Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

He trails callused fingertips down my pussy and back up again. Slow. Focused. He seems to be making a study of me, mapping out my body. I’ve never had anyone go this slow, this careful. Never had hands so large be gentle.

“I wanted to touch you since I first saw you walk onto the stage. Whether I have to pay or not, whether you return the favor or not, I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to finger this pretty cunt until you gush all over my hand. I’m going to keep going until you’re slick with it, until my jeans are damp with you, until the scent of your sex is in the air.”

I stare at him, somehow shocked, as if I’ve never heard these dirty words or witnessed these dirty acts. And I haven’t—not the words in that order. Not with my body reacting, getting tight and wet for him. I think I actually might come for him.

“No,” I whisper.

His fingers don’t stop stroking me. If anything they slip in deeper. “That’s what I want around my dick. Not your hands or your mouth. I want the juice from your pussy. When you’re wet and coming, I’m going to dip my fingers inside your pretty pussy. I’ll cover my dick with your juices, just like it would be if I fucked you bareback.”

I could imagine him then, cock heavy with arousal, glistening with my wetness. His cock would be large, like his hands and his whole body are large.

In the end it isn’t his blunt fingers against my clit. Not even the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes. What pushes me over is the clean, earthy scent of him. I lean close, pressing my nose to his neck and breathing in deep as I come.

I stay there, pressed into every hollow place in him, somehow finding solace in the hard angles of his body. He is a mountain, and I am the shadows that fill every nook and cave around him.

Reality comes back to me, along with embarrassment. And confusion. I’ve never come in this room. Never i

n this building. God, I haven’t even masturbated in forever—so worn down from hiding, so shamed by the place I’m hiding in, this strip club.

I’m hiding in him now.

How did he do this to me? One hour ago I had never seen this man, never imagined getting turned on in this dank room. Never sought comfort against rough, whisker-ticklish skin. He’s changing me, teaching me to want more than survival.

Dangerous.

“Okay?” he asks, voice gruff.

Maybe he can tell I’m emotional. But if he thinks I need to feel dead inside to do my job, he’s wrong. Lola is the strong one, the one who performs without feeling a thing. Candy does it too, even if she needs drugs to manage it. But I’ve never been able to find that numbness. I feel it all—every insult, every grope. Every cock. And now I would feel his thick cock too.

That doesn’t seem like the worst thing.

“How do you want me?” My voice trembles, but that doesn’t stop him.

His fingers are cupping my pussy, unmoving, letting me recover. Now he dips his finger inside, where I am the most sensitive and wet. Then he lifts his hand to my mouth. One stroke, painting my lips with my arousal, heating up every nerve ending. His head dips, and I know what’s coming next. But I don’t turn my face away. I don’t tell him kisses aren’t for sale.

I let him taste me on my lips. He licks the wetness, a slow swipe of his tongue that makes me gasp. My lips part, and he takes full advantage. His tongue pushes inside, opening me. His hand at the back of my neck is my only anchor while his mouth claims mine.

It’s almost too much. Too intