enough for him to overhear her mumbled curse.
Squaring her shoulders, she took four determined steps to him and perched on the outermost edge of his knee. If he moved his leg the tiniest bit she’d fall and thunk onto her ass. Without any preamble, he gripped her by the hips and pulled her onto his lap, locking her in with his arms. The glare she sent him was downright adorable.
Damn. Not kissing her right then had to be one of the toughest things he’d ever done. Instead he trailed his hand along her thigh. “Ho ho ho. Have you been a bad little girl, Rissa?” He whispered the last part.
Her eyes widened. “Trig?”
Before Trig could answer, The DJ’s mic crackled and a second later he came back on the PA. “We all know Kinky Claus runs a tight ship back home. Yep, he’s a regular hard task master with those elves. Not only do they slave away in his toy shop, they keep every inch of his North Pole shiny and polished. I think our friend up there should show Kinky Claus that elves aren’t the only ones who know how to service his pole. What do you think, ladies?”
Marisa gaped at Trig. “What is he talking about?”
The music switched to the dirty Christmas song that was used for this part of the act. Usually the filthy albeit hilarious reinterpretation of Jingle Bell Rock cracked him up, but now he was desperately trying to tune out the lyrics while he dug in his pocket for the candy cane. Like it wasn’t hard enough—no pun intended—having Marissa’s sweet little ass pressed against his erection without the added torture of listening to an explicit instructional on how to give a blow job. He ripped the seam on the plastic covering the candy and made a provocative show of peeling the overwrap down.
Judging from Marissa’s slack-jawed expression she’d figured out the answer to her question. She jerked her gaze up to his. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I’ll split my tips with ya if you make this good.” He was probably going to regret that proposition, considering his dick was already rigid enough to hammer nails. But he needed her cooperation, otherwise they risked the crowd growing bored and booing her off the stage. He wasn’t about to put her through that.
She hesitated, and he held the candy cane up, mutely pleading with her. She must have intuited his desperation because she shifted her focus to the chanting spectators for a moment before turning toward him again. “You’re going to owe me for life.” Her expression resigned, she pulled her hair back with one hand and wrapped her lips around the candy. He caught a glimpse of her tongue as she curled it and bobbed her head, swallowing the fat stick in what amounted to the fucking sexiest candy cane deep throat he’d ever witnessed.
Mesmerized, he watched her slow retreat. When she reached the top again, she suctioned hard enough he swore he felt it all the way down to his cock. He must have made a sound because she looked up and gave him the naughtiest smile.
Goddayum.
The ladies gave an approving cheer and clapped Marissa on. She swirled her tongue on the flat, blunt end and bobbed her head again, over and over, really getting into it. She even sounded like she was enjoying it. Her continued Mmmms and Ahhhhhs were getting to him. Big time. If she kept up her porntastic candy sucking for too much longer his damn briefs wouldn’t be able to contain him.
Carefully removing the stick from her grip, he scooted forward, taking her with him. He shoved the candy cane back into his pocket and cupped his hands under her butt. “Hold on to me.”
“Wha—” The rest of whatever she’d been about to say broke off on a gasp as he straightened and flipped her so she was belly-to-belly with him. After tucking her legs around his waist, he slid his hands to her hips and performed the crowd-pleasing standing dirty dry hump. He swore Marissa’s eyes were about to pop from their sockets. If his balls weren’t on the verge of turning permanently blue, he might have chuckled at her expression. He’d performed this move too many times to count, but he’d never had to deal with his body’s uncontrollable response to the woman in his arms. With each grind of his pelvis against hers he sank deeper into the fantasy of being tangled up naked with her. Sweat-slicked skin slip-sliding together. Her nails digging into his shoulders and her thin, reedy sighs slowly escalating into cries of ecstasy. Her pussy clinging to his shaft, vising tighter and tighter before she broke completely apart around him.
A carnal wave of hunger pulling him beneath the undertow, he spun and lowered her onto the chair, letting her legs slide down his while he unbuttoned his Santa jacket. Shrugging the velvet garment from his shoulders, he locked stares with her. Her hands lifted and stroked his chest. The feather light, hesitant brush of her fingertips over his skin was tantalizing beyond anything he’d conjured in his wildest dreams. He wanted her touch. Everywhere.
