Stripped

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  He continues to sputter on, deeply apologetic, for another few moments about how stupid it was to make dinner for a guest and not ask if she had dietary restrictions, blah, blah, blah.

  “Stone,” I interrupt.

  “Yeah?”

  “That was payback for the ringtone.”

  He studies me like he’s not sure what I’m talking about, and then realization reaches his eyes. “Ah… got it. Good one.”

  I laugh. “The entire East Hollywood Mall food court got an earful of ‘Pony’ blaring from my phone this afternoon. Worse—if that’s possible—my best friend knew I hadn’t done it. Oh God, it was so embarrassing.”

  He laughs too. “So, you’re not going to need oxygen or an EpiPen if you eat this?”

  “No. Not at all. I can’t wait to taste it.”

  “Neither can I.” He makes that last statement with a gaze at me that sizzles, and the quickening it creates throughout my body has me feeling like he’s not talking about the casserole.

  Stone places the dish on the intimate dining table that could have seating for four, but all the chairs have been removed but two. Then he steps to the fridge and brandishes two bottles.

  “Red or white?”

  “Red, please.”

  He retrieves the corkscrew from the counter and two long stemmed glasses before moving back to the table.

  “Would you grab the matches in the drawer to your left?”

  “Sure.” Then I wonder aloud, “Did you cook in your suit?”

  “Hell, no.” He chuckles as he pops the cork then pours the wine. “I had the meal put together this morning, so when I got home all I had to do was throw it in the oven.”

  I hand him the box of matches. “Thanks.” He lights a couple of candles that sit on each side of the table. “I’m pretty excited to eat this. Sunday is my carb day.”

  “What are the rest of your days?”

  “High protein and veggies, especially veggie smoothies, light on the fruit. I usually add a couple chunks of pineapple for sweetness. Then a couple handfuls of nuts or pumpkin seeds throughout the day for energy.”

  “So that’s how you keep your fabulous physique.” That came flying out from between my lips faster than I could anticipate and left me zero time to stop it. My mental capacities weren’t even part of that equation—it was all the vadge.

  Now he’s searing through me with hungry eyes that have nothing to do with the carbs on the table.

  “Fabulous, huh?” He exhales, and it’s low and breathy and completely sensual. “I think it just got hot in here.”

  Yeah, it has. I sit down quickly, hoping it’ll shut up Lady V and keep her from spouting off any more embarrassing gaffes.

  Stone stands then slowly peels the suit coat away from his arms and torso. It really isn’t fair that he can make the simple task of removing a coat orgasmic.

  Guess that’s a hazard of being associates with a professional stripper.

  “What made you move to the States in the first place?” That’s right, change the subject away from his body. Of course my voice squeaks on the final word.

  Take a sip of wine—maybe a few gulps—you need it. It’ll calm you down.

  “I played footy…” Stone answers with a straight face.

  I gasp and the wine goes down the wrong pipe. Choking commences.

  Fortunately, I suck in enough viable air to inquire, “Is that some sort of kinky foot fetish?”

  Stone regards me with amusement. “You honestly do think sex is the only thing I think about.” He laughs. “Footy is what we call the game of football in Oz. It refers to the AFL—Australian Football League.”

  Of course it is. Now I feel stupid.

  I’m not going to ask any more questions. In fact, I’m just going to nod or shake my head and only answer his direct inquiries. That’ll help.

  “I had a hard tackle then got caught up in a ruck.”

  I blurt, “Did you say, caught in a fuck?”

  He shines his megawatt smile. “You really do have a dirty mind, Em. Maybe on par with my own.”

  Can I really be penalized for misinterpreting Aussie-isms?

  “I was primed to play professionally, even had a big, fat scholarship to uni—university—waiting for me until an ACL injury ended my career. By the time I’d recovered I missed my big moment.”

  That’s terribly sobering. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was devastating then. Footy had been my identity.”

  He’s hitting really close to home.

