HIS VIRGIN STRIPPER (A Billionaire Romance)

by Bella Grant

  As she walked away, her ass peeking out from the several-inches-too-short skirt, Art whistled quietly. “Goddamn, that’s a nice ass.”

  I glanced and agreed, though I didn’t speak. The emcee, a large man with an accent I couldn’t place, yelled over the microphone. “Thank you, Candy! Gentlemen, isn’t she beautiful!”

  The woman, Candy, who had been on the stage a moment ago, meandered through the crowd in nothing but a G-string, accepting tips from the patrons. Men didn’t circle the stage here and slip ones into her clothes as she danced. When she reached our table, I looked at the money. Not ones—mostly tens and twenties. Art, who had seen thirty seconds of her routine, slipped a ten into her G-string with a compliment. She smiled at him and moved on.

  As she disappeared behind the stage, the emcee began again. “Now, gentlemen, one of our treasures is about to take the stage. If our beautiful Rose doesn’t arouse your senses, you might need to reevaluate your life choices.” He cackled, and several men laughed as well.

  “He’s funny,” I deadpanned, and Art glanced at me.

  “Shut up,” he ordered. “This girl really is a treasure.”

  “I’m sure they’re all treasures,” I replied caustically. I glanced around for the Catholic schoolgirl. I wanted my drink.

  A song I didn’t know began to play, and a woman stepped through the curtains and onto the stage as if she owned it. Her eyes flashed, and she moved like a woman with actual dancing talent, not just stripper moves. Her hair, dark brown and long, slightly wavy and full, cascaded across her shoulders and lifted in a wave as she spun to the beat. Her face looked like an angel’s, which she used to her advantage by dressing in an angel costume complete with halo, though apparently she’d left her wings at home. Her body was the perfect amount of slender and curvy. She was pale—paler than I preferred my women, when I chose to have one—but otherwise, she was stunning. A treasure indeed, I mused as I watched her.

  She removed her clothes like a woman stripping for a lover, and she made eye contact with those closest to her, making each one of them feel special, as if she only had eyes for him. I wished we had a closer table. I wanted to see those eyes, stare into them, to see if the innocence I saw from this far away was really there. Innocence, I thought with a smirk. She might work at an upscale strip club, but she’s still a stripper.

  I rolled my shoulders when Art tapped one of them. “What did I tell you?”

  “She is lovely,” I agreed as I watched her. The Catholic schoolgirl returned with our drinks, and I sipped mine thankfully, though my eyes didn’t stray from the woman on stage.

  Her breasts, revealed in the stage lights, were sprinkled with a glittery dust, and her nipples were perfectly pink and smaller than average. Her skin was the same hue of pale all over, and her legs, long and muscular, were strong—from the dancing, I assumed. Her ass, bared in the tiny G-string she wore as her only clothing, was also toned and perfect.

  My eyes stayed on her after the music ended, and as she passed through the tables, she smiled at each man who offered her cash, brushing shoulders or briefly touching the hand of a regular. She spoke to them, and my understanding of what made her a treasure was the individual attention she paid to each man, as if he really was the only one in the room. None of them were touchy, as they had been with Candy. They slipped the money in her G-string, spoke a few words, and watched her walk away as if they had a certain amount of respect for her.

  Fascinated, I watched her as she moved towards our table. Her G-string had mostly twenties, and I spied at least two fifties and a hundred tucked in among them. She looked at Art, recognition in her eyes, and when her eyes slid to mine, a shot of electricity bolted through my body. She faltered in her steps before catching herself and looking at Art again.

  “Hello, again,” she said to Art with a small smile, completely at ease with her nudity as she stood in front of us. “Been a while, yes?”

  He wagged his finger at her. “You have the memory of an elephant and the body of an angel.”

  She laughed quietly as the emcee began introducing the next dancer. “How could I forget the biggest flirt who comes in here?”

  Art laughed and gestured to me. “This is Eliot.”

  I held out my hand, unsure if she would shake it, but she shook like she was being introduced to the friend of a friend. “Pleasure,” I croaked. When our hands touched, another jolt skipped along my spine.

