by J. C. Cliff
Everything seems like a blur it’s all happening so fast, and the room is slanting. Maybe that’s because I haven’t exhaled yet, and when I realize this, a burst of air leaves my lungs in a fast and heavy whoosh.
My loud exhale has him taking pause. Even though I can’t see his eyes, I see one of his dark eyebrows arching above the gold rim of his sunglasses. He’s piercing me with his eyes. I know this, because I can feel the blistering heat from his gaze searing me right between my legs. His movements are nothing but self-assured and steady, whereas I feel as if I’m totally off kilter. He has me spellbound and I can’t seem to move. I’m wide-eyed and fixated on him and his presence.
His lips then slowly begin to curve upward in a knowing grin. He knows he’s affecting me, and I hate that I can’t hide my emotions. I almost whimper when he runs the tip of his tongue smoothly along the bottom edge of his lip then holds it there. Oh, Lord, I’m in trouble. I’m about to turn into one of those raving, undersexed women downstairs in the bar, crazy and out of control. I want to run my hands over every inch of his hot body, and trace the lines of those tattoos with my tongue, but I’m still too caught up in the moment to act on it.
He stays silent as I watch him pour more of the massage oil into his palms. His biceps are flexing from the task, and once he sets the bottle down, he promptly cups the underside of both my breasts and gently squeezes them with his large hands. My eyes bolt open wide and my throat goes tight. He compresses them simultaneously, and then using the pads of his thumbs, he brushes them back and forth over my already hardened nipples. Holy shit! I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I can’t decide if I’m mortified, pissed off, or turned on. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You have the most luscious tits I’ve ever seen,” he rasps. His upper lip twitches with molten desire, and I know it’s molten, because I’ve seen that turned-on look on a man’s face before. He leans in, closing the distance between us, his bare chest almost touching my stomach as his shades shimmer against the subdued lighting. His slick hands are still underneath the swells of my breasts, supporting their weight as he lifts them up high. My nipples are protruding right before his full lips. I’m not sure, but I think his eyes are trained on me as he gently squeezes my breasts just before he wraps his hot mouth over my areola. He draws my heated flesh into the warmth of his mouth, his tongue flicking over my hardened nipples. I immediately choke on air, my throat constricting, and as if one breast isn’t enough to torture, he pinches my other nipple between his fingertips. He sucks hard, devouring me as if the massage oil carries his favorite flavor of ice cream and he’s trying to eat it all before it melts—and I am melting. By this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if the oil he using is multi-functional.
I have a death grip on either side of the table at the very moment my body decides to betray me. I find myself arching my back, wanting to push my tit farther into his mouth. My core pulsates with each suckling action he doles out.
My eyes flick down to his mirrored glasses, and I search for something—any hint as to what’s truly going on. Apparently, he’s not having the internal conflict I’m experiencing. His entire body vibrates with an animalistic hunger. I can tell by the way his breathing patterns have changed.
“You were supposed to take everything off, you naughty girl,” he scolds, with his lips still wrapped around the peak of my breast. His tongue then makes a show as he openly licks and sucks at my hard nub.
I gasp for precious air I don’t have. “But since this is your first time, so you say, I’ll let it slide,” he says, with mockery lining his voice. “We can play that game too, honey.” He doesn’t believe I’ve never been here before.
As if on cue, the beat to the music changes yet again, and in a flash, his large body has jumped up onto the table with mine. His hands grip the edges of the massage table on either side of my shoulders, his knee pushing my thighs apart, spreading my legs open to him.
Holy hell! I’m going to have a full-on coronary. My mind is in self-preservation mode and thankfully allows me to utter out a bewildered croak of, “What the fuck?” I don’t even recognize my own voice.
