Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I caught a whiff of his deodorant as he lifted his arms above my head on the wall and looked down at me. My eyes strayed to his armpit and the brown hair there.
He smelled good. I was half-inclined to ask him what products he used.
A tiny dark mole peeked out from the edge of the armpit hair, matching a somewhat lighter one above his lip. My stomach clenched.
No wonder he’d been hired here. He was undeniably, objectively sexy. Hiring him was a solid business decision for this place. How much did dancers get paid, anyway? Was profit sharing involved? There really should be, because the ROI of—
I felt another tightening in my gut as the dancer’s eyelids fluttered closed and he mouthed a snippet of the lyrics.
“I’m so used to being used…”
Did those lyrics mean something to him, personally? Was he in a bad situation? Of course, I’d heard horror stories of people being taken advantage of in jobs like this. Usually those were women, but maybe the same held true for men in powerless situations.
Not that it mattered to me, obviously. None of us got to choose the situations we were born into, and we all had to make the best of the hands we were dealt. Besides, the man had admitted to enjoying being watched. Enjoying fucking, even.
I glanced down his body to the cotton jock, imagining what it would look like if the sex act he was miming right now was actually happening.
Just as a point of intellectual curiosity.
Simply because the biology of gay sex was something I’d never had reason to consider before.
And because thinking about it passed the time—god, how could the music still be going?
Not for any other reason.
Something about that cotton jock kept drawing my attention, though. The bulge in the front was impressive. Surprisingly so. But then again, the man had been hired to show it off.
“You like what you see, baby?” he teased, a hint of laughter in his voice.
Every time he called me baby, it set my teeth on edge.
“Not much to see at all,” I said, trying to sound bored.
In reality, I wasn’t bored. I was entertained against my will.
There was no denying the man had rhythm. He moved his body like liquid lava, thick and warm, curving over every surface it crawled across and leaving bright, charred destruction in its path.
His fingers moved across my neck until I realized he was gently clasping the front of my throat. I met his eyes with a glare.
“Inferiority complexes are so unattractive,” he purred with a knowing grin.
I huffed out a laugh, which made his fingers press harder against my throat for the barest moment. “I do okay.”
“I’m sure you do.” He ground down on my lap, pressing his ass into my groin before rolling his hips forward. His cock pressed into my lower stomach, surprising me with its firmness.
“You getting hard for me… baby?” I teased back. “Now who owes who a grand?”
I realized my hands were squeezing my own thighs tightly enough to wrinkle my suit pants. I smoothed out the fabric and moved my hands to the back of my head to keep from touching him by accident.
Heat from his body swirled around us, scented with a hint of masculine sweat that didn’t turn me off the way it should. My eyes returned to the jock, curious to see whether I was actually making him hard or if he was just naturally… gifted.
The top edge of the jock’s elastic strap had moved low enough for me to see a line of soft brown pubic hair above it. A thin trail of it roamed up to his belly button. I realized he wasn’t waxed or shaved like a woman would be at a club like this.
Why not? Did gay men prefer their dancers to have body hair?
I trailed my eyes up to his chest, trying to consider whether I would prefer hair on a man if I were gay.
He moved the hand from my throat down my chest and to his jock, where he squeezed himself and let out a little moan. My heart rate shot up as I stared at what he was doing.
“Yes,” he said in a breathy voice.
I glanced up at his eyes, only to find them closed and his head tilted back. His cheeks were flushed pink, and his lips were moist like he’d just licked them. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. The music poured around us with its low beat and dirty lyrics.
“Yes, what?” I asked before reminding myself I didn’t care. My voice sounded like broken glass scattered across gravel.
“Yes, you make me hard. Yes, you make me want to touch myself. Get off to the image of your fat cock shoved deep in my hole. Of you holding me down and fucking me. Of you telling me to shut up and come before someone finds us together. Of you clapping a hand over my mouth and whispering filthy words in my ear as you take me from behind.”