  She removed her hand from mine quickly, staring at me with a strange expression on her face. It cleared immediately, and she smiled. “Nice to meet you. Are you thinking of becoming a member?”

  “No,” I answered brusquely, almost rudely.

  “Oh, well then, I’ll be heading back,” she replied, a coldness in her eyes.

  She turned, but I stopped her. “Wait! I… uh, wanted to give you this.” I held out a hundred to her.

  She looked down at it, indecision in her expression. She expected me to slip it into her G-string, but I couldn’t touch her skin or I’d lose my ability to keep my hands off her. With a small smile, she took the money and folded it. “Thank you, sir.” With a wave at Art, she left us. I watched her ass as she walked away and hardened as I imagined gripping it with both hands as I pounded into her from behind.

  I didn’t want to watch her chatting with other customers, so I reached for my drink and caught Art staring at me. My actions were far from the norm, but I chose to play stupid. “What?”

  “What the hell was that?” Art asked.

  “What?” I repeated after sipping my drink and clearing my throat.

  “You just gave—to use your words—an uneducated stripper a hundred-dollar bill,” Art said.

  “She seemed like a normal girl, not crass or trashy.” I shrugged nonchalantly as if it was no big deal. He saw through it.

  “You liked her,” Art announced with a laugh.

  I grimaced at him. “How could a person like someone after thirty seconds of interaction?”

  “You spoke to her for thirty seconds, but you watched her the entire time she was on the stage.” Art sat back, musing. “You know, she is the prettiest one here, and she does seem to have a brain. How about a lap dance?”

  “No, thank you,” I answered immediately.

  “Come on! Maybe the two of you will hit it off,” Art insisted. “You need a woman in your life.”

  “Not a stripper. And the women are probably not allowed to date customers.”

  Art shrugged as if that meant nothing and excused himself to the bar. I watched him balefully, hoping he wasn’t ordering a lap dance I didn’t want from a girl I most certainly did.

  Randi

  That man in the glasses with the ponytail… holy shit! My mind raced as I wandered through the tables, speaking to the customers. I was thankful only a few more tables stood between me and the dressing room, but I couldn’t rush. Half of our job was schmoozing the clients, and if I didn’t stop at each table, I didn’t get as much money.

  But the ponytail guy had given me a hundred. Rarely did we get hundreds on a Thursday unless one of the regulars who liked you the most was there. At the last two tables, the clients handed over another forty dollars, which I appreciated and thanked them with a smile and a shoulder rub. I hurried to the stage with the plan of walking right by and into the dressing room. I halted when I reached the stage and watched as Rita sauntered on.

  Beautiful, I thought with a smile. I glanced back and located the table with the guy from the drug cartel, Andre whatever, and frowned. He’d stiffed me and every other girl for tips, but he had a wad of cash in his hand for Rita. I hoped she didn’t do something crazy, but with that amount of cash, I worried the Brazilian would be able to talk her into who knew what.

  My eyes drifted to the ponytail guy, Eliot, and my heart skipped a beat before returning to its regular rhythm. He was talking with his friend, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I shook my head and hurried to the dressing room, hoping Eliot would be gone before my next se
t. I didn’t go on for another forty-five minutes, so there was a chance he’d leave.

  Candy, whose real name was Monica, had slipped on a robe until her next set. She winked at me when I stepped in. “Heck of a crowd tonight, huh?”

  I smiled at her. “I guess. Did you see Rita’s Brazilian drug lord?”

  “I did. You think she’ll go home with him?” Monica asked.

  “God, I hope not, but he’s handsome, rich, and from Brazil. Those three things are her must-haves when it comes to finding herself a man,” I grumbled. “Maybe we should find her somebody who doesn’t come here.”

  “Do you know any decent men?” Monica asked with a laugh.

  I pretended to think. “Well, my dad was great before he died. Other than him, nope!”

  Monica nodded. “My dad was a piece of shit, so I guess I don’t know any decent men.”

  I frowned. So many people made jokes about strippers having daddy issues, and since I’d become one, I had discovered this stereotype was mostly true. Monica’s dad had been an abusive alcoholic, and she’d left home at sixteen because her mom wouldn’t. She hadn’t spoken to them in years. Rita’s mother had moved her to the U.S. as a child because the man who was her father had tried to kidnap her several times with the goal of selling her into prostitution. Another woman who worked here had been sexually abused by her stepfather.

  As an orphan, I was the closest one to having a normal life, which was kind of sad. But the women here were my friends, they were good people, and I enjoyed working with them.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Monica called, “Come on in!”

  Mr. Carpenter stuck his head in and smiled at me. “You have been requested for a lap dance.”

  I was silent for a moment, trying to think of an excuse and failing. “Mr. Carpenter, you know I prefer not to do lap dances,” I replied with a frown. Since I’d worked at Burlesque, I’d managed to escape most requests for lap dances with some excuse or other, and he had always let me, even if the excuse wasn’t particularly believable.

  “I know that, but the guy offered three hundred for twenty minutes.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, looking silly and eliciting the smile he wanted. The man was kind and a father figure, which went against everything people think about owners of strip clubs.

  “Three hundred?” Monica screeched before I could reply. “Holy crap! Are you sure he doesn’t want Candy?” She giggled.

  “Asked specifically for Rose. It’s a gift for his buddy, so the buddy might give you a tip afterwards as well,” Mr. Carpenter said. He pulled the cash from his pocket and waved it at me. “He insisted I bring the money back with me even though I told him you don’t do lap dances.”

  I stared at the cash, frowning and lost in thought. An extra three hundred would go a long way. When I’d taken my car to have the air conditioner looked at, I’d been told it would cost two-fifty. That thought pushed me to agree to do the lap dance.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Who is it?”

  “Art Quinten. Said his buddy really liked you,” Mr. Carpenter told me and watched my eyes widen before I could school my expression. Sensing my capitulation, he smiled and waved the cash at me again. “Three hundred now and a possible tip after.”

  Art’s buddy, the one who had stared at me and given me a hundred. The one whose hand I had grabbed and felt a jolt of electricity. Good looking in a nerdy kind of way and with eyes that drew mine like magnets. Well, shit, I thought as I debated. Dancing for him could get me in a lot of trouble.

  “Ugh, fine!” I answered, though I grinned at him as I grabbed the cash and stuffed it in my wallet tucked away in my locker. Although I trusted the girls, Rita had warned me when I started that trust shouldn’t extend to my money. “Does he want anything specific?”

  “Art asked that you walk to the table, take his hand with no explanation, and lead him to one of the balcony rooms. Dance to whatever you want,” Mr. Carpenter told me.

  I nodded and glanced at the clock. “Got somebody to cover my set? I can switch with whoever goes after me.”

  “Lacey just got here. See if she’ll be ready in time.”

  Lacey stepped out of the shower, her hair up in a bun so it didn’t get wet. Completely nude, she sauntered into the dressing room area as if Mr. Carpenter wasn’t there. Some of the girls could do that, but I wasn’t one of them. As she pulled her hair down so she could fix it, she asked, “How long do I have?”

  “Thirty minutes,” I said with my eyebrows lifted in question.

  “No problem, sweetie. Go get your money,” she said. She leaned over and kissed my cheek, her breast brushing my arm. She moved past me to her mirror and began putting her hair back up.

  Mr. Carpenter—who barely noticed our nudity because we all lacked penises—smiled at her and said, “Thanks, Lacey girl. Appreciate it.” His eyes met mine. “Get a move on before he changes his mind.” His smile eased the bossiness of his words, as always, and I wondered what would happen if he had to fire someone.

  I slipped the tiny, little white dress over my body, the only thing I wore besides my G-string because I’d discarded the top on stage. I stopped and looked at Candy. “Should I put my bra back on, or is this good?”

  She looked me up and down. The dress was low-cut—almost to my nipples low-cut—and it barely covered my crotch. My ass showed with the slightest movement, but when I stood still, it was covered. Because I didn’t have my bra on, my nipples peeked through the fabric even though they were pink rather than brown, and because of the ever-blowing air conditioner, they were taut and poking against the fabric.