A sexy smirk forms on his lips, before he says, “Oh yeah, sweetheart, what kind of fuck are you into tonight, hm?” My eyes are big as saucers. I’m too stunned to move. He’s not only dismissed me, but he’s brazen enough go ahead and gyrate his hips to the music as he thrusts them back and forth, simulating the motions of having sex with me. No—sex is too nice of a term for what he’s doing, and even though he isn’t touching me, he’s fucking me wild. I glance down and note the hard bulge in his denim, and wonder if that might be the next thing on his agenda. Leave it to me to have a first night out after a year of being cooped up only to wind up with a crazy-ass weirdo who wants to dry hump me.
Any woman with a pulse would most likely eat this shit up, especially if it were one of the women from downstairs; I’m sure of it. But I’m not most women, I was raised to live my life modestly and conservatively, and without a doubt, this is all kinds of wrong. This man is certifiably, bat-shit crazy. I don’t know this man from Adam, and he’s going all porn star on me.
So why am I still lying here, allowing him to take advantage of me? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I’d like to say I’m mesmerized in a good way, but I’m not. I’m simply dumbstruck. I lie here open-mouthed and aghast, too much in shock at this point to be mortified over my nakedness.
His hips continue to gyrate, and then he crosses the line. The rough denim of his jeans presses against the sensitive skin of my bare thigh as he rubs his hard cock over me. There is no mistaking his erection—that’s for damn sure. He’s hard as a damn steel rod. With each thrust forward, he gets closer to my sex, and when he finally hits pay dirt, he lets out a deep groan. Oh, he’s more than turned on, he’s burning up. The way his weight sinks into my body as he slides his thick denim bulge over my drenched pussy tells me so.
I lick at my dry lips, but there is no moisture to be had. Any and all liquid I did have went to take residence down south as he grinds against me. His mirrored glasses stay trained on my face in such an intense way I think he can see right through to my soul.
“I can feel the heat of your pussy. You want this,” he whispers huskily, as he swivels his hips between my legs. I bite my lower lip, because shit, I’m not gonna lie; he feels good. Outstanding is more like it. He’s making me feel things I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
Already, his chest is glistening with sweat, and it’s sexy—really sexy. He’s all man, muscle, tats, and hot as sin. A bead of sweat drops from his temple and onto my chest, and I begin to raggedly suck in air as I watch in fascination how his muscles strain and flex over my body.
In yet another bold move, his slick fingers swipe right through my wet folds. An audible sharp intake of air sears my lungs. I grab and clutch onto the sides of his biceps and hang on for dear life. I’m both humiliated and turned on, because damn, the man is a quick worker.
I just keep getting railroaded by him left and right, and each move he makes, he keeps getting bolder and bolder. Using firm pressure, he gathers more of my wetness and drags his deft fingers upward to my clit. This time, my eyes do roll to the back of my head, and in that instant, the other nipple is in his mouth.
The nerves in my clit are tingling. I think I’m going to have a full-on orgasm. Do I want that? Hell yes. But I’m enjoying this too much, right? I almost laugh at myself, because at this point, I have no excuse for my behavior. I’ve allowed this charade to go on. I’m on the precipice and not really at war with myself anymore, yet I know in the back of my mind I need to stop this. I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. Isn’t this scenario comprised of the very things wet dreams are made of?
CHAPTER 6
~ Valerie ~
My fingernails dig into the ripped muscles of his arms. He’s making me feel things I’d forgotten existed. I have been dead inside for the past year, and this is the first time in years I
have felt alive, including when Graham was still here.
My legs are shaking uncontrollably as I try to choke back a cry. My God—he’s got me coming undone. I don’t remember the last time it took so little effort to get me on the precipice of a climax.
“Hell yeah, I know you’re close. I can feel it. I wanna hear you scream for me.”
I’m immediately startled the second those words leave his lips. There’s something oddly familiar about that saying, even that voice, and it brings back memories—bad memories. My brows scrunch up in a tangle and everything I was feeling comes to a screeching halt. The high I was on has lost its edge, and I become instantly sober.
