The Perfect Stroke

by Jordan Marie

  “You’re a hell of a kisser, Ana Stevens,” he whispers once he pulls away. He moves away slightly and places a gentle peck against my forehead before retreating. My body leans towards his at first, not wanting him to go, but I manage to stop before I make too big of a fool of myself.

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” I tell him.

  He looks at me for a minute as if searching for something. I have no idea if he finds it. I figure he doesn’t because he turns away from me. I just stand there stupidly as he walks away.

  “I don’t date,” he mutters, his back still to me as he opens the door.

  I’m sure he doesn’t need to. Women probably throw themselves at his feet. He has that god-like persona. He’s beautiful and commanding. He has more money than I will see in my lifetime. He’s definitely dark and dangerous, and he has that forbidden vibe—especially to me. Women must flock to him. All of that, added into the way he kisses? I fight back the urge to tell him I’ll go with him. For just one more taste of him, I think I’d agree to almost anything. He’s that addicting. I shake my head out of the fog he’s woven around it. This is stupid. I do not fit into Roman’s world; even trying would destroy me. Of that, I’m sure.

  “I’ll be out in an hour, Mr. Anthes,” I bluff. I can’t leave because I have to find Allen. My voice is raw but solid, bringing the conversation back to the business at hand.

  “There’s no need, Ana. You may remain dancing, at least until I decide what I’m going to do with you.”

  What he’s going to do with me? Now that’s something to worry about. I can hear Paul bitch at me now for taking chances. “What do you—”

  “I’ll see you soon, pet,” he says over his shoulder before he disappears.

  Pet?

  I’m left staring after him like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast-moving car. I hope I survive the crash.

  Two Weeks Later

  I sit in the back of the room watching the dance floor through the smoke. I shake the ice in my glass before downing the last of my scotch. I may own the Dive, but it’s not my scene. I keep it to launder my money through. It serves a purpose, just like most things in my life.

  That’s not the reason I’m here tonight. I’m here for Ana. I should have just walked away. I spent a week convincing myself of that. I spent the following week trying to replace her. That was a colossal failure. I couldn’t even get it up. I’d kiss a girl and instead of getting turned on, I kept remembering the feel of Ana’s body, the taste of her mouth and wanting more of her, because apparently no one else will work. It’s all I can seem to think about. Hell, I even jacked off to the memory of our kiss last night. A fucking kiss has me harder than I’ve been since I was a young kid wet behind the ears.

  Now, the plan is to fuck her out of my system. Ana will be mine—one way or another. I still hesitate to use the brother, but I might if she forces my hand.

  She is even more beautiful tonight. Her blonde hair is short, falling down in a straight, silky and sleek golden halo at her shoulders. It’s beautiful, but too controlled. In too much order. It’s not hard to imagine it rumbled and messed up in bed, though. Her whole body screams sex, with the way her hips move and the way her legs tighten against the pole as she gyrates around it. It’s enough to make any man wish he was the object she was holding on to, which explains why she’s developed such a large following in a short amount of time. Big Joe wasn’t kidding when he told me she had become popular. The men here are all screaming her name. She doesn’t notice, I can tell. As far as she knows at this moment, the room is empty. She’s lost in the music and has tuned out all of the screaming.

  I don’t allow the men to touch the dancers. My girls don’t dance for singles. I pay them fucking well. If the men want a lap dance, then and only then can the girls allow that. It’s always in a separate room and only with a bouncer in attendance. Big Joe told me that Ana flat out refuses private dancing. I found it odd because I’ve checked into her pretty thoroughly. The woman is one step away from being homeless, yet she still turns down extra money. I watch as she rotates around and around the pole, defying gravity. Her spin begins to slow down and she slides to the floor, driving the men crazy. She’s smiling.

  There’s a monitor hanging over my booth. I’ve never really used it since I rarely make the time to come here. Tonight, however, I am using it. I’ve been using it the entire time. The men are going crazy for her, salivating and dreaming of taking her home tonight. They’re so lost in her body, they don’t even realize that she barely notices they’re there to worship her. Ice. It’s a name that fits her. It’s a name that begs an answer to the question: what could make her melt?

  My eyes are continuously drawn to her hip. There’s a tattoo with the word: “survivor”. Just what has she survived? I wanted her from the moment I saw her, but given what’s going on with her brother, I couldn’t be sure what she was like in person. Now I know. Intriguing. I definitely want to taste her. Perhaps the most interesting thing is that I want to taste her more than once.

  “What do you think, boss? I’m telling you, she doesn’t mean to give you trouble. She’s a good kid. I’d hate to see her get mixed up in bullshit and get hurt because her brother’s a dick-wad.”

  “Bring her to the back. Shut down any other dancers for the room until I’m finished.”

  “Boss, Ana doesn’t do private dances.”

  “Don’t give her a choice. I’ll be waiting,” I tell him, leaving without further comment.

  “The boss is waiting for you in the backroom,” Big Joe tells me just as I cinch the belt of my robe.

  I look up at him as if he were insane, trying to ignore the thrill that runs through me. “Why would Yoly want me back there?” I question him, referring to the lady who hired me, even if I know better. I know who’s waiting and I’m excited about it. I should be panicking.

