Strip for Me

by Coffman, Georgia

  Strip for Me

  by Georgia Coffman

  Copyright © 2019 GEORGIA COFFMAN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  STRIP FOR ME

  Copyright © 2019 GEORGIA COFFMAN

  Cover Design by Kari March

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading by Marla Selkow Esposito at Proofing With Style

  Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction

  “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars.”

  —Les Brown

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Enjoy this book? Leave a review!

  Want More Naked Heat?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also By Georgia Coffman

  Chapter 1

  Sebastian

  Thunder claps through the speakers.

  Sounds of rain mix with the thunder as the curtain slowly parts.

  Show time.

  My adrenaline spikes as I count down to the start of our routine.

  I take a deep breath as the music builds, followed by screams from the crowd. Ty and the rest of the guys surround me as we take steps forward, moving slowly and purposefully.

  “It’s Raining Men” blares through the speakers, and the lights blind me. They’re my least favorite part of each show. They keep me from seeing the crowd and the excitement on their faces.

  I wave my arms up to the beat, then squat before ripping off my pants, leaving me in just a bow tie and spandex shorts. Women yell variations of, “Come to Mama,” and “Work it this way, baby!”

  I smile wider and try not to squint. Leo, our coach, told me I squint a lot because of the lights, and it makes me look constipated.

  “That’s not sexy, and women want sexy,” he said at the time.

  I countered, “But it’s my signature smolder look.”

  He just shook his head but smiled.

  As the first song comes to an end, we get into two lines, one in front of the other. I hold out my hands to Jordan, a nineteen-year-old with wavy hair parted to one side and a smooth face. He’s probably what I looked like when I started eight years ago—wrinkle-free. But he has dimples to boot.

  Jordan braces himself on my shoulders with one foot in my hands. When it’s our turn, I assist in his backflip and clap in encouragement at his perfect dismount. If this were a gymnastics meet, judges would raise 10s all around.

  During the next number, “Feel the Thunder,” sweat runs down my chest, intertwining with the rose tattoo on my pec. We disperse throughout the crowd, gyrating in every direction until we find girls to dance with.

  I need a minute to adjust to the darkness of this half of the room, but I refrain from rubbing my eyes.

  Once my vision clears, I see a few women wave at each of us to come hither, while others hide their faces in their hands. The latter group makes me smile because, even though they seem embarrassed to be here, it’s usually a pretense. By the end of the show, they tend to let loose and join in on the fun.

  I wink at a few, scanning the crowd for my lucky pick.

  We all have our type. Leo goes for the young, petite women. Easier to flip them around like rag dolls. His acrobatic moves in such a small space are impressive, to say the least, and drive the crowd wild every time.

  Ty usually goes for the loose, fun ones. We can always tell them apart from the uptight ones who were dragged out by majority rule. On cue, from the corner of my eye, Ty finds one whose nipple is an inch from exposure in her cutout top.

  I chuckle to myself and spin, never missing a beat as I move my hips while girls fan themselves. I keep looking around, unable to settle on one woman in particular. My type is a little more complicated than the rest of the guys.

  My chest heaves as I spin again and lean forward, coming face-to-face with a beautiful girl with blond hair and mouth agape.

  Her wide eyes and plump lips.

  Yoga pants and a simple cropped tank.

  She’s my type.

  A girl-next-door type with eyes that hold a lot more than innocent thoughts, judging by the way she’s eye-fucking me.

  My step falters only slightly. As I regain my composure, I immediately know she’s my pick for the night.

  As I grind on her, the moves come naturally, having done this routine a million times. Which is a good thing because it’s hard to completely focus in her presence with her looking at me like that.

  I lick my lips, taking her in as she watches me curiously. Others usually paw at me or whisper crude comments in my ear, but she doesn’t move or say anything.

  Her hair hangs loosely over her bare shoulders, covering one side of her face. It’s tousled like she just rolled out of bed.

  It’s fucking sexy as hell.

  My heart beats a little faster, and it’s not from my dancing.

  I grin widely as I motion for her to get up. Her expression transforms, panic seizing her eyes instead of lust, before she screams, “No fucking way!” She’s reluctant, but her group cheers her on. One even pulls her up by the arm like she’s a child being forced to go to the doctor.

  She gives that one a scowl and another one a middle finger, which makes me laugh and intrigues me further.

  I climb onto the small table where she and her group sit, then help her up too. I spin her around so we’re face-to-face. She’s tense, refusing to move her hips, but I welcome the challenge.

  I can tell she’s got some spunk in her, and I want to see it.