The dynamic between us shifts into something that doesn’t feel good. I’m growing incensed, and I’m not sure why. I’m even feeling dirty, which really upsets me. Maybe it’s because he’s been drawing responses from my body and I haven’t been able to control myself, and now that my mind has caught up to my body, I’m actually able to see just how weird all this is.
“Don’t tense up on me now, baby. You’re almost there,” he whispers arrogantly. He’s still turned on and clueless of my inner turmoil.
The man has been taking liberties, running his hands all over my body, and I’m pissed about that. Actually, I’m pissed at myself for allowing this to go so far. Maybe it’s a combination of the two, but either way, the anger rises to new heights.
How dare this asshole just assume I want this? What gives him the right to manhandle me? I lay my hands on his rock-hard pecs and push roughly against his broad chest with all my strength, yelling, “Get the hell off me, you sicko!”
I’m horridly upset now, my chest heaving with barely restrained fury, and crazily enough, this man has the audacity to tilt his head in a way that says he’s confused by my outburst. He quickly removes his hands from my body as he studies me through those damn mirrored glasses of his, not understanding. I’ve had just about enough of those glasses too. It’s time he exposed himself.
I’m breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling from distress. He can clearly see now that I’m not into this backroom, dirty massage bullshit anymore. He scrambles off me then hurriedly shuts off the music. As he does so, I sit up and grab the sheet, which was laying at the bottom of my feet. When I cover myself, I notice my hands are trembling out of control. I clutch the thin sheet to my chest, holding onto it like a lifeline.
“What the hell is happening here?” I hiss in confusion, my voice a shaky mess. “I’ll have your ass for this. Just who the hell do you think you are?”
He suddenly looks uncomfortable, and then he rubs at the back of his neck, not sure what to do or say. He quickly walks over to the dimmer switch and slowly turns up the overhead lighting. I squint against the brighter lights as I watch him saunter back toward me. His amble irks me—he’s still all smooth moves and exudes confidence. He closes in on me then leans into my personal space. I shrink back a tad as he rests his hands on either side of my thighs, trapping me in as if he has the right to be this close to me.
He pierces me with an intense glare that I can’t see, but I can sure as hell feel. He’s acting as if he has a right to be miffed by my outburst. His tongue slips out, wetting his dry lips, and I twist the sheets in my fist, berating myself for still seeing him as desirable. “You paid for this service, sweetheart,” he starts off, his tone very matter-of-fact. “You paid to have me do this to you, along with so much more.”
Well, that’s news to me. My brows rise in surprise as I whisper-hiss in disbelief, “I did no such thing! My friend gave this massage to me as a gift.” I stumble over my words, because it dawns on me that Celia set this up. This whole charade was her idea. That bitch.
He’s so close to me, and now that my eyes have adjusted to the brighter lighting, I can’t help but study his facial features. Now that the initial shock is over, I’m finding a familiarity about him. I get sidetracked from my thoughts as I examine his face with a newfound interest. “Take off your glasses,” I abruptly demand.
I watch as his brows arch above the gold frames of his sunglasses. He shakes his head adamantly, telling me the glasses stay on. I don’t have a good feeling about this. In a bold move, I quickly grab at the side rims of his dark glasses and whip them off his head, exposing a set of bright, tri-colored eyes.
Light, iridescent green is rimmed with a dark blue hue. I narrow my gaze to focus on tiny flecks of chocolate brown peppered around the centers of his eyes. They are highly unique, and can only belong to one man. He stares back at me with a familiarity that makes my blood run cold. I have history with those depths. They’re the ones that once looked upon me with what I thought was love and adoration.
“Stryker?” I ask disbelievingly, his name a faint whisper on my tongue, wishing this was only a bad dream. Is this really him? The man who ripped my heart out and stomped on it years ago? I had never gotten over it. “Stryker?” I ask again more firmly when he doesn’t answer. “Is it really you?”
He studies me for a beat, his pupils dilating, as his eyes now have to adjust to the lighting. His Adam’s apple bobs with nervousness. “Valerie?” he whispers. Yeah—I thought so. He knows exactly who I am.
