by Jaci J
He belongs to me.
“Baby,” he growls, jerking his chin up at me when his eyes meet mine. His voice reverberates through me, traveling down my spine and settling into my toes, making them curl and tingle.
His voice gives me goose bumps.
Deep, rough, and dirty.
The room is a small hexagon shape with mirrors on every wall, including the ceiling, and a funky light hangs from the center over a carpet of deep, plush burgundy. The only furniture in the space is a single chair and a pole. But I need none of it. I just need the man.
T watches me, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair.
He’s biding his time, waiting to pounce.
“You done playing hard to get, Doll Face?”
I lick my lips, hiding my smile behind false aloofness.
I won’t lie, T coming by makes my damn night. I love to dance for him, and it’s not for the money, it’s the high. It’s the way he makes me feel and how he looks at me. It’s just being around him.
It’s the rush.
“How’s your night going, T?” I walk around him, dragging my hand from shoulder to shoulder, loving the way he twitches under my touch. It’s heady. I own him here, and I love it.
“Bad,” he deadpans, looking at me, his eyes narrowed and assessing. “You gonna make it better for me?” Grabbing my hand, he pulls me around from behind him to look at me. Holding me at arm’s length until his eyes get their fill, he spins me around and his hands instantly clamp tight around my hips as he pulls me onto his large lap.
“Depends. How much you going to pay me?” I tease. T always pays, and he pays well. Better than anyone. More than I deserve, and more than he should.
I don’t tell him that it feels wrong when he pays me now, now that I want his visits just about as much as he does. I don’t tell him that his money makes me feel cheap, unlike it usually does when other men slip me bills. I don’t tell him that I’d do this for free, any day and any time he wanted it. The idea scares me.
“Name the price,” he growls, his fingers digging into my flesh.
I laugh softly as I lean the back of my head on his chest, grinding my ass against his cock. I sway to the beat, gyrating my hips slowly, enjoying the way he twitches and grows against me.
One of his hands slides down to my thigh, and the other up and over my ribs, wrapping his fingers around mine.
“More than you could afford.”
“Doll…” His hand flexes along my stomach, holding me tighter. If any other man put his hands on me in this joint, he’d be out on the curb, on his ass, and eighty-sixed before he could bat an eye.
Not T.
I like T’s hands. They’re big, scarred, rough, and tattooed.
“Don’t push me. You know I’d come up with any fucking amount for you.”
“That amount might make my night better, but I’m not so sure about yours. You’d be leaving here broke.”
“You let me pull these panties to the side, we could both be having a better night. Fuck the money.”
I consider his offer, but that’s not how this shit works. I didn’t make it this far by letting men have me.
“Tsk, tsk, you know the rules.” I turn over and straddle his lap, my knees on either side of his hips while shaking my ass. His hands are on each cheek, my tits bouncing in his face.
“And I break those goddamn rules every time, Bailey.”
He’s not wrong.
He’s broken them more than once. More than twice. His hands have been on my pussy, my tits, and his cock, hard and heavy, has rubbed against me through his jeans many, many times. That’s as far as I’ve ever let him go, and he always, without fail, comes back for more. The memories make my heart beat faster.
T chuckles, the sound dark and knowing.
“Thinking about me making you come without even touching you?” he growls, his lips at my ear, his tongue licking the shell.
Nodding, I raise up on my knees. T doesn’t bury his face in my cleavage like I expect him to. Instead, he looks up at me, a brow raised in challenge. His hands squeeze my ass, making his point that he has control.
I feel powerful when I dance, owning the men that I dance for. They hand over their hard-earned money happily, just to spend a little time with me.
But not with T. He’s the boss. He’s in charge.
The man turns me into a complete and utter mess with the things he says and how he says them. The way he touches me, how he looks at me… It’s all mental foreplay, and it does it for me every time. I’m already wet and needy, and he’s only been here five minutes.
“I’m thinking about how big of a tip I’ll be getting when we’re done here,” I lie as I move off of him and gracefully onto my six-inch heels.
Standing in front of him, just out of reach, I bend over, slowly and seductively, reaching for my ankles. I glide my hands enticingly down my legs, touching myself the way I desperately want him to touch me while dancing to the rhythm of the song.
Bent over, I snake my hands between my thighs, slowly running one up to the apex of my thighs to my thong covered pussy. I let my fingers linger, rubbing them against the soft, wet fabric, teasing T with just a touch.
“Bailey,” he warns, his voice thick, gruff, and barely restrained.
“T?” I coo softly, biting my lip.
“Slide your fingers to the left a little,” he commands. When I comply, my fingers cradled between the sheer fabric, he groans. “Jesus, that was a mistake. You’re gonna have to stop that shit, baby.”
“Why?” I tease.
“Don’t test me, Bailey.”
Ignoring him, I shake my ass—my best asset—giving him a show. Which is probably why he gets out of the chair and places his hand on my lower back, keeping me bent over at the waist.
“You’re a fucking tease.” Pushing his jean covered cock against my ass, grinding it against me, he adds, “And you know I fucking love it.”
