Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  And the big things too.

  “Check the back of the guitar,” I tell her.

  Her eyes widen as she stares over at me. “There’s more?”

  “Just one more thing.”

  Robin lifts up the guitar, gingerly flipping it over. She catches sight of the envelope stuck to the back of it. “What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  The tears flow freely when she does. “Omagad omagad! Two tickets to Nashville, and a half-day, all-inclusive recording time slot at RCA Studios. Including a top producer? You did this for me?”

  “Actually, the idea was mine, but the execution was by one of our clients. Consider it a thank you from Mason Industries for the part you played in stopping an arsonist.”

  She closed the guitar case, and once it’s safely on the coffee table in front of her, she jumps into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love it. I think you’ll love Nashville when we fly out there.”

  “Oh, I’m not going. The two tickets are for you and your guitarist.”

  “What? Really!” she squeals, peppering my face and neck with more kisses.

  “Of course. Just make sure you let Barclay know there’ll be hell to pay if he lets anything happen to you out there.”

  “He’ll be good.” She jumps out of my lap and grabs one of my hands. “So…didn’t we rush back here to settle the issue of someone getting punished?”

  I throw her over my shoulder and waste no time carrying her to the bedroom. Lowering her into my bed, she rolls over and gets on her hands and knees. Robin knows the drill. I smile and lean over her, releasing a hard, loud smack on one ass cheek through her jeans. She croons out a moan that tightens my balls and stiffens my cock.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask with a groan.

  She looks back at me and nods. “I love a good spanking in the morning,” she teases.

  “I love doling it out on that ass,” I confess. “But if you ever stop enjoying it, you make sure and let me know.”

  “Probably not until I’m old and shriveled up. Spank me, soldier.”

  We’re perfect together. I don’t want to remember what my life was like before Robin sang that first chord about a month ago, and I’m certain that it would be holy hell without her now. Some may say we barely know each other, and if they were to ever say that to my face, I’d tell them they’re dead wrong.

  She wiggles her ass to get my attention, and sits back on her knees to undo the waistband of her pants. That triggers a race to remove everything we’re wearing. I only win because the clasp of her sports bra gets caught in her hair. Getting in behind her, I help her out by cupping my hands over her breasts as she gets her hair untangled. Okay, I help myself.

  Robin pushes her ass back into my groin, covers my hands with hers, encouraging me to massage and tease both nipples in synchrony while my dick gets a sample of what’s to come. I’ve been craving her since we left my place this morning. I’ll have to limit the spanking and part those ass cheeks in short order.

  I slide one hand from her breasts, down her stomach and let it settle at her mound. She hisses out a sigh, and on her own, bends forward again, with her butt sky high, the invitation for me to do what she likes me to do. I crash my hand down on one ass cheek, then the other, and repeat about a dozen times until only scarlet handprints cover her backside. The sight drives me out of my mind, until I completely lose my cool. Fucking her hard is the only option. Grabbing her hips, I line up my throbbing cock at her tight, drenched folds, get a condom on, and pull her ass back, sinking into her. She’s just as ready, jerking her body back and creating an instant push and pull rhythm that we both love.

  In no time, her inner walls pulsate and tighten around my shaft. She’s about to come. I thrust in and out of her, picking up the pace, and not stopping, even when she lifts up slightly, sticks her ass out some more, and reaches her hand up and back into my hair as she finds the angle that multiplies and expands her orgasm to its fullest.

  Her muscles are out of control and her body is weak and trembling from pleasure. I continue to pound into her pussy, and when the tension in my balls builds up to an unbearable mix of pain and heat and pleasure, I take advantage of the proximity of her neck, clamping my lips to it as I spill into her.

  Lowering her to the bed without coming apart from her, I close my eyes, bury my nose in her hair, and enjoy the calm ease of relaxing with my girl.

  “You know I’ll be ready for more in no time, right?” she asks in a whisper.

  “I sure do,” I whisper into her ear.

