by Emma Chase
She climbs onto my lap, facing me. Then she shoves the thong she’d been wearing in my mouth. The crowd roars to a deafening crescendo.
I think the crazy train just jumped the track. I’d like to get off now—and not in the happy way. It’s all fun and games until you have another woman’s bodily fluids on your tongue. Kate would never be okay with this. Remind me to guzzle some Listerine when we get back to the room.
Her red lips smile as she snatches the tie off my neck, and I manage to spit out the thong. Unperturbed, she drapes the open tie around my shoulders and holds each side like a horse’s reins. She wraps the ends around her hands and uses them for leverage. Her hips sway and swivel expertly, the way only an experienced dancer—or expensive hooker—knows how.
To my utter horror—my cock gets hard. He moves quickly into position—rigid and ready.
Since the day Kate let me fuck her, I, and my dick, haven’t given any other women a second glance. No matter how attractive or available, we haven’t been interested. Or aroused.
Not one frigging time.
It feels completely wrong. To use Kate’s words—it’s like a compass pointing south. If that were to happen, it would mean the universe was off-kilter. The end of the world as we know it. That’s almost what this seems like.
Like a betrayal.
Maybe the priests were right, after all. Maybe penises are evil.
I glare down at my lap.
Traitor.
Chapter 13
After the stage lights go dark and I’m untied from the chair, I can’t get off the stage quickly enough. I make a beeline for my happy place, also known as the bar.
The guys surround me, backslapping and laughing like chimpanzees at the zoo. “That was awesome!”
“I’m rethinking this whole marriage thing. If it gets me a fucking show like that, I just might do it.”
“I’ll take those seconds any day. . . . Wasn’t anything sloppy about that brunette!”
A thousand frazzled thoughts race through my head at once, but I put up a solid front.
“It was great.” Talk quickly turns to joining the poker game in the back room. As the others make their way over, Matthew turns back to me, where I’m still sitting at the bar.
“You okay, man?”
I lick my dry lips. “Yeah, I’m good. Just going to finish my drink.”
He nods understandingly and leaves me on my own. Have to admit, I’m a little bit shaky. What was that hard-on all about? Did it happen because the woman grinding on me looked so much like Kate? And most important, do I have to tell Kate about it?
Jesus.
I go from looking at my drink to swallowing it in .5 seconds. There’s no way I’m telling Kate.
Don’t look at me like that. Whoever said honesty was the best policy never lived with a frigging chick. Sometimes, it’s best to keep your mouth shut. Certain things women don’t want to know—things, like this, that will accomplish nothing but upsetting them.
I’m comfortable with my decision . . . until someone taps me on the shoulder.
I turn around to find a pair of big, beautiful brown eyes smiling at me. If my cock had an elbow, he’d nudge me with it.
She’s changed since the stage show. Or, should I say, covered up. She’s wearing a red, lace, knee-length nightie, with matching high heels. It’s actually pretty conservative for a place like this. Close up, I note that her skin is creamy white and clear—with almost no makeup. Her hair is still down, straight and shiny, and soft looking.
She greets me with a cheery “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I’m Lily.”
I nod.
“Are you having fun tonight?”
I motion to the bartender for another. “Sure, it’s . . . super.”
Lily sits—uninvited—on the stool next to mine. “I’m glad. I wanted to make sure you enjoyed the show, because I’m new here. I only started a few weeks ago.”
The revelation surprises me. “Never would’ve guessed. You’re a natural.”
Her smile gets wider. “Wow, you’re so sweet.” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if she were about to spill top-secret information. “But I’m not really a stripper, you know.”
I look around the room. Then I look her up and down. “Is it some elaborate game of make-believe?”
She laughs. “I’m a student, actually. This is my last year at the University of Nevada.”
I remark drily, “A student stripping her way through college? How very stereotypical of you.”
She rolls her eyes. Not unlike the way Kate does frequently. “I waitressed at Hooters for a year. But with the economy the way it is, they had cutbacks. And I got let go last month.”
“I always thought tits and ass were recession-proof.”