“Do you?” I purr, wiggling my ass against his fly.
He grabs a handful of my ass, caressing the skin before smacking it hard. “One of these days, baby, I’m gonna be all up in this ass.”
And he says I’m the tease.
I’m not like this with any other client, ever. I do private shows for businessmen, politicians, a lot of high-profile people, and all of them are strictly for show. But for T, I do anything he asks, any time he asks, because I’m addicted to the rush.
His hand wanders down the back of my thigh and slips between my legs. I should stop him, tell him no, but I don’t want to. I want him to touch me.
But he never gets further than that. As much as I want to, I can’t break my own rule, even for him. We do what we do here, in this room, and nowhere else. I can’t let it go beyond that. I just can’t.
As that thought goes through my mind, his hand disappears between my thighs.
With deft fingers, he unsnaps my bodysuit, the material springing free from between my legs, exposing my bare pussy.
This isn’t a fully nude club, but because it’s him, and we’re here, I let it slide.
If he wants me naked, he gets me naked.
2
T
BAILEY IS LIKE a goddamn buffet and I’m a starving man. I need a taste—just one little taste—to satisfy this hunger, but she won’t give it up to me. The bitch is going to let me starve, all with a seductive smile on her face.
The muscles in my stomach tighten.
I’m hungry for her.
She’s scared. Of me or breaking the rules, I can’t be sure, but I’ve been trying for months to convince her to let me between her thighs, and every time she shoots me down. She’s a fucking cock tease, driving me crazy, and she knows I put up with that shit because I want her.
I can’t live without her.
Not now that I have her in my grasp.
But a motherfucker can only handle so many no’s before he loses his goddamn mind, and I’m getting to that point. I won’t hurt her, and I’ll
never push past that no, but I sure as fuck will pull out every goddamn trick in the book to convince her that she belongs in my bed.
I will have Bailey if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.
She’s dancing for me slowly, seductively, and fuck, she’s sexy.
And naked.
She’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, with dark eyes, dark hair, and full, sensual lips. Her body is absolute perfection, her skin tan and toned. Her tits are big, real, and more than a handful. Her ass is even bigger, and I’m feigning for the whole package.
Jesus Christ.
I’m a tough son of a bitch, willpower out the ass, but when it comes to Bailey, I’m fucking powerless and she knows it, using that shit against me. I hand over every hard-earned dollar I make to her, hand over fucking fist without question, and without a goddamn thing in return.
“When you gonna let me fuck you?” I ask her, running my hand down her smooth ass, giving it a quick, hard smack—harder than I’d hit any other woman because I know she loves it. Her skin turns pink, making me want to hit it again.
She bucks back against me, her thick body jerking.
Looking at me from over her shoulder, she rolls her hips. “When we’re married.”
She’s playing me, thinking that shit will scare me away. What she doesn’t understand about me, but will, is that I get what I want by any goddamn means necessary. If that means putting a ring on her finger, I’ll do it. “You want a ring on that pretty little finger, bring that shit over here and I’ll put one on it.”
She laughs, thinking I’m joking.
I’m not.
Turning around, she walks toward me. “T,” she scolds, straddling me again when I grab her, pulling her onto my lap when I put my ass back in the chair. “You don’t even know me.”
I’m not here for the show, for the dances.
I’m here for her.
It stopped being about her body alone months ago.
“I know enough.”
She thinks I don’t know her, that I only know what she’s told me, but I also know the shit I dug up on her, like her full name, her age, and her address. Yet everything else about her is buried deep, and it makes me want her that much more.
She’s a goddamn mystery that I want to crack wide open.
“You wouldn’t want to marry me. I’d make a horrible wife.”
“That’s fine, baby. I don’t really wanna get fucking married either, but I’m good with a steady piece of ass.”
She lifts a perfectly sculpted brow. “And that piece of ass is mine?”
“Piece of ass and pussy,” I drawl, my hand slipping between her thighs, my fingers half an inch from her cunt. I can feel the heat from her pussy, begging for me to slip inside, oh so ready to come all over my fingers.
But Bailey presses her legs together, keeping me out.
I know I’m pushing my luck, but fuck, I want her.
Bad.
A soft moan slips from between her plump lips when I rub against her skin.
“You’re not telling me no.”
It’s been a year of this shit. Late night dances, drinks at the bar, private shows, and straight-up bullshitting for hours, and I keep coming back for more because the bitch has got me wrapped around her finger.
This isn’t me.
I’m not this motherfucker.
I want her because she won’t let me have her.
She’s naked from the waist down and on my lap, her back to my chest, and I’ve got my hands on her—one on her stomach, holding her against me, and the other between her legs.
Just as I’m about to push the envelope, someone pounds on the door.
Bailey jumps in surprise.
“Yo!” some asshole barks through the door.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Holding onto her, I whisper in her ear, “Don’t move.” She stills, her body pressing back into mine.
“The fuck you want?” I shout at the door, the hand that was so close to claiming what I want going to the piece at my back, ready for whatever.
“Get out here, man. We’ve got shit to do.”