  “I know all about living for something with my entire being, only to lose it before it ever really got started. Before all the practice, and plays, and hours and years of sacrifice and dedication could be rewarded.”

  “Then you really do know how I feel.” I’m overcome with a deep, sympathetic, kindred-like connection. “You’ve lived it yourself.”

  “I was a nationally known rising star. After it happened, I couldn’t even go to the servo without being recognized and asked to talk about it.”

  “That’s awful.” I shake my head.

  “Had a feeling you could relate.”

  “It’s why I wanted out of New York so bad.”

  He nodded with understanding. “That’s why I left Oz.”

  We share a moment of quiet before he perks back up and says, “Let’s cut into this before it gets cold.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. Then, “With everything in your football life, how did you get involved with dancing?”

  “Much like sex.” He levels me with a seductive gaze. “I’ve pretty much always been into dancing, Sunshine.”

  I’m grateful to be sitting down, because his statement makes me weak in the knees.

  Stone looks pleased with my obvious discomfort and continues, “But because the ’rents are really big on education and they don’t typically offer scholarships for street dancing, footy became my golden ticket. Until it wasn’t anymore.”

  We switch gears and keep the conversation light through the scrumptious meal. I learn his family is tight knit like mine: that his parents and younger sister all live and work here in LA. His mom and dad are real estate brokers who own their own agency—where Stone works—and his sister, Glenda, is employed as a bartender at Foreplay for the summer months and living with their parents while attending California State University for interior design.

  I confide that I’m an only child. “My mom, Ruthie, and my dad, Frank—divorced amicably when I turned twelve. My mom is a professional shopper for a couple of big name corporations and remarried a few years back. My step-dad Arthur’s a great guy—and works at one of those big name corporations.

  “My dad is a high school football coach and treated my dancing like the true sports aficionado that he is,” I say, trying to explain the complex but loving relationship I have with my father. “I believe somewhere deep down inside my dad had really wanted a boy, but me being the girlie-girl I was, he transposed his adoration for me and football into a quasi-football-ballet amalgam. For example, cheering and shouting during ballet recitals. He also had mesh sport jerseys made with our last name—CARTIER—across the back. They had the number one and NYB scrawled on the front in bold block letters, as if it was a nationally recognized team.”

  We both laugh and decide that our families are well meaning, even though they have a dose of crazy.

  When dinner is finished, I stand and pick up my dish to rinse it.

  “No you don’t. I didn’t invite you over to help clean up the kitchen.” He snatches it away from me and sets it back on the table. “Come sit with me on the sofa,” Stone says as he refills our glasses.

  More wine is always an excellent idea.

  I’m feeling warm, happy, and satisfied and have no problem with that whatsoever.

  I get to the plush sofa first and settle myself into the end cushion where I can admire the art on the wall and Stone’s collectables on the shelves.

  He comes closer, stands over me, and asks, “Do you min
d if I off the tie and loosen my collar?”

  Who am I to say no and deprive him of the comforts of his own home? “That’s fine.”

  But, all too suddenly, it becomes not fine.

  His eyes turn a shade of deep blue in the soft lighting and stay on mine as his fingers work the knot of the tie, slip it open, then slide it off his neck. Slowly, calculatedly.

  I think he says something, but I’ve been mesmerized to dangerous levels of incoherency as he unbuttons down to mid-chest before folding up his sleeves, revealing his bulging forearms.

  As if to remind me there’s more underneath, he grips the fabric at the bottom of the shirt and untucks it by the fistfuls, revealing hard, tanned muscle.

  His testosterone is shouting—animalistic, fist-to-breast-beating, ultra-masculine Tarzan roaring—to my estrogen, creating a pheromone cyclone that threatens (and promises) to send me on a magical ride to Oz. Straight to Stone’s thunder down under.

  “So, about proposition three…” he begins.

  I’m so in trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  Stone

  Emelie Cartier

  (And other great pleasures, like dancing and Australian kissing—especially that one)

  Could she be more beautiful? She isn’t even trying.