She shrugs and sips her drink. “Didn’t we all.”
I toy with the napkin on the bar, feeling Lily’s eyes appraising me. “What?”
“You just . . . you’re nothing like the other grooms I’ve seen in this place. They acted like I was their last meal before the execution. But you’re different. It’s nice.”
Although she seems sincere, I’m suspicious of the nice-girl-just-trying-to-get-by act. Strippers get naked for money—that’s the job. They get more money if the customers like them—if the stripper can make them feel they’re special. Different. “I don’t do this for just any guy,” they say, and—bam—before the loser knows it, his whole paycheck is down the drain.
Or up the crotch, in this case.
Lily puts her hand on my leg, and she starts to rub—moving higher and higher. “How about we go in the back for a private dance? I’ll even do you for free. It’ll be my pleasure.”
What’d I tell you? Can I call them, or can I call them?
I stop her wandering hand with my own. “I can’t.”
She leans toward me and tries again. “Sure you can.”
But I hold my ground. “I could. But I won’t.”
She stops, finally getting the point. Looking a little confused, she asks, “Do you have one of those crazy, controlling fiancées? The kind that makes you promise no lap dances, even at your bachelor party?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I don’t think she’d be pissed. But . . . I think she’d be hurt.”
That’s what no one tells you about being in love. Sure it’s grand and amazing and feels fucking fantastic. But there’s stress too. Obligation. Responsibility. The knowledge that someone else’s happiness—someone who means so much to you—can be made or destroyed by the choices you make. By the things you do.
Or in my case, the things you don’t.
“I’ve done that before—made a bad call. Hurt her. And I’m determined not to ever do it again.”
Lily’s eyes glaze over with admiration. She’s probably not used to talking to a guy who isn’t a complete and utter dickweed. For her, it must be like when those scientists in the sixties first realized apes were capable of learning sign language. A revelation.
She kisses her fingertip and presses it to my cheek. “I hope your fiancée knows how lucky she is, Drew.”
I smirk. “I make sure to remind her every day.”
She smiles longingly. Then her gaze turns to the other end of the room, where an expensive-suit-wearing older gentleman sits by himself, looking all kinds of lonely.
She hops off the bar chair. “Duty calls.” In a flurry of dark hair, she walks away.
My eyes follow her as she goes. And, thank Christ, my dick doesn’t move an inch.
Before she reaches her destination, I get an idea. Practice makes perfect—and there’s no better practice run than a newly minted stripper.
I call her back. “I’m gonna pay for that private dance after all.”
Her eyes light up. “Okay.”
“But it’s not for me.”
I guide her to the back room, where Warren is playing poker—badly—with Steven, Jack, and Matthew. “Hey, douche bag, have you ever had a private dance
?”
Suspicion washes over his face, probably thinking I’m setting him up to be the butt of a joke. Not that he needs any help in that department. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
I smile and motion to each of them with my hand. “Lily, this is Billy. Billy—Lily.”
Warren stands and Lily loops her arm around his. “First timer, huh? I’ll take good care of you.”
I’m just racking up the good deeds today, aren’t I? I tap both their shoulders. “You kids have fun.”
As they walk away together, I hear Warren ask, “Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi in a bar?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Fucking hopeless.
I tell the poker dealer to deal me in, then lay my money on the table and stack the green chips she slides my way. Without prompting, a shot girl places a fresh whiskey in front of me, and I put my tip on the tray. Paradise isn’t your run-of-the-mill strip club. It’s not just about the dancers—it’s about making the customers feel like kings. Anticipating their wants and desires.
Jack changes two cards and comments, “Drew Evans turning down a lap dance—that makes me sad.”
“I turned it down out of respect for Kate. Just like she canceled the man massage out of respect for me.”
Steven smiles and congratulates me. “You’ve come so far, Little Grasshopper.”
I grin. “Kate and I have a very respectful relationship.”
This is mostly true. Although, at times a little disrespect can end up being a really good time.