  “You’d better, because my flavor of punishment involves lyrics,” she jokes.

  “Trust me, I won’t cross you. No way do I want to hear another country western song about me.”

  “Good. Because that last one was actually easy on you.”

  “That was easy?”

  “It was. Do you realize how many words rhyme with ‘Reid’?”

  I kiss along her neck and suck her earlobe in between my teeth. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “Words like bleed, heed, need, plead, deed, feed, seed—”

  “I think I get the idea, but you don’t need to brainstorm on a breakup song,” I whisper. “I plan to do right by you, my little songbird.”

  She turns her head just enough to press a kiss on my lips. “I love the sounds of that.”

  I smile. “And I love you.”

  I didn’t intend to say that for a long time, but I’m glad I did. Robin is beaming. She’s happy, and to me, nothing else matters.

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  Redeeming Viktor

  by Alexis Abbott

  Chapter 1

  Alice

  I’m a stripper. It’s a job. It’s not who I am.

  And like any job, we’re here to work, make the most money we can, and go home to live our life. We wear skimpy clothes, we dance to titillate and excite the customers, but none of us is up here with the first thoughts in our mind being anything but: let’s make some cash and get home.

  And I like my job. I’m good at it. I get to dress in skimpy clothes, I work hard, and I come home at the end of the night exhausted and able to pay all my bills.

  Sure, every now and then, I get to see handsome men. Even dance for them. And dancing for a handsome man is nice, of course, you’d choose a handsome man over a grungy, smelly one. But all the girls in here would much rather dance for a generous man than a handsome one.

  I’m not here to meet guys, after all. If I wanted that, I’d just head to a regular bar, soak up free drinks and compliments, and let the guys try to sweep me off my feet. Instead, I have to hustle and convince as many people as possible that having me dance for them is worth $20 for three and a half minutes of non-happy-ending pleasure.

  I’m not looking for love in this place.

  But even I can admit that the guy I spot in the audience is a hunk.

  He has that natural boyish charm, but sanded and chiseled just enough to make him rugged. He’s broad in the shoulder, and he wears a nice, stylish shirt with the cuffs rolled up a bit. Though I can tell he probably bought it before he buffed up, because it clings to his bulging biceps and pecs, outlining just how beefy he really is.

  That’s my first clue of who this mystery hottie might be.

  From my vantage point on the stage, perched in my 6” heels, I watch him as he grabs a drink. I love being on stage. Not only does it allow me a chance to scope the room, but it gives me a thrill to know how many men are watching me in my skimpy bikini. Wanting to give me money for my time.

  I’m in the zone up here, and my chosen music thrums through me. I move to the rhythm of the song, letting all the room’s good energy flood into me, but all the while my eyes are on him. I smile at him coyly as he turns to face me, and I lick my lower li
p tantalizingly.

  Whenever I flip my blonde hair, or touch my tanned skin, it’s titillating, to me and the crowd.

  I guess that’s why I’m so good at my job. I treat it like a business, like an investment in my future, and I take it seriously, but I still have a hell of a lot of fun. I meet interesting people, I buy as many cute outfits as my budget allows, and yea, I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. I love being watched.

  The mystery hunk leaves the bar and comes to the stage, shirking the other dancers that approach him for private dances.

  His eyes belong to me.

  That’s a powerful feeling, I’ll admit. When I’ve got a man in my tractor beam, pulling him in as I dance upon the stage. I love knowing how entranced he is by me showing everything I’ve got under the dark lights. I have nowhere to hide.

  Most guys are cheap, and that goes doubly so for guys who come up to ‘pervert’s row’, the lineup of seating along the stage. After paying for cover and drinks, a lot of them just want to sit back and look. But this guy, with his broad jaw, his handsome smile, and crew cut hair holds out a twenty.

  Make that the second clue as to who he really is.