  She’s funny and smart and flirtatious. I already feel like I can’t get enough of her.

  I’d love to do nothing but slide in closer. Being a cushion away on the sofa feels like a mile.

  How far removed was this break up she had? Is the ex still on her mind? Who’s my competition? Most importantly, how do I get rid of the tosser?

  I think, with sweet relish—whoever he is, wherever he is, she’s on my sofa now.

  Where he fucked up, I’m going to make it right.

  “Proposition three. The competition.” I say it and immediately think of the thoughts I had less than a second ago of her ex, so I add, “Then Prove You Can Dance.”

  “Right. When is the audition?” She leans in.

  God, I want to taste her skin. “Just over three weeks away.”

  “Where do I fit in?”

  You’d fit perfectly in my mouth, on my tongue. You’d fit unimaginably fucking amazingly over my cock.

  It’s agony not to speak it out loud. Speaking of agony, that cock I was just imagining inside of her is rising to the challenge.

  Casually, I reach around and pull the sofa pillow out from behind my back and set it on my lap. Dynamite dick disguise.

  “I need an extra edge—the competition is stiff.” Did I have to use that word? “The dancers are good; some are fucking great. I have to be better.”

  “You are really great, Stone.” She almost keeps a straight face, but a gorgeous blush breaks through her unassuming demeanor.

  I’d love to hear those words moan out of her mouth while she lays underneath me panting, swelling on the verge of…

  “Are you talking about the stripper me or the dancer me?”

  “Both,” she answers quietly. I swear, her beautiful, milky complexion is an indicator of her internal temperature levels because that soft pink that painted her cheeks a moment ago just rose to hot jalapeño red.

  She continues, “I really don’t know how I could help.”

  “You can ready me for this high-powered, cut-throat, any-mistake-you-make-is-your-last audition and for the competition.”

  “How?”

  I explain, “Hard critiques. I want you to give me your worst. I need you to coach me. Teach me ballet—dancers with skill and proficiency in multiple categories and styles of dance, they’re the ones who capture the judges’ attention.”

  She presses her petal glossed colored lips into a thin line. The skilled professional dedicated to her craft comes to stand center stage. That’s the part of her I wanted to see come to the surface.

  Of course, my mind drifts to the thought of her lips and tongue tasting like the red wine she’s making love to. I want to sip it from her mouth so fucking badly.

  Focus!

  Not on her mouth, bloody idiot!!

  I get a hold of myself and concentrate on negotiating. “I’d like to lay out two possible scenarios and have you choose. One: work with me every spare moment between now and the audition. I fly solo at that point, and your commitment is fulfilled.”

  She nods with consideration. “Two?”

  “Two: because the first audition here in LA is literally less than sixty seconds before the judging panel either gives you the golden ticket to Vegas or a gladiator’s thumbs-down demise, if we get the ticket…”—I zero in on her eyes and hold them with my own—“you extend your professional coaching services and come with me for Vegas week.”

  That pretty little mouth of hers that I want to kiss like mad drops open at the prospect of spending a week with me in Vegas.

  I start talking fast—so she can’t say no!

  “Separate rooms, of course. I’ll pay all of your expenses.” Monetary figures flash through my mind with proportional importance on level with uni entrance exams. “If you choose scenario one, your salary would be thirty dollars an hour, paid in full each week for services rendered, for a total of $2,100 if we work for about three hours a day. If you instead decide to accept scenario two, which in addition to readying me for the initial audition, would include your services in Vegas, your salary while accompanying me for the week will increase to fifty dollars per hour—twenty-four hours per day for seven days. That, along with the first three weeks at thirty dollars an hour, would come to about a cool $10,000 total.”

  Holy shit! Suddenly my palms feel clammy and I’m nervous as hell, as if this were the most important business transaction I’ve ever partnered in. In comparison, the first night I bared all at Foreplay was easier!