Rock.
I let my piece go and run my hand through my hair. “I don’t got a goddamn thing to do.”
Rock chuckles, his voice muffled through the wood. “You’ve been in there long enough. If you ain’t nutted yet you ain’t gonna, so get the fuck out here so we can roll.”
The Russians need protection, and if that means I’ve got to drive halfway across the country to fix their problems from the inside, get everything where it needs to be, then that’s exactly what I’ve got to do.
A man’s gotta work to earn that money because Bailey and her time aren’t free.
But it’s not easy leaving her.
It never fucking is.
“I’ve gotta go, babe,” I say as I release her to stand, giving me the opportunity to look over every sexy inch of her, committing it all to memory. In case something happens to me, this is the last image I want to see.
She frowns, chewing on her lip. “Already?”
“Yeah, baby, already.”
Bailey does what she always does when I leave—she kisses me. No tongue, no real taste, but her soft lips on mine are enough…for now.
She grabs the robe hanging on the back of the door and puts it on. “See you in a few days?”
I don’t tell her it might be a while because I don’t want to fucking think about it. So, instead, I just nod. “I’ll see you around, baby.”
“Bye, T.”
“Night, Bailey.”
BAILEY
I miss T so fucking much.
I don’t know how it’s possible or why it is, but I do and I hate it.
I’ve never missed anyone in my life, and here I am, stomach tight and chest empty, missing him.
It’s been three weeks since I last saw him. Three long, lonely weeks. Three hard weeks. Three bullshit weeks.
“Hey, girl,” Stormi greets me with a smile as she leans against the doorframe, a drink in her hand. “You okay?” she asks, looking me over like only a friend does: slowly, carefully, assessing me. She’s looking for something to worry about.
“Yeah,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my expression.
I’m in the dressing room feeling utterly annoyed as I shut my locker harder than necessary, refusing to put on anything special and showing up late.
“Worried about that guy?”
“I shouldn’t be.”
She gives me a knowing look. “But you are. Might make your night better to know Cookie saw some Disciples pull into the parking lot.”
My chest expands, excitement ballooning in the empty cavity.
I try not to make a face or let my voice give me away when I say, “Oh yeah?”
“Thought you’d want to know.” She winks, a smug look all over her face.
I’m as transparent as Cling-Wrap. There’s no hiding how I’m feeling, and Stormi knows it.
But my excitement only lasts as long as it takes me to walk out of the dressing room and onto the main floor. There are a couple of Disciples here, but none of them are T. My stomach drops.
I’m disappointed. Beyond disappointed, really.
The asshole is messing with my feelings.
My mama taught me better than that.
Men are only good for a few things: money, moving heavy furniture, and mistakes.
I’m missing the enemy.
Before I can stop myself or talk myself down, I’m walking toward the guys in leather vests. “Hey,” I say, putting on a convincingly fake smile—a smile I mastered just for the job—on my face. It’s sweet, sexy, and carefree. “How you boys doin’ tonight?”
A big guy with a bushy beard looks down at me, his eyes taking me in from head to toe, but not in a sexual way. It’s more like he’s sizing me up, feeling me out. “Yo,” he replies back, arms crossed over his chest.
“Looking for dances tonight or here for business?”
“Business, sweetheart,” the one with the name Bish stitched onto his vest answers.
“Need anything? Drinks? A table or a private room?”
“Can see why the T-man likes you so goddamn much. Fucking helpful and hot.”
I try not to roll my eyes, but they roll anyway. “Speaking of T…”
Bish’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Yeah?” He’s laughing at me. He finds the fact that I’m asking about him funny, that I look pathetic, but I could care less. I make no bones about it because I like what I like.
“Happen to know where he’s been, where he is?” I ask, knowing it’s none of my business, which is more than likely what the big guy is going to tell me.
He chuckles. “You worried about that asshole?”
“No. Just making sure he’s not dead. It’d mess with my tips.” I laugh, trying to play it off.
Of course I’m lying, and I’m sure he knows it, but I need information. I’ll play along to get it.
The last few weeks my job has been hard, harder than it ever has been. Harder than my first day and my worst. T’s made my job bearable by giving me something to look forward to with his visits, and a reason to continue to work here. This profession has always been about the money, but for the past year, he’s been the reason I’ve stuck around.
Yet he hasn’t been around.
Bish nods, hearing my words and reading between the lines. But he gives me nothing. No answer.
Nothing.
And I don’t push it. I’m reckless, not suicidal.
“We need a private room, sweetheart.”
“Sure thing.”
_______________
In the year he’s been coming in here to see me, I haven’t gone more than a week without seeing his face, and now it’s been six weeks. Six. Weeks. More than a month.
And God, I hate it.
I was mad at first, and then I was sad, thinking that maybe he just wasn’t into me anymore. Maybe he found a new place with a new girl, a girl that’d sleep with him? Then that sadness turned into worry, and here I am weeks later, still worried, still mad, still sad.
I miss every part of him.
“Coco!” Sonny shouts my stage name into the dressing room, lingering in the hallway. “You in there?”