  After all, it takes balls to come out to the Strip in yoga pants, especially when the rest of her party is in sequins and so much dark eye makeup they look like raccoons.

  I push her hair to one si
de, getting a large whiff of vanilla. Leaning in close, I’m careful not to burst her eardrum when I say, “I’ve got you.” With that, I hold her even closer and rub myself on her warm, toned body, starting low and working my way up as the table continues to cheer us on.

  When I meet her eyes again, only one is peeking out from behind her hand—fucking adorable. I pull her hand down from her face, then spin her around. Now that her back is pressed against me, I repeat my previous motion.

  But this time I have to fight the urge to groan as I feel her up.

  Her perfect ass is firm and round, and it makes me want to bend her over and slap it a little.

  This is a racy show—Vegas’s hottest male revue show, at that—but it’s not that kind of show.

  So I grind my teeth, tamping down my urges—I’m a professional, damn it.

  Her friends whistle, reminding me further to keep myself grounded and my mind out of the gutter. I will myself to think instead of something non-sexy, like Ty’s disgusting gym socks.

  Or just Ty himself.

  But it’s difficult once this girl finally loosens up and moves her hips in sync with mine.

  I bite my lip and look up to the ceiling, begging for mercy as my cock strains against my shorts.

  This kind of immediate arousal is foreign to me. I’m usually better at keeping myself at bay when it comes to sexy women at our male revue show, Naked Heat—especially after what happened the last time.

  After her.

  The song is almost over, and although I know I should let this be the end, let her walk away and out of my life, I can’t.

  Perhaps it’s the simple boredom from my repetitive routine lately, but I ignore all logic knowing what happened the last time, why I set my rules in place to begin with. My very clear rules that forbid me to ask out women I meet at our shows.

  My rules are meant to protect me.

  Despite it all, I lean in with my hands firmly on her hips, enjoying the vanilla scent radiating from her hair like pheromones, intoxicating me and clouding my judgment. “Meet me after the show,” I say.

  She turns around, uncertainty in her wide eyes.

  But then, I catch a hint of mischief there too.

  I gulp, my step faltering for the second time in her presence. This hasn’t happened to me in a long time—the moves are as natural to me as spinning on its axis is for Earth. Like neurons firing involuntarily. But this girl is causing nerve damage in my brain.

  And I don’t even know her name—yet.

  I continue my performance by some miracle, stealing glances in her direction the whole time. She’s drinking and clapping, watching my every move, curiosity consuming her features.

  It fuels me to move just a little more sensually, a little more provocatively, like I’m giving her a private show. And when we end the next number, turned around with our asses bare, I’m not supposed to look back at the audience, but I chance it.

  Her mouth hangs open.

  My heart stops.

  And I know I’m in trouble.

  Chapter 2

  Kendall

  I watch as the stripper who danced with me moves his sculpted body to the seductive music.

  Veins pop out of his biceps as he holds his arms out. There are guys around my gym with veins bulging out of their biceps, their necks, even their fucking eyeballs. But this is different.

  Natural.

  Sexy.

  Fucking turning me on.

  When I first arrived, late and in my most casual outfit I own, I didn’t think this night would amount to anything exciting. Not with my bitchy sister and her lame friends, who are still sneering at my attire for her bachelorette party.

  Even though I tried to explain that traffic was horrific and I didn’t have time to change, they still mocked. My sister Lauren was even more annoyed with me than when her kid dental patients won’t open their mouths for her to clean their teeth.

  As annoyed as she was to come to a stripper show to begin with. Before we came in, I asked her why we were even here, and she robotically said, “Because this is a bachelorette party. Going to this kind of show is what you do.”

  She covers her eyes now like she regrets her decision to be here. Like her Alabama church friends are lurking in the corner and judging her.

  Thank God I moved to LA, away from them and my family’s prying eyes.

  Now I can freely ogle shirtless men with their junk on display as often as I please, like right now.

  Each guy comes back out into the crowd and dances on the tables again. As they do so, the other women share in my awe, except most are drunker than I am and are actually salivating.

  One woman at the table next to us hasn’t stopped screaming profanities at one dancer in particular, one with a smooth face who makes me wonder if he’s old enough to be in Naked Heat to begin with. It’s probably his dimples that make him look so young, but his chocolate eyes and six-pack are definitely all man.

  Another woman keeps standing up to pat the guys on their asses as they pass by. She sits down just as quickly so that if you blink, you might miss her.