  I don’t often see twenties up on stage. A good tip is typically a five, maybe a ten if I’m lucky. A twenty means he really wants my attention, and I’m only too happy to oblige him.

  I lick my lips as I kick my legs out, swinging around the pole before gracefully landing on my knees, right in front of him. My legs are spread, and though I’m still in my holographic bikini, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

  “Baby,” I breathe out as my hand reaches for his jawline, caressing it smoothly. “Is this your way of asking me on a date upstairs?” I ask, motioning to the VIP lounge.

  “Oh yeah,” he says in a deep, husky voice that speaks of raw masculinity. It’s the kind of voice you imagine has no trouble getting the attention of a room when raised: raw, hard, and a bit gravelly. And that moment up close as I stroke his jawline, I see the tell-tale little scars. They’re not disfiguring, in fact on a guy like him, they only add to his rugged appeal. They don’t subtract from his natural good looks, they add.

  But that’s the third and final clue I need as he watches me, entranced by my show. This guy’s definitely a vet.

  I’ve danced for military guys before, lots of them. I mean, that’s what Vegas was originally built for was entertaining our troops. Most of them come in with uniform on; they love the extra attention it gets them. But he tries to hide it, tries to blend in and look like a regular, handsome dude in a nice, stylish shirt. But I can tell. I’ve learned to watch people in here.

  “Hope that’s enough to break the ice,” he says, his chin with an attractive cleft, his cheeks dimpled just a bit as he smiles at me.

  I smile, biting on the corner of my lip seductively as my fingers go between my breasts. I grab at the string that holds my bikini together as I lean in towards him, whispering in his ear.

  “What do you think?” I ask, just before I pull back and tug on my bikini string, letting the elastic fiber bounce away from my breasts, exposing myself — and my hard little nipples — to a man I don’t even know. It’s enough to send a shiver of excitement down my spine.

  He’s captivated, and though he’s not the only guy at the edge of the stage tipping, he’s the one tipping far more than any other. That makes him worth my time business-wise, even if I’m frankly just enjoying looking at this tall man’s handsome face. He’s the kind of guy I’d definitely want to hit on me in a regular bar, so I might be feeling a little generous too.

  “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he husks out in a deep voice that’s all conviction and truth. He’s not bullshitting me. Not that he has any reason to, dishing out twenty buck stage tips. He’s got that VIP dance on lockdown already.

  No, it’s the way he says it, the way his emerald eyes sparkle as he eyes my every movement and appreciates my body. This man is smitten. “I’d follow you to hell and back. So bring on the VIP section,” he declares with a wry, uneven smile that only makes him all the more appealing.

  I gotta admit, my stone-cold business attitude is fading the more I look at him. The more I listen to him.

  It’s not just the tips.

  Honestly, he’s the type of guy that’s so hot I’d be way too shy to approach outside of the club. In here, it’s my sanctuary. I am my persona. I am Aphrodite, blonde bombshell with the extensions and fake lashes and an easy smile.

  Outside these walls, I’m a much more simple Alice, who spends her time mostly with her Kindle and her rescue cat that has six toes.

  My stage name, my elaborate outfits and makeup, they’re like my superhero mask I pull on, and once I pull them off, no one knows who I am. I prefer it this way, most of the time.

  Until I see a gorgeous guy and wish I’d met him outside the club, because holy hell I would love to wake up next to him.

  I nuzzle his cheek and give him another smile. “You got it, baby. Just let me finish this song, and I am all yours,” I say sweetly, dragging on the words.

  “I’ll do my best to sit politely by and wait. But no promises,” he says with a bright grin and a wink. He’s a charmer. Big, bulky, all muscle, his shirt red but the cuffs and collar a lovely accented piece that’s got curious patterns. Most guys in Vegas look like uncaring tourists or guys who don’t feel compelled to compete with uncaring tourists. Though honestly, he could be in a sweat suit and I’d still be into him.