  “It’s not Yoly. It’s Mr. Anthes. He wants a private dance.”

  Electricity sizzles through me at his words. I’ve been thinking about Roman ever since our kiss, so much so that it worries me. I had been beating myself up ever since my last encounter with Roman. When I showed up the following day and went through my sets and Roman wasn’t around, I felt a keen sense of disappointment when it should have been relief. Stupidly, I had this anticipation running through me about seeing him again. When he was nowhere to be found, it bothered me. After a few days, it became apparent that he lied. He wasn’t planning on seeing me soon. I didn’t play his game and he was gone. That pissed me off, even if it shouldn’t. He’s got my head all fucked up, and that’s dangerous.

  It didn’t change the fact that I obsessed over it, and the more I thought about it, the more pissed I became. I’ll admit that a lot of it was because he awoke things in me I have spent years trying to forget. To put it plainly, I was horny. It’s been a long dry spell—three years, to be exact—and with one kiss, Roman brought things out in me that I’d buried deep. He succeeded so much that I’ve been having dreams about the man. The fact that he disappeared for two weeks and then just shows up out of the blue demanding a dance pisses me off. The bastard knows I don’t do private dances. He just expects me to fall in line, like he’s doing the stripper a favor and now she has to entertain him. That’s the feeling that smacks me across the face and I hate it. It’s a reminder of why I hate dancing.

  “I don’t do private dances,” I insist, while in my head I’m busy trying to figure out what in the world I’m going to do. I can’t risk him getting rid of me.

  “You explain that to the boss. I’m just the messenger,” Joe says, and it might be my imagination but I think the man is avoiding looking me in the eye. “Come on, Ana. It’s not like he’ll force you to do something against your will. You work for him. He’s entitled to make sure you can dance.”

  “So he does this to all of the dancers?” I question, knowing he doesn’t.

  Big Joe pulls the door open and waits for me to walk past him. “You’re the first dancer we�
�ve hired in a while.”

  I can’t argue with that, but I think we both know what’s going on. In fact, I think the entire room knows what is going on. It’s not my imagination that the other dancers and people in the backstage area get quiet. I reach the door and glance behind me. Every dancer here who’s putting on makeup or just taking a cigarette break have stopped to stare at me. The room that was crazily busy just a minute before is now deathly still and quiet.

  “Hurry up, Ana. Mr. Anthes doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I pull my robe tighter around me. I’m annoyed enough that I will give him his dance, one he won’t forget any time soon.

  Nerves are trying to get the better of me as I stop by the small rack that contains my costumes. I grab one that makes me laugh. I think it fits Roman. Then, I grab the royal blue G-string and ignore the way it reminds me of Roman’s eyes. Right now I have one goal in mind: make Roman see what he’s missing and leaving him with his jaw dropped. I can do that. I mean, it’s just tempting and teasing. That should be easy enough.

  I waste no time getting dressed, then make my way to the private room closed off from the rest of the club. I stop at the door and inhale. Then, I push onward. My entrance is a side door that’s designed for the bouncers and dancers only, completely closed off from the dancing area and surrounded by one-way glass that allows you to see into the room. Safety. It allows the dancers to see who they will be performing for first, a precaution that Roman himself put in when one of the girls had trouble with a crazy stalker-fan. Back when Big Joe was trying to convince me to dance, he told me everything, thinking it would make me more comfortable. It’s not about the dancing, though. It’s boundaries. Dancing for someone personally feels like I’m giving a piece of myself I shouldn’t. This job already does that little by little. Still, Roman thinks he can take what he wants when he wants? I’ll let him know that goes both ways. I thumb through the preloaded music and pick the one I want. Normally there’s someone controlling the music, but Big Joe said Roman wanted privacy. Bastard.

  The music starts pouring out of the sound system. That’s my cue. The moment of truth. I walk out.

  “You’ve kept me waiting, pet.”

  I inwardly grit my teeth and ignore him. In fact, I give him my back, trying to gather my nerves. I let my body loosen up, sinking into the music and getting lost. My hips start moving to the beat and I admit I give my ass a little extra kick when I move it in rhythm to the music, knowing it’s mere inches from his face.

  I can’t help but wonder if he likes my costume.

  The fucking tease!

  Ana comes in the room and my dick instantly comes to life. I thought she would wear one of the sequined costumes that the dancers usually wear. Ana surprises me by wearing a school girl outfit. Long white sleeved shirt, buttoned low and revealing the valley of her breasts. The plaid mini skirt barely covers her ass. Her hair is pulled up high on her head in a ponytail and she’s wearing these fake glasses. About the only diversion from the normal costume are the stiletto heels. She’s so fucking hot that I want her right now. When she turns her back to me and starts dancing, rolling her ass in a slow groove, I nearly groan.

  I make a living owning strip clubs. I run one of the biggest underground gambling casinos around. I have cage fighters, betting clubs, women for select clientele, and even a bail bonding business. I have my fingers in all kinds of pies and each one is different and offers something useful. It’s all business. I keep it entirely separate from anything personal. That being said, not once have I ever been tempted to taste the merchandise involved in any of the businesses. Not until Ana. She has me breaking my own rules. And with all the women who work for me, there hasn’t been one until now who can turn me on by the sway of her hips.

