by Nikki Chase
The dark green shirt clung to his body from sweat, and I could see the muscles on his back move and ripple as he crouched by the door. His arms, which used to be a blank canvas three years ago, are now covered with tattoos from where they bulge out of his sleeves, all the way to his wrists. I couldn't help but wonder if he had any more artwork beneath his clothes.
I may not know all the marks he has etched on his skin, but I can remember the shape of him vividly. He’s a good lover, and I’ve often pulled out the images I’ve stored in my brain of our night together for when I need some, uh, release.
And now, having just seen him in person, I can add more details to my fantasies.
I'm angry at him, but for some demented reason, that only makes me want to pull him down on top of me so he can fuck me senseless. Even when he was yelling at me, my eyes were transfixed on his moving lips and I kept thinking about how I could shut him up if I kissed him.
Just thinking about it sends tingles to my core. I lift my waist off the couch and slide my pencil skirt off. I don't want to get creases on it--or fluids, considering how wet I am already.
I slide my panties aside and start to lightly stroke the ache between my legs. My other hand slides up my belly to grab my breast, mimicking the way Jacob touched me that night in his room. I pull my nipple and imagine it's his mouth biting on it while he looks up to trap my gaze, frown lines appearing on his forehead.
“Let's test how well the new door lock holds up against some force from the inside,” he says as he pins me against the door. His lips move tantalizingly against my nipple as he speaks. When he captures it between his rows of perfect teeth, I gasp as warmth envelops it.
Jacob’s stare is intense, unavoidable. It’s making me feel self-conscious, but at the same time I recognize the hunger in his dark eyes and it makes me want him more.
He rubs my clit and slowly builds my arousal. Soon enough, I want more than Jacob’s fingers are giving me. I bite down on my bottom lip, groan, and give him a pleading look.
He smirks as he straightens up to his full height, letting my hardened nipple dry in the cool air, while his fingers maintain their agonizingly slow tempo.
“I’m going to make you beg me to fuck you,” he says in my ear in a raspy, lustful voice. When our eyes meet, I shoot him a challenge with my steady stare. He slows down even more and my treacherous hips fly off the black door to gain more contact with Jacob’s big, callused hand.
My vision blurs as I give in to the delicious sensations he’s introducing between my folds. I may not beg him with my words, but my body is already doing it with shivers and moans. And yet that's not enough for Jacob.
“Beg for it,” he says, his breaths hot and urgent on my cheek. He lines up his thick, hard cock at my opening and leaves it there, letting me feel its warmth and potency.
When I attempt to lower myself onto his shaft, he grabs my shoulder with his free hand and holds it in place against the door.
Knowing I’m at his mercy, Jacob looks me in the eyes, impatience radiating from his sculpted body, and says, “Be a good girl, beg me to fuck you, and I’ll make you scream out my name until all our neighbors hear.”
“Please, Jacob.” I look at him, pleading for mercy, but he's still waiting for me to say it.
His fingers rubbing my clit and the spongy head of his cock resting against me make me lose my mind. I hear a deeper, hoarser version of my voice say, “Please. I beg you to fuck me.”
Jacob's cocky smirk widens. He holds my gaze hostage as he slowly pushes up and impales me. My pussy stretches around my own slender fingers.
“Fuck,” I curse aloud in frustration, wishing I really had Jacob's cock between my legs. I press against the front wall of my pussy and continue playing with my clit, while imagining Jacob's stern gaze watching me. I come with a light shudder and pull my fingers out.
The need within me has become less urgent now, but I’m still throbbing, aching for more. I want the real thing.
As infuriating as Jacob can be, I remember why I would’ve gotten in touch again with him if it weren't for that phone call the morning after.
A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea to get close to him because, as unlikely as it is that he’d be related to Stan, he’s still a link to a past that I’d rather bury. And considering the way he gets my blood boiling almost every time I see him, he’s probably bad for my blood pressure.
Yet a different part of me—including the part that's pulsing between my legs now—doesn’t want to stay away.
16
Jacob
A Snoop Dogg song filled the strip club, drowning out all conversation. Neon green and purple lasers shot across the oversized room.
On stage, the hottest girl in the club took slow, deliberate steps on her impossibly high heels. The bright, blinding spotlight shone on her, highlighting one side of her luscious body, while casting the rest of her in shadows. Her long, glossy waves looked like they had caught on fire. Scarlett. The name suited her.
I bet the name made it easy for the men in here to remember her name. I saw them crowding around the stage, watching her intently, ogling her as she swayed and writhed to the music, wrapping herself around the silver pole on stage.
One by one, she shed her clothing. The necktie, the button-down shirt, and the plaid skirt came off quickly enough. Now that she was down to her skimpy bra and thong, she took her time.
The men drank it all in, their eyes following her hands as they slid all over her body and pulled the remaining items of clothing on her body aside. She was teasing them, and they were captivated. Some of them had their mouths hanging open.
This was torture. My chest tightened and my hands clenched into fists. I wanted to punch those men in their faces.
I knew what she looked like without all those things. Without her itty bitty bra and thong, without the stripper heels, without the garish lighting. Without her putting on a show.