His jaw clenches, and I instantly know right then and there he wishes his identity hadn’t been revealed. “You bastard,” I hiss. “What the hell is this?” I’m so disoriented and out of my element I don’t even know where to begin, what to say, or what to do.
Taken aback, he sucks in a sharp breath then exhales it wildly while taking an unsteady step backward. He’s visibly upset, and rightfully so. “Your friend is not cool,” he says between clenched teeth. He slips his fingers through his thick hair in a state of shock.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Celia is going to get her ass kicked for doing this to me. “Was I set up? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“God, no,” he says quickly, his voice full of conviction. He comes back to me and leans forward, his eyes trained on mine, pleading for something I don’t understand. “You were not set up. I swear.” He raises a hand to me like a pledge, his voice suddenly on edge. “This is part of the Local Edge, you know, the bar downstairs? But here, upstairs is a private spa,” he explains. “Except it’s not really a spa. Well, not the kind of spa most people are used to, anyway.”
“What?” I yelp in disbelief. “You were gonna….” I let loose one side of my sheet to motion between the two of us with my hand, not quite sure how to finish my sentence.
“No, we were not gonna,” he says, motioning between our bodies. “Tonight’s activities were supposed to be centered around you. The massage was only part of the package.”
Both my brows rise upward, disgust lining my voice. “And the other part of the package… an orgasm?”
Stryker’s serious expression fades away as he slowly begins to smile. Is he finding my ignorance funny? I want to slap him, but those sexy dimples of his make an appearance just like old times, and a part of me wants to cry. Damn him on so many levels. He’s still the same cocky, sexy, and confident Stryker, all wrapped up in one hot package.
“Yeah, you could say more than one orgasm was scheduled. Once you were all relaxed and primed, I was supposed to pull out the toys and play.”
“Toys?” I interject. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“These rooms are for kink play, Valerie. I’m supposed to get you off as many times as I can by using my imagination,” he says—rather sheepishly, to his credit. At least he looks a tad embarrassed about it.
I scan the length of his chiseled body, and get sidetracked yet again, noting that the past six years have been good to him—very good. He’s filled out muscle-wise; he’s no longer the owner of the lithe, smokin’ hot surfer body he once had. Plus, he was tattoo free when I knew him. No wonder I didn’t recognize him right off. His hair is even different, shaved close to the sides, yet thick and full on top. Every characteristic of his has been refined over the years, and his facial features are even mor
e masculine than I remember. He’s sporting a stark jawline that could make a blind woman faint. I should butcher him where he stands.
I snap my eyes to his, finally digesting his words. He said I was scheduled for multiple orgasms in a kink room? Bile rises from the pit of my stomach and I tamp it back down. “This is a sex club?” I squeak.
Without words, he shakes his head in an effort to reassure me. Almost with trepidation, and oh-so-slowly, he leans farther into my space then reaches out to brush the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. The light, feathery touch damn near melts my heart. My eyes automatically flutter closed. His soft stroke feels reverent, and all I want to do is absorb that affection. I’ve been starved for attention for far too long.
He rests his palm on the side of my cheek, smiling at me with fondness, and stupidly, I let his hand remain, as he elaborates, “This is a women’s club. The owner is a woman who wanted to turn the tables on men, reversing the double-standards men have by being able to go to a gentleman’s club. She wanted to have a place where only ladies could come, providing a clean and safe environment. She figured if men could have their own oasis of women in strip clubs, with lap dances and such, why couldn’t women? So that’s what she did. She staffed this place with men whose sole job here would be to please,” he says, his voice full of incredulity. “Never in my life would I have imagined such a place could truly exist. I mean you can damn near have anything here, from a full body massage, to getting penetrated by some very kinky toys.” He says the word ‘toys’ as if he has a serious aversion to them. “We—the men—are not supposed to have sex with the clients.”
