side, always when I least expect her. “You haven’t given them any money yet. Don’t be a holdout.” She drags me over to the stage.
Sighing, I take a ten out of my pocket and toss it. The girl dancing up there crawls on her hands and knees, picks it up, puts it between her teeth, and then reaches for me, a smile playing on her face. I take a step out of the way. She pouts and moves on. Looking for someone to ask for a private dance session, no doubt.
I’ve had lap dances before, and I don’t know how any man actually enjoys them. You get turned on by a woman you can’t touch and leave feeling more frustrated than you were before.
Right now, I decide to go find Tyler. This is his version of Heaven. If he’s not careful, he’ll spend his life savings in this place.
“Are you sure you’ve got a pulse?” Julia asks, doggedly pursuing me.
“Is there a reason you’re asking?” I growl.
She gives a dismissive wave. “She was hot.”
“Are you an expert judge of other women’s hotness?” I mutter.
“Romance expert, darling. Of course I am,” she says, actually nudging me with her hip. Then she starts laughing, tilting her head back. Apparently too many shots will do that to you. “Besides, no red-blooded heterosexual man can contain himself when a woman is humping a pole in time to some Sia club music. It’s common knowledge.”
“Any woman?” I say, arching my brow. If there’s one woman I doubt I’d ever have an erotic fascination with, it’s an overly sparkly romantic. “Prove it. Why don’t you dance?”
“What?” Even in the flashing lights of the club, I think I see her pale a little. Excellent.
“You heard me.” I lean in and speak into her ear. “Or are you afraid to put your own theory to the test?”
“One thing I was always good at in science lab.” She juts out her chin and pushes out her chest. Which, I have to admit, is pretty noticeable. “Experimenting. How else would I have ever sewn a fetal pig’s head onto a frog’s body?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I think that disgusting Long Island iced tea is rippling in my stomach.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She tosses her hair and runs over to the stage. I have to admit it; Julia has a way with people. She waves one of the strippers over and manages to convince her to lean down for a conversation.
I must be widely grinning, because Mike shows up at my elbow one second later.
“What did you do?” he asks. No joking here. He follows this by a quick punch in the shoulder. “Seriously, man. What’s she doing?”
“You’ll see,” I tell him, feeling smug. Julia Stevens will fall on her face in front of everyone, then stop her incessant chirping and preening. It’s the beginning of a good night.
Once the song ends, one of the strippers grabs a microphone.
“Let’s give it up for a lady just passing through town, Juliet Sayonara,” she says. All the bachelorette girls go wild. Julia takes to the stage, a little flushed. She’s wearing a purple top, with a spangled black skirt and high heels that she’s clearly a little unsteady in. She strikes a pose against the pole, and the music starts. It’s some kind of slower, sultrier anthem, with a pulsing bass beat. This is going to be so embarrassing—
And then she starts to move, sliding down the pole slowly. The movement is languid, sensual. She arches her back as she sinks lower, spreads her legs.
Christ. She gets up and spins, her hair whipping and spilling across her back. She looks over her shoulder and winks at the crowd. All the women eat it up, screaming for her, shouting “Sayonara!” at the top of their voices. Then Julia looks into my eyes.
Just like that, I’m helpless. Frozen. There’s a smoldering heat in her gaze, something carnal, something primal. With one look, she could order me on my knees and I’d do it, whatever she wanted.
She spins about to face the front of the club. Then she swings around the pole, going lower and
Sighing, I take a ten out of my pocket and toss it. The girl dancing up there crawls on her hands and knees, picks it up, puts it between her teeth, and then reaches for me, a smile playing on her face. I take a step out of the way. She pouts and moves on. Looking for someone to ask for a private dance session, no doubt.
I’ve had lap dances before, and I don’t know how any man actually enjoys them. You get turned on by a woman you can’t touch and leave feeling more frustrated than you were before.
Right now, I decide to go find Tyler. This is his version of Heaven. If he’s not careful, he’ll spend his life savings in this place.
“Are you sure you’ve got a pulse?” Julia asks, doggedly pursuing me.
“Is there a reason you’re asking?” I growl.
She gives a dismissive wave. “She was hot.”
“Are you an expert judge of other women’s hotness?” I mutter.
“Romance expert, darling. Of course I am,” she says, actually nudging me with her hip. Then she starts laughing, tilting her head back. Apparently too many shots will do that to you. “Besides, no red-blooded heterosexual man can contain himself when a woman is humping a pole in time to some Sia club music. It’s common knowledge.”
“Any woman?” I say, arching my brow. If there’s one woman I doubt I’d ever have an erotic fascination with, it’s an overly sparkly romantic. “Prove it. Why don’t you dance?”
“What?” Even in the flashing lights of the club, I think I see her pale a little. Excellent.
“You heard me.” I lean in and speak into her ear. “Or are you afraid to put your own theory to the test?”
“One thing I was always good at in science lab.” She juts out her chin and pushes out her chest. Which, I have to admit, is pretty noticeable. “Experimenting. How else would I have ever sewn a fetal pig’s head onto a frog’s body?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I think that disgusting Long Island iced tea is rippling in my stomach.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She tosses her hair and runs over to the stage. I have to admit it; Julia has a way with people. She waves one of the strippers over and manages to convince her to lean down for a conversation.
I must be widely grinning, because Mike shows up at my elbow one second later.
“What did you do?” he asks. No joking here. He follows this by a quick punch in the shoulder. “Seriously, man. What’s she doing?”
“You’ll see,” I tell him, feeling smug. Julia Stevens will fall on her face in front of everyone, then stop her incessant chirping and preening. It’s the beginning of a good night.
Once the song ends, one of the strippers grabs a microphone.
“Let’s give it up for a lady just passing through town, Juliet Sayonara,” she says. All the bachelorette girls go wild. Julia takes to the stage, a little flushed. She’s wearing a purple top, with a spangled black skirt and high heels that she’s clearly a little unsteady in. She strikes a pose against the pole, and the music starts. It’s some kind of slower, sultrier anthem, with a pulsing bass beat. This is going to be so embarrassing—
And then she starts to move, sliding down the pole slowly. The movement is languid, sensual. She arches her back as she sinks lower, spreads her legs.
Christ. She gets up and spins, her hair whipping and spilling across her back. She looks over her shoulder and winks at the crowd. All the women eat it up, screaming for her, shouting “Sayonara!” at the top of their voices. Then Julia looks into my eyes.
Just like that, I’m helpless. Frozen. There’s a smoldering heat in her gaze, something carnal, something primal. With one look, she could order me on my knees and I’d do it, whatever she wanted.
She spins about to face the front of the club. Then she swings around the pole, going lower and
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