It wasn’t a performance when she moaned and writhed underneath me, my name escaping her lips as she breathed erratically. I could feel her shake and quiver against my sweat-covered skin, her muscles gripping my cock rhythmically. She couldn’t have faked that.
And yet she didn’t even give me her real name. Scarlett couldn’t be her real name, right? No stripper would be dumb enough to use her real name, and she didn’t strike me as dumb.
Maybe I was the dumb one.
I felt like I was on top of the world when I took her home last weekend and made her scream with pleasure. Arched back and curled toes, the works. I made the mistake of really liking her and thinking she really liked me too.
And then, in the morning when I woke up, she was gone. She didn’t leave any trace, not even a phone number. There was just the faint smell of vanilla on my sheets to remind me everything really happened and it wasn’t just a particularly vivid wet dream.
Maybe I should’ve taken the hint, but I got restless. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I found myself inhaling the fading scent of her on my sheets while I was trying to fall asleep, and I decided that was stupid. If it bothered me that much, I should just go to the club to find her.
And that was how I found myself with a glass of whiskey in my hand, leaning against the soft, sound-proofed back wall of the strip club, watching her on stage like I was just one of the suckers who were now scrambling to stuff her panties with bills.
I took another sip of my whiskey as I saw her grab her tits and kneaded them, making the crowd go wild.
I’d had those same tits in my hands last weekend. I’d pulled on them with my fingers, with my teeth. They’d been a handful; they’d fit just right in my big hands. They were sensitive, too, judging from the way she’d gasped whenever they were pinched.
I wasn’t sure this was any less stupid than lying on my bed, sniffing my sheets. She hadn’t even glanced my way the whole time I was here. I couldn’t blame her because the place was packed tonight, but it still made me mad.
I gripped the glass o
f whiskey harder. I downed it in one gulp, afraid I was going to shatter the glass, and put it on one of the empty tables at the back.
Her song ended and she went out the back. I didn’t go to strip clubs a lot, so I didn’t know how they usually worked, but I assumed she was going to walk the floor to offer lap dances to these pervs.
I watched the dressing room door like a hawk. I’d watched her give a lap dance to my buddy once, and I didn’t want to see another one of those. I’d be in danger of really hurting some guy, and I didn’t think she was going to appreciate that.
A few girls walked out of the dressing room, but I still didn’t see her red hair.
When the girl who had danced on the stage after Scarlett came out, I decided to ask her. Surely, she should’ve been on the floor already.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Hi, baby. You want a lap dance?”
“Not tonight. But do you know when Scarlett is coming out?”
“Oh. She went home early today, honey, but I can take care of you.” She smiled and winked at me.
“Oh, no. You got it wrong. I’m not here for a lap dance. I know Scarlett.”
“Aww… Sorry to be the one to break it to you, baby, but if you really knew her, you wouldn’t have to come and find her here. You’d know another way to contact her. I don’t tell people I actually know where I work,” she said, making my heart drop to my stomach.
“Oh. Uh, thank you.” I tried to hide my disappointment, but the girl probably sensed it. After all, she made her living reading men and catering to their unspoken wants.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why she’d do that to a guy like you.” She pulled the corners of her lips down and gave me a cutesy sad face. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the first guy I see who comes here trying to talk to one of the girls. We tend to be bad at forming actual relationships. It’s a hazard of the job.” She raised her hand to my arm and started stroking. “Now, how about that lap dance, huh? I can make you feel better, baby.”
“No. But thanks.”
I nodded at her and headed straight to the door of the club.
I thought about how embarrassing this was as I strolled on the sidewalk, past neon signs advertising nude girls, live shows, and XXX videos.
Of course. It was obvious now.
It had been a special night for me, connecting with another human being so intimately. I hadn’t just enjoyed the sex, but also the conversation. I’d thought we had a connection.
But it had probably been just another work night for her. Maybe she’d done it just to thank me for getting Andy off her case.
I hum the tune playing in my headphones. It’s the same Snoop Dogg song that was playing when I saw Jessica dance on stage. It reminds me of that night.
Hearing this song used to make me angry, but it doesn’t bother me anymore, now that I’ve found her. And what’s better is, she’s not even a stripper anymore, so the “hazard of the job” excuse doesn’t apply, although it still seems like she dates too many men.
But they’d better be prepared of losing her, because I don’t share. I’m going to make her all mine.
After learning my lesson from Jessica, I stopped myself from getting attached too quickly. I’ve had a lot of casual arrangements with women, and I know now how to play my cards.
Besides, I can tell Jessica wants me too. I can see the lust in her eyes, in the way she blushes, in the way she does that cute little gasp when our bodies touch by accident.
Meanwhile, I’m just going to enjoy my time here. Ashbourne is a great little town. Even though it's technically still winter, the sun is shining and the grass is green.
There’s nothing pressing to do all day, and I’m spending my time doing one of my favorite things: tinkering with my Harley Davidson. What’s not to like?
It’s just a matter of time until I get Jessica in my bed again. And this time, I’m not letting her go.