  But my eyes constantly roam to the one who danced with me. The one who licked his lips at the sight of me like it was an honor to be in my presence, lighting a spark in me I hadn’t felt in a long time. I even almost echoed the crude woman and yelled profanities at him too. I had an escape plan and everything—to point at Lauren.

  God, the way he danced with me.

  My heart races just thinking about it, imagining running my finger along the tattoo on his chest. It’s a simple rose on his pec, but I can’t read the writing that serves as the stem. I’d have to get closer—something I would not mind doing right about now.

  He’s so hot even my prudish roommate Emma would seriously consider screwing him in the bathroom, like I am now.

  I’m still staring at him on stage, not bothering to look away when he catches me. Then he disappears as a tall stripper in a caveman outfit pulls an older woman on stage. She’s wearing a birthday hat, and when he asks her what birthday she’s celebrating, she answers that it’s her sixty-fifth.

  I double over in laughter at her horrified expression when the guy pulls off what little clothing he had on, leaving only a leopard print Speedo. As he grinds his dick in her face, Lauren glares in disapproval at my endless laughing. I shoot back, “You’re going to gain eight wrinkles at the edge of each eye if you keep this up all weekend.”

  I watch my sexy stripper when he comes back out in his sailor costume, dancing like he was made to be on stage, like he owns the whole room. At the very end, he drops his pants once again and winks back in my direction.

  I’m speechless. Frozen with my hands mid-clap. Fascinated by this guy I don’t even know—but want to.

  To know how he is in bed, anyway.

  He looks like he knows what he’s doing, which would be a nice change of pace for me. Haven’t had a good roll in the hay since… ever. Not even my ex, Adam, could give me what I wanted, and we were together for almost a year.

  Then again, he was always too concerned about himself, in bed and out of it, to worry about what I really wanted.

  At the end of the show, the emcee comes back, the one from the beginning who kept touching himself. He refrains from doing so now and instead encourages everyone to stay for pictures with the dancers.

  The room quiets down, and I search for the tall guy with dark hair and a short, kempt beard lining his square jaw. The one with a teasing smile and sparkling brown eyes.

  The one who lights me up like a cigarette, and I don’t even know his name.

  The other guys are on stage, taking pictures with girls who are too eager to touch their biceps. The guys are good, never breaking character, never removing their smolders.

  I inhale deeply as Lauren chatters away like a squawking parrot, tossing her long honey hair over her shoulder. At least her previous glare is now missing. All she needed was another martini and a shot to finally loosen up. I take a menta
l note for future reference, for when I need to wipe that resting bitch face off her, for not only my benefit but those around us too.

  It’s information I should let her fiancé Rhett in on because in one month, he’s going to vow to spend the rest of his life with her.

  As for me, I’m only buzzed, my tolerance much higher than hers and her friends’. Which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about the slow, sensual way that hunk of man ran his hands down my sides. The way he whispered in my ear and tickled me with his short beard. My face is hot thinking about feeling the length of him along my ass—and that was with clothes on.

  I can’t imagine what it’d be like to feel him skin to skin.

  I gasp quietly at the thought, covering my mouth.

  Lauren’s old sorority sister Elaine bumps into me then. “You were hot dancing up there. And fun. You’re so fun. Especially when there are two of you.” She bursts out laughing, my eardrum taking a hit, but I’m relieved all is forgotten about my outfit.

  They even stopped joking with me about waiting on people hand and foot for my job. “But oh wait, it’s just the foot.”

  Because I work at a shoe store. How clever.

  Because I’m not a trophy wife like most of them or a wife at all. Not even close.

  Because I moved out of our suffocatingly small town and its even smaller minded culture that takes pity on me for not having a man—my parents included. Add it to the lengthy list of things they’re disappointed in me for.

  Vodka shoots from Elaine’s nose and down the front of her purple blouse—this is the kind of crew I can get used to.

  I laugh, wondering what’s so funny, but when my stripper enters my peripheral vision, the sea of people parting in his godly presence, I forget my entire existence. It’s his turn to take pictures now, and he’s wearing his pants again… unfortunately.

  But fortunately, he’s not wearing a shirt.

  His abs are on full display for my shameless perusal.

  And his pants are riding so low, his strong V makes my insides tingly and heat creep down my spine.

  He adjusts his bow tie around his neck, then tips his sailor hat in my direction as he gets into position on stage for pictures.

  “Kendall.” I jerk around at the sound of my name and find my sister’s childhood friend Sam. “Let’s get a picture with your man! He’s right over there.” She tugs on Lauren’s arm. “You come too, bride-to-be.”