  I walk towards the pole again and grab it in my hand, pulling myself up as I begin to spin. As I said, I like to feel like a superhero, and performing elaborate pole tricks is one of my powers. I always feel rejuvenated and powerful as I contort my body, letting people stare at my long legs and ample curves.

  I keep it slow and sensual as the sounds of whistling fill the air. More cash fills the stage, and my mystery hunk is captivated as I invert my body, holding myself in the air before letting myself plummet back to the stage gracefully. I stop my descent just inches before my head would’ve hit the ground, and I strike a pose to much applause.

  It’s such a rush, and knowing I already have a dance lined up helps motivate me to give a better stage show. I always feel more confident knowing I’m not going to have to be approaching a dozen guys hoping one will say yes to my offer.

  And then the song finally winds down, and the DJ announces, “That was the beautiful Aphrodite! Don’t forget, you can get $20 dances on the floor, or take one of these luscious ladies up to the VIP for some real fun for just a little bit more!”

  I grab my top and the bills around the stage, stuffing them in my purse before going to the only man that matters in my life right now: Military stud.

  He even offers me his arm like a gentleman, that thick forearm of his bulging with muscle and protruding veins, more than happy to escort me on up the stairs to the VIP room.

  “I can’t believe there’s women like you in the world, in or out of the club,” he says to me with that deep, appreciative voice of his. He has a way with making me feel like the only woman in the world that matters. “You must work at it 24/7 or been blessed by God above to look half as good as you do.”

  I laugh, trying to play cool, but already a flush is rising to my cheeks. Oh, he’s a charmer alright. And maybe it’s just the fact that he’s so damned hot that his compliments are getting to me like they are. It’s not like I haven’t heard every line in the book, but usually it’s from someone that is either twice my age, or just not my type.

  “Hi Tom. This gentleman and I are going back for...” I say to the VIP host before looking at Military stud, waiting for him to answer.

  “Until my wallet runs dry, if I’m being honest with my estimate,” the stud says, forking over the cash. “Put me down for at least a half hour, huh?” he remarks, flashing me a look from the corner of my eyes. “Not one for strip clubs, but… now I wish I’d stumbled in here sooner, just to meet you.”

  “Wel
l it’s my lucky night,” I say, and yes, I’m being honest. Making money is why I’m here, but enjoying making money? That makes me very, very lucky.

  I pull open the purple curtain, revealing the rounded bench with velvety fabric and a small drink table in the middle. I close it behind us, and a new song comes on, some softer rock music than the techno and heavier stuff downstairs. I like the VIP room. It’s private, comfortable, and pays my rent.

  “When was the last time you were in a club?” I ask as we both settle in.

  “It’s been four years,” he says without missing a beat, and if I needed another clue, that was it. That’s the maximum tour length for military guys, and I guess that makes me his first stop back. “Been away working, needed a reminder of what it’s like to look at beautiful women. Wasn’t counting on an overdose though, so be prepared to call for assistance carting me out,” he jokes.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you,” I say as I straddle his lap.

  But for a second, I forget where I am. It’s almost like a skip in time, and I’m staring at this gorgeous man, feeling his body against mine, wrapping my arms around his neck, and it all just feels right.

  Like it’s fate. Like it’s meant to be.

  I know it sounds cheesy. I’m not really one to believe in signs, or at least, I never did until now.

  I shake my head to try to chase away the strange shock, but I’m still staring at the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and I gotta be honest.

  It feels a little like love.

  I know it’s not. I don’t even know him, but if love at first sight exists, this has to be what it feels like.

  “I never got your name,” I say softly, still stunned by the weird experience.

  “Viktor,” he says, and he doesn’t mind in the least that I’m not really dancing for him. His two big, rough hands rest on my hips, not groping where he shouldn’t but squeezing me ever so slightly. “My dad was a Ukrainian immigrant, that’s where the name comes from. Just so you know I’m not the creator of Frankenstein,” he says, his nostrils flaring, taking in my scent as he stares. Soaks me in.