  “I have a question.”

  That’s not a no. “Shoot.”

  “What’s the timeframe between the LA audition and Vegas week?”

  “We’re the final stop in the national audition process, so it’s the following week.”

  She nods in understanding then counters, “You work in a dance studio that teaches ballet. Why don’t you ask one the instructors there?”

  “None of them are even close to your caliber,” I say truthfully. “Look around you—I like the best. I like it real and sexy and full of passion. You possess all of those qualities.”

  This is the part where I can’t help myself. I shift over, closing more of the gap between us and allow my fingers to reach behind the back of her head and work the band and hair pins that hold that long luxurious mane in an uptight bun.

  Time to set it free, I think then watch wistfully as waves of deep chestnut tumble about her neck and shoulders, cascading all the way to the curve of her breasts.

  “It’s so spectacular. You should only wear it in a bun that tight… mmm, never.” The scent of almonds and sugar make me heady. “You know, this proposition benefits you too. The credentials you’ve earned after so many tireless years of commitment to your craft are yours to use to your advantage. You were dealt a rough and nasty hand, now it’s time to stack the deck back in your favor.”

  I realize my hand has lingered. I’m wrapping silky curls around my fingers while grazing the length of her neck and stroking light fingertips behind her ear.

  “Dance with me, Em.”

  What happens next is the stuff of dreams—of fantasies really—very similar to those fantasies I’d started having since I had her body pinned under mine on the stage at Foreplay. Since she hadn’t meant to deliberately orgasm beneath me that night, I had at first felt guilty when the magical visions of the brunette ballerina goddess were the only thing I could think about during my every solo session. She’d been so fucking hot, so innocent, so goddamn needy. The way she exploded and nearly took me with her was volcanic. Very soon, the guilt was obliterated by my lusty, greedy appetite. She became my favorite fantasy, and the situation an unfinished quest, for which my brain went about merrily conjuring a variety of ultr
a-porn mini reel scenarios that my dick enjoyed thoroughly.

  Her thick dark lashes flutter together as a silken exhale slips out between her lips. “I’m thinking, because you chose me out of all those women at Foreplay to take me on the stage, you might find me attractive.”

  Is this a trick question? “Are you trying to catch me off guard, to see if my intentions and motives are pure? I can’t fake what I can’t fake, and I’m no liar. My motives will never be pure where it comes to you. Honest? Yes, absolutely. Pure? No fucking way—you make my dick too damn hard for that to ever be a possibility. The way I find you, Em, is heavenly, and tantalizing.”

  “Oh good.” She sighs, relieved. “Then you won’t mind if I sit here?”

  I nearly gasp in surprise and ecstasy as she hikes up her skirt and straddles my lap. She stays up on her knees, careful not to create pussy to cock contact.

  Holy shit! “What’s your plan, Em?” My eyes drift between us, and I watch her chest heave as if she can’t get enough air into her lungs.

  “Not sure, Aussie-man. I’m making it up as I go.”

  “My kind of girl.”

  Finally, she opens her eyes and meets mine. I can’t stop myself from smiling. She’s gorgeous and scared and sexy and bold all at the same time.

  “Can I kiss you, Em? I’ve been dying to taste your lips and tongue all night.”

  I little sound escapes her and she nods. “Please do.”

  I tangle my fingers and hands into the length of her mane and massage the back of her scalp, slowly pulling her mouth nearer to mine.

  I brush my lips against hers in soft, tentative kisses that hint of desire. It’s not enough. They’re only making me hungrier.

  “Does that feel good?”

  “Yeah.”

  Immediately after she answers, I gently but firmly fist her hair, pulling her head back to allow me better access.

  “How about this?” I slam my mouth over hers as her lips part open in a gasp of pleasure.

  Oh Christ! She tastes of dry red wine with a hint of sweet cherry lip gloss.

  When she swipes a bold lick of her tongue across my bottom lip, it extracts a wanton groan from my throat.