As if she’d read his mind, she ghosted her hands lower, her nails grazing his abs and making him quiver. He let the jacket fall from his arms and then hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. Rather than wrench them off, he slowly snaked the straps down his arms as he undulated his hips. Her fingers slipped lower, following the rhythmic beat of his body. Despite the enthusiasm of the women behind him, this dance was all for Marissa. She was his solitary focus. There might as well be no one else in the room.
Her gaze glued to a spot just below his navel, she traced the V lines disappearing into his waistband. She licked her lips, and he damn near busted a nut right then and there. He dipped his torso, riding her hands with a low, lazy corkscrewing motion. Straddling her legs, he unsnapped the suspenders before guiding her fingers to the top Velcro closures on his pants. Gripping the back of the chair, he swiveled his hips to the left, loosening the fastenings on that side first. He reversed the motion, and the Velcro parted on the right. Marissa curled her fingers tight around his pants when they started to sag and slip. He tossed her a wink and twisted upward with a hard thrust. The fabric ripped away from him with a swoosh, and the ladies went crazy.
Stepping out of the remnants of his pants, he whisked off his Santa hat. The music segued into the sexy, bluesy number that finished out his set, and he returned to his position in front of Marissa. Planting his palms on her thighs, he widened them and slowly worked his way upward with a sinuous rolling glide of his body along hers. By the time he straddled her lap she was trembling. Sliding the hat behind her head, he pulled her toward him, his sight fixed to her mouth. Her lips parted on a shaky breath.
He never kissed a woman on stage. But Marissa wasn’t just any woman. She was the inspiration for every one of his fantasies and the sole cause for the burning need fueling his system. Without giving it another thought, he tugged her the last half inch necessary to seal their lips together. He couldn’t linger on the kiss, but that made it no less brain-frying and erotic. He nipped her bottom lip and she murmured him name, providing him the perfect opportunity to suck on her tongue. She shuddered and submitted with a wispy sigh that stoked the primal alpha in him. He re-angled his head, savoring her addictive sweetness as their tongues glided together. Her hands spanned his ribcage, her fingertips flirting over his skin in an exploring touch that sent desperate need crashing through every cell in his body. Before he gave in to the urge to sweep her offstage and into the first private area they could find, he stole another quick, heated taste of her and shoved to his feet, his heart pounding.
Marissa stared at him, her pupils dilated and her expression dazed.
Jack’s earlier warning blared in Trig’s head. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
Too late. The point of no return was already several miles behind him. There was no damn way he could walk away from Marissa now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Her knees wobbly,
Marissa rushed toward her car. Oh God. What was that? She’d never felt so...insanely aroused and alive from a kiss. And the fact that Trig was the one who kept turning her inside out like this? Nothing good could come of it. She was absolutely playing with fire here.
What in the world had possessed her to go into that place? It was as if an alien had taken possession of her body this past week. A weird, horny alien who hired male escorts and fondled strippers.
Corking her hysterical laugh, she slid to a halt in the slushy snow and fumbled around in her purse for her keys. This is what she got for hightailing it out of the club like a damn ninny. But there was no way she could continue sitting at that table, reliving every second of Trig’s kiss over and over while all those crazy women hooted, shouted, and flung money at the dancers.
Like you weren’t the craziest of them all. Jeez Louise. Sucking off a candy cane. That was something Jane would do. Not her.
But she did do it. And furthermore, she liked it. Holy crap. If she kept this up, she was going to need intensive therapy. And probably a Twelve Step program for killing this insane draw she had toward Trig. Shaking her head, she located her keys and hit the lock release.
“Marissa.”
She jumped at the nearness of Trig’s husky baritone. He was the last person she could handle seeing right now. Not when her mind was spinning and every cell in her body tingled with the memory of his touch. Digging her fingernails into her palm, she turned toward him and attempted to manufacture a breezy tone. “Hey.”
He was considerably more dressed than the last time she’d seen him. He’d bundled up in a flannel shirt and leather jacket. And she was fairly certain that his jeans didn’t come with the neat trick of ripping off of him with a strategic tug.