Let’s examine that theory more closely:
After what feels like an eternity of not being inside Kate, our six-week sex ban has at last come to an end. My generous parents—whom I love tonight more than ever—agreed to come to our apartment and watch James for a few hours.
My cock has fabulous, filthy ideas on how to spend every minute of those hours.
Despite his intentions, we didn’t go straight to the hotel room I rented for the evening. Why not? you ask. The short answer is because Kate owns me, I’m now a pushover—and a fucking idiot. The long answer is because Kate put extra effort into getting dressed for our night together—she painted her toenails, curled her hair just so, and bought a scorching-hot little black dress that makes her tits look fantastic. Meaning she wants to spend at least part of the night in public. Around other adults.
Engaging in conversation that will stimulate her mind as acutely as I plan on stimulating her clit with my tongue very shortly.
So . . . we’re eating dinner at Jean-Georges, an ultrachic restaurant that also happens to be located one block from our hotel suite. Talk during dinner was interesting and fun, as always. We talked about James, work, Kate’s upcoming transition back to the office, and my impending conversion to part-time stay-at-home dad. The food was great too. Yet it hasn’t exactly been an enjoyable meal for me.
My body is strung tight with anticipation, and every single thing Kate does just makes me want to fuck her that much more. The way her fingers grasp her water glass, the way she licks her lips and slides the fork deep into her mouth.
Christ.
It’s a blessing you can’t actually die from horniness—’cause I’d be stone cold by now.
Even though Kate’s been strict about what she eats, because she’s breast-feeding and working hard to get back into her “skinny” jeans, I talked her into indulging in some dessert.
Not my best idea.
“Mmmm . . . ,” she moans over a bite of chocolate cake.
My dick twitches—like a wild bull raring to get out of his pen.
I swallow the rest of my wine, reminding myself it’ll only be a few more minutes until I have her all to myself. Naked. With no one and nothing to disturb us for four blissful hours.
Kate pushes her plate back and wipes her mouth elegantly with her napkin. Then she regards me thoughtfully. “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“What are you wondering?” I’m surprised that my voice is actually level. Considering the crotch of my pants is now painfully snug.
“Do you remember the night we met—at REM?”
I lean forward in my chair and run my finger up and down her bare arm. “Every provocative detail.”
She likes my answer. She smiles. “What do you think would’ve happened if I had gone home with you that night?”
I force my gaze up from Kate’s impressive rack to meet her eyes. “I would’ve done exactly what I said—given the word pleasure a whole new meaning.”
“But what about afterward?”
This is one of those tricky hypothetical questions women love to pose—just to screw with a guy’s head. “What if you had met my sister first?” “Would you have respected me if I fucked you on the first date?” “If you could go back in time, would you still marry me?”
Contrary to popular belief, there’s definitely a right way and a wrong way to answer. Unfortunately for men, the honest answer is usually the wrong one.
But because I’ve sworn to never lie to Kate again—and because she’ll know if I am frigging lying—I go with the truth.
“Afterward, I would’ve paid your cab fare and gone on my own merry, sexually satisfied way home.” I wink. “And I would’ve ranked our night as the best of my life. So far.”
She doesn’t frown, exactly, but the potential is there. Disappointment settles in her brown eyes, and the edges of her smile fall just a bit.
“That’s it? So you don’t think we’d be together right now?”
I pick up her hand and hold it in mine, looking it over before kissing each of her fingertips. “I didn’t say that. Like those of most geniuses, my epiphanies take a little time to settle in. I would’ve spent most of Sunday reminiscing—but by Sunday night, I would’ve started figuring out how to find you again.”
Just like that, the pre-frown vanishes. “You would’ve wanted seconds?”
“Seconds, thirds, fourths . . . and when I found you at my office on Monday? You can bet your ass my couch would’ve been scandalized much sooner.”
Kate leans forward, purposely teasing me with a bird’s-eye view of her cleavage. “What about your rule—Drew Evans doesn’t ride the same roller coaster twice?”
I enjoy the scenery.