  “Leave the bra off. Maybe you’ll get another hundred,” Candy said with a nod.

  “I could sure use it,” I mumbled as I hurried out, mentally tallying the songs I could dance to before settling on Naughty Girl by Beyoncé.

  I strolled through the tables, smiling and saying hello to men as I walked. Rita sat on the Brazilian’s lap, and as I watched, she took his hand and led him up to one of the private rooms I’d be in momentarily. I grimaced and hoped she would keep her wits about her, but my thoughts turned to the task at hand: a lap dance for Art’s friend, the one who had already paid me a hundred dollars and whose eyes flashed into my mind. In this light, I hadn’t been able to tell what color they were, but I would be able to upstairs.

  Art saw me before Eliot did, and the grin that spread across his face looked like the Cheshire cat’s. He murmured to Eliot and pointed at me, and Eliot swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and he jerked back around and spoke heatedly to Art. My steps faltered, but I continued after a moment’s hesitation. I already had the money. Now, I had to earn it.

  When I reached their table, I smiled at Eliot who had turned to greet me. “Hi. Your friend has paid for a lap dance.”

  “Yes, so he tells me.” His voice sounded angry, which worried me. I glanced at Art.

  “He doesn’t like surprises, Rose. He’s not much fun.” Art snorted on a laugh.

  I put my hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “Should I return your friend’s money?”

  Eliot rose and took my hand. “Lead the way.” He glared once more at Art, who waved and laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  I led Eliot up the stairs to the balcony rooms. Each room had a view of the stage, but windows prevented some of the music from interrupting conversation. All the rooms were equipped with iPods attached to speakers and using the Pandora app. The rooms required an additional fee if a client wanted to use it for the full night, as well as a reservation. Specific dancers could be requested for the evening, with a minimum of two days’ notice.

  The rooms had a fully stocked bar, and a personal bartender could be hired. Catering was available as well, and often, well-to-do gentlemen would bring their twenty-one-year-old sons for extravagant parties. I hated working those parties. The boys were often handsy, which was a polite way to say they were pervy little assholes.

  At least one room was empty every night for lap
dances or surprise guests requesting rooms, which was more expensive last-minute and came without girls, bartender, or catering. Small tables with plush chairs sat close to the windows, through which the stage was clearly visible. I pulled one of the chairs away from the window and gestured for Eliot to sit down. He moved reluctantly to the chair, his movements slow.

  “Are you alright, Eliot?” Stripper rule number one: pretend to care.

  “Um, I didn’t really want a lap dance. Art…” He shook his head, gesturing helplessly. “He thinks I need to loosen up.”

  “Maybe you do,” I replied. Stripper rule number two: I can touch, but they aren’t supposed to. I walked behind him and put my hands on his shoulders and kneaded the muscles there. “You have knots the size of my fists in your shoulders.”

  He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, effectively removing my hands. “Yes. Troubles at work.”

  Stripper rule number three: Don’t touch unless they welcome it. “Ah.” I moved in front of him again and smiled. “Would you like to begin the lap dance?”

  He looked into my eyes. “How long does a lap dance normally last?”

  I was surprised by the question. “Well, I guess it depends on the amount you paid. Your friend paid quite a sum, so as long as you want—within reason, of course.”

  “Within reason?”

  His attitude was beginning to prick my sensibilities. The man obviously thought I was stupid. Stripper rule number four: play dumb if it gets you the cash. I never liked that one and rarely followed it. These rules were mostly made up by Rita and the other girls. Most of them made sense, but this one didn’t.

  “Yes, within reason. I can’t stay up here all night,” I informed him with a little more irritation in my voice than I meant to let slide. Frowning at myself, I realized I was forgetting stripper rule number five: watch your tone when speaking with the client. I cleared my throat and smiled again, softening the muscles of my face.

  “Do I have at least twenty minutes of your time?” he asked so quietly I had to lean towards him to hear over the bass from downstairs.