17
Jessica
There was this guy who was a regular at the Pussy Cat, a middle-aged man who kept his body in great shape, perhaps to make up for his receding hairline.
He used to come every Tuesday night to talk about his marital problems for a few minutes. He’d pay me $100 to hear stories about how his wife never paid much attention to him anymore after they’d had kids.
Many of the men who walk into strip joints aren’t just there for sexual gratification. They’re also after companionship, a little sympathy, or maybe some emotional connection. I’m not going to deny that, obviously, for a large portion of the audience, sex is the main appeal.
I knew it wasn’t like that for Jacob. He didn’t fit the bill for the average strip club goer. He’s hot, for one. And he can be charming when he feels like it. A guy like that probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time.
He’s only been in Ashbourne a couple of weeks, and a few women have already asked me about him, which annoys me for some reason.
My point is, Jacob doesn’t need to visit a strip joint to get some female attention.
I mean, just look at him right now. I’ve been doing just that for two solid minutes at least, standing here by my car as he works on his bike with his back to me.
I haven't spoken with him since that little tiff we had on the porch a few days ago. But Bertha just told me that he’d changed her locks yesterday and now I feel like I have to thank him. I just haven't decided on a good way to start the conversation.
It still boils my blood when I think about how he basically called me a promiscuous slut who deserves to have my home broken into because of the way I tease men.
And yet, something within me stirs when I look at him, all big and strong and cocky. Like now. My eyes trace the curve of his jeans-clad ass as he crouches on his driveway, his white shirt drenched with sweat, allowing me to almost see his skin, his muscles flexing and relaxing as he works. His tattoos look like they're alive and dancing on his skin.
He puts down his metal wrench on the ground with a soft clang and stands up. As he reaches his hands toward his back, I notice they're covered with a black, slick liquid. He grabs at the fabric of his shirt, leaving two perfectly clear big handprints. I guess that explains all the faded stains on his shirt.
He starts to lift the shirt off and my eyes trace the ripples of his back, the curve of his spine. He stops to remove the oversized headphones perching on the top of his head before the takes the shirt all the way off.
My heartbeat quickens as I study the lines of ink on Jacob’s back, remembering the way my fingernails dragged over his brawny shoulders all those years ago.
“Enjoying the view?” Jacob says in a low, sexy voice.
Shit. He just caught me in the act.
My jaw must have dropped while I was watching him because my mouth is hanging open stupidly. Heat spreads across my face as I quickly try to regain my composure, put on a neutral expression. But it's too late. There's no denying that I was totally checking him out.
“You can come over here and stick dollar bills in my waistband if you want to.” He pulls the waist of his jeans away from his skin. He has that annoying smirk on his ruggedly handsome face again, making him look like an arrogant douche bag.
I try to keep my gaze on his smug face, but I keep getting distracted by the V-shaped shallow grooves below his sculpted abs that start from his hip bones and disappear into his jeans. I force myself to meet his mocking stare. “I just wanted to thank you for changing Bertha’s locks, but you didn't hear me.”
“Okay, so you decided to just stand there and watch me until I take off my headphones. That makes complete sense.” His smirk widens as he adjusts the headphones around his neck.
“Of course it does.” The moment the words leave my mouth I realize what a lame comeback it is. I walk toward the mailbox to hide my embarrassment. If I were to just go inside it would seem too much like I was trying to hide.
I can feel Jacob's penetrating gaze on me, his desire searing into my flesh. I
know this stare. I used to feel it all the time when I was dancing on stage with only a thong on my body.
But it never made my heart race like this. It never caused tingles between my legs like this. If it did, everyone would be able to see a wet spot in my panties, all the way from the back of the club.
“Any fan mail today? Maybe a love letter or two?” Jacob taunts. I can't see him I have my back to him now, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Not today, Jacob,” I say in the coolest, least affected tone I can muster. I sort the mail into two piles—one for the recycling bin and one for reading. To change the subject, I ask him, “So what's wrong with your bike?”
“Nothing. It's in great condition. I just changed the exhaust and the muffler to make it quieter. Apparently, I was not being a good neighbor.”
I swing around to look at him incredulously. “You didn't have to do that.”
He waves a hand. “Nah, just pulling your leg. It's better for my hearing.”
“Oh,” I say lamely.
“Yeah. Although, at the volume I listen to music, I’m probably going to lose my hearing anyway. These new noise-cancelling headphones are great. And now your house parties won't bother me again.”
“It was hardly a house party.” I roll my eyes as I throw the flyers into my box of paper trash.
“Hey, wanna have a listen? The sound quality is great,” Jacob says, his voice low and inviting.
My heart jumps in my chest. I’d love to get closer to that vision of hotness. It wouldn't hurt, right? I’m just going to have a listen to his music. Not like he's asking me to come test his mattress.
“Sure,” I say as I saunter over to his driveway with the rest of the mail in my hand. Our eyes meet and I give him a small smile.
“Here you go.” Jacob steps closer, invading my personal space and making my heart race faster. He raises his hands over my head and puts the headphones on me. His fingers almost graze my cheeks.