Even Better (Stripped 2.50)

Just like Blue and West think all they can do is fight, all I can do is dance. And this isn’t even dancing for strangers. This is dancing for the man I love—and his best friend.

Except dancing isn’t what Blue has in mind. When I move to stand up, his hold on me tightens. “Ah ah,” he says softly, his breath warm against my temple. “Stay put, beautiful. Right here.”

I shudder at the command in his low voice, the voice I’d follow anywhere. “How will I—”

His hand slides around my waist, and then I know. I know exactly what kind of show he meant, and it doesn’t involve me dancing. Not unless dancing is more of a euphemism than even at the strip club. Blue reaches around me, one hand cupping my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple until it stands hard against the fabric of my shirt.

His other hand slides over my stomach and flicks the button of my shorts.

I gasp, because I wasn’t quite expecting this. Because I’m looking right at West while Blue touches me. Because I’m burning up from the inside out.

Blue’s voice is low in my ear. “Maybe I owe him something for letting me watch all those times. All those times I wouldn’t touch another girl, because the only one I wanted was you.”

My heart clenches at the reminder of our years apart. At the reminder that he didn’t have sex all that time.

West’s gaze flicks up to my face, as if assuring himself that I’m on board for this. Then he stares right at Blue’s hand, and I can feel him holding his breath, feel how much he wants this. How long has it been since he had a woman? He’s been deployed for months, and he just flew in. It looks like it’s been that long, judging from the stark need in his gaze, the way his knuckles turn pale as he grips the arms of the seat of his chair.

“Wait,” I say. When I dance, there’s music—if only in my head. When I dance, there’s a goddamn stage. Even when I’m giving a lap dance, I’m the one with control.

Of course Blue takes it away. He leaves me breathless and squirming, rubbing against the hard column of his erection through his jeans. It’s a different kind of lap dance, one where I’m trapped.

One where I don’t want him to let go.

“No, beautiful. You’re right where I want you.” Blue pulls down the zipper of my jean shorts and slips his hand inside. He wastes no time exploring and heads straight to my sex, capturing my clit between two calloused fingers.

I rock into his touch. “No fair.”

He laughs. “Not trying to be.”

West watches us with hunger—hunger for my body and for what Blue and I have together. His erection is plain to see against the denim of his jeans, but he makes no move to take it out or touch himself. He enjoys the show like a good soldier, like a grade A patron at the club, and that tells me he’ll make a damn fine bouncer.

“How does she look from that side?” Blue asks, voice casual as his fingers work me into a frenzy.

I’m almost out of my mind as I wait for West to answer him. There are a million words I imagine for myself. Slutty. Desperate. Scared. The one he comes up with, though, I never would have guessed.

“Like a goddamn mirage,” he says between clenched teeth.

My body is already going haywire, but at his words my heart squeezes. I know he meant what he said about being worried, about not fitting in stateside. About only being good for one thing. That desert he’s in isn’t only barren of women or sex. It’s barren of hope.

It’s enough to make me reach for the hem of my shirt. I’m halfway to orgasm already, pushed faster than I even know how to handle by Blue’s talented fingers. But I still manage to give West a seductive smile as I tease him with the flash of skin. I pull it up just enough that he can see the undersides of my breasts, clad in lace.

He groans. “Woman.”

It makes me laugh, and okay, maybe I do enjoy being a tease. I don’t want to go back and strip—not that Blue would want me to—but that was one part I enjoyed. Blue slides his hand lower, dipping into the wetness there, while I lift my shirt over my head and toss it aside.

The cups of my bra are barely holding my breasts, especially with the way I’m spread open, sprawled on Blue’s lap. It only takes a shimmy and they’re spilling over, my nipples peaking just above the lace edge.

“That’s right, baby,” Blue says, the approval in his voice warming me.

He does more than praise me. He gives me a reward in the form of two fingers inside.

West can’t really see my pussy, but it’s not hard to imagine what Blue’s doing with his hand down my shorts and his forearm rippling as he moves. It’s not that hard to hear it either, over our labored breathing—the wet sounds of his fingers inside me.

Blue doesn’t even need to finger fuck me anymore, because I’m fucking his hand, my hips moving without my awareness, mindlessly seeking more of him. I want him deep inside me, where only his cock can reach. I want him slick and hard and relentless.

I’m so close it hurts, close enough that each thrust of his fingers against my inner walls, each brush of his palm on my clit feels like it will push me over, like it has to push me over or I’ll go insane. But I can only hover on the edge, held in place by some long-dormant feeling—embarrassment? Shame?

And West, bless him. He sees that. “Do you want me to go?” he asks me.