“I’ve proven beyond a reasonable doubt that when it comes to you, my rules were always meant to be broken. If you were the coaster in question, I would’ve bought the whole fucking amusement park and ridden you until I couldn’t see straight.”
Kate’s free hand slides up my thigh, inching close to the holy land. Her voice is teasing. Playful. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Evans?”
“If you have to ask, I’m obviously out of practice.” I up my game. “Take your panties off. Right here, right now. Then give them to me.”
How’s that for flirting?
Her hand stops its exploration. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
She doesn’t sound shy or shocked. So I know her refusal isn’t because she doesn’t want to.
The lewd lightbulb goes on above my head. “You’re not wearing any, are you?”
Kate looks into my eyes. And sexily pops the p as she says, “Nope.”
Instantly my finger rises toward the waiter. “Check, please.”
The waiter quickly brings the check, and I throw a handful of bills down on the table. In a rush, I stand up.
Kate giggles. “They’re going to think you’re unhappy about the food, Drew.”
I help her out of her seat and lower my mouth to her ear. “I don’t give a shit what they think. If I don’t get you out of here right now, I’m going to lay you down on this table and give the other customers a show they’ll never forget.”
She looks up at my face daringly. “And I’d let you.”
Oblivious of the stares of the patrons and staff, Kate wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. When her demanding tongue strokes mine, the sensation goes straight to my balls. With my arm around her lower back, I say, “You got al
l dolled up—I thought you wanted a night out.”
“Drew, I haven’t come in six weeks. The only thing I want is your cock so deep inside me, I can taste it.”
I don’t actually remember leaving the restaurant after that. Kate’s awesomely dirty revelation must have fried my brain.
The next thing I know, we’re on the sidewalk and I’m dragging her to the side of the building—to the narrow alley just wide enough to fit a Dumpster that faces the street. I have enough awareness to bring Kate to the far side of it—so we’re shielded from the view of cars and pedestrians. My eyes scan the path for intruders. Finding none, I devote all of my attention to Kate—to making up for all the screwless days she’s endured.
My hand buries itself in her hair, gripping the soft strands, holding her head captive as I plunder her mouth with my tongue. She writhes and rubs against me, pulling my shirt free of my pants and working on my belt.
It’s times like this I wish God had made people more like octopuses—six extra hands would be convenient right about now. We’re ravenous for each other—tearing and pulling at annoying clothes, wanting to touch every erogenous zone at the same time.
It reminds me of the first time we kissed, that night in my office years ago. It feels the same as that night—I’d wanted Kate, fantasized about her for weeks then too. The difference now is, I know precisely what I’ve been fucking missing. So I’m even hungrier for her, bordering on totally out of control.
My hand slides down the front of her dress, into her bra, straining the fabric. I palm and knead her full breast, and a welcome moan reverberates in Kate’s throat. My fingers rub and pinch her nipple, making it harden to a perfect peak. Kate tears her mouth from mine and moves to my neck—sucking and licking—nipping the sensitive skin with her teeth. Making me weak in the fucking knees.
I switch gears and slide my hands up her thighs, bunching her dress above her waist. Then I kneel down and pause for just a moment to appreciate the sight of her exquisitely smooth snatch.
Panting hard, Kate tries to cover her stomach with her hands. “I know I’m not—”
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence.” I grab her wrists, holding them away from her body.
Pregnancy is a strange experience for women. So many fast-paced changes—mentally, emotionally, physically. And, no, Kate doesn’t look exactly as she did before. But only a total asshole would expect her to.
Only the eminent ruler of all assholes would care.
“You made a person, Kate. A perfectly amazing person.” Then I look up into her eyes and tell her honestly, “You’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are right now.”
A smile tugs at her flushed lips. I release her wrists, lean forward, and press my mouth against the soft flesh of her pussy.
Hello, old friend. I’ve missed you.
I spread her with my fingers and delve in deep. She’s hot on my tongue—already wet—and sweeter than chocolate frigging cake. I cup her ass in my hands, pressing her forward, and revel in the taste of her. My eyes roll back in my head as Kate moans and gasps above me. Her fingernails cut into my shoulder