  When she turns around, pulling one leg up high and moving it over mine so she can straddle it, it takes all of my self-control not to pounce. The reward comes when she puts both hands on my shoulders, continuing to circle her hips. She bends into my ear and says nothing, but I can feel her hot breath. I need more. I thought men who came here for this kind of thing were pathetic. Why waste your time on a fantasy when you could have the real thing at home?

  Not only am I seeing the error in my thinking, I’m wondering just where I might play with Ana again.

  Now that she’s turned, her stomach is in front of me, I want to watch the way the muscles move and tighten as she grinds. I need that. “Take the shirt off, pet,” I order her, my voice thick and hoarse.

  She ignores me. Something she will learn in time not to do; in time. She does some kind of movement with her legs and easily turns back around so her ass is begging me to grab it. I manage to resist, barely. She puts both of her hands on my knee and fuck, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve seen, the way she’s moving. A man could lose himself like this. When she bends and touches the floor and her stomach and breasts graze against my leg.

  She spins again, stepping between my legs this time and putting herself exactly where I want her. She places a hand on each leg, bending so her face is in front of mine. She’s flushed and her violet eyes are aroused—I can see it. This dance is getting to her, too. My eyes go down to her breasts and the stiff peaks of her nipples, finding them pressed against the sheer shirt. She drops down to her knees, dancing with her whole body. My breath almost stills in my lungs as her face comes so fucking close to my crotch that I want to take over. She slithers and stretches back up, somehow getting closer. She’s so close I swear I can feel her breath against my balls, even through my slacks. Ana somehow goes back, then lets her arm support her as she gyrates her ass to the floor. She sits back while extending her leg straight up, the skirt falling back and giving me a peek underneath, but not near enough. She stays leaned back, but thrusts her hips out toward me. It’s a challenge to keep my face impassive. It’s more than I can do to hide the giant erection currently tenting my pants.

  Like a snake, she slithers back up between my legs. I watch every hypnotic roll of her body. Somehow she manages to stay in perfect time with the music. She might have not given lap dances here at the club, but she’s damn perfect at them. She doesn’t need to give any fucker the show I’m getting except me. And as often as I want. That thought only solidifies when her hands move up to the shirt and slowly starts unbuttoning. She gets two buttons undone, enough that I can see the mounds of her breasts before she turns around. She takes off the shirt with ease, but the white material blocks my view of her body. When she tosses it on the ground, I want to scream “Yes!” like a little kid.

  This time after teasing me, she gives me her back, but sits down on my lap. I know she can feel my dick pressing up against her. The bastard has forgotten every hard lesson I’ve taught him and is practically begging. She pushes down against my dick and I know it’s not my imagination that I can feel the heat from her pussy. She reaches behind her and takes my hands, sliding them up until they rest just under her breasts. She leans against me then, her arms going up and hugging around my neck. Her face is resting close enough that I can feel a gentle kiss against the pulse point of my artery. She’s smiling. The tease knows she’s getting to me. Then again, she’d have to be stupid to not know it. She glides back down to the floor, using it to thrust out like she might crawl. Jesus. I want her crawling to me. Would she freak out over that? I might have to train her awhile, before she would understand. She curls back around and there goes that one leg up again, giving me a glimpse of heaven. When both go up, I’m almost at my end. She hooks each leg on mine, using it to suspend her ass in the air, her body bent so much it looks like a fucking piece of erotic art. Her hands slide along her thighs and against the small covering on her pussy—silk, deep blue with small glimpses of the treasure beneath. I watch as she kicks her legs back in the air, her ass still suspended until she somehow flips over. She stands back up and this time as I watch her hips circle, she takes off her skirt a little at a time. Oddly enough, I’m glued to her face. She’s definitely smiling.


  Her breasts are jutting out, screaming her excitement. Her face is flushed, and I know if I touch her, I’ll find her wet. Is it because of the dance? Would she be this way with anyone? Or is it me? It could be either—or both. Another reason her stance on no lap dances will continue.

  She places those stilettos between my legs damn close to my dick. She stands up on the couch and dances like a pro before her legs bend and she comes down onto my lap. Her hands are behind my neck and she pulls my face into her breasts while her lower body grinds against my cock.

  That’s when my control snaps. I grab her hips and push her harder against me. She gasps as her nails dig into my head, trying to pull me deeper into her breasts. My lips seek out and find one of her breasts, and I suck the hardened nipple into my mouth.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” she whimpers, but I notice her body is pushing harder and harder against my cock. Somehow, the bastard has moved so that she’s grinding against him just right. Each movement of her hip has her sliding back and forth on my dick so that she’s jacking me off in the most fucking erotic way possible.

  “I’m the boss,” I growl, moving from her breasts to her neck. I suck the side of her neck, loving how her pulse thrums against my tongue. I let go and find the juncture of her neck and shoulder, teasing it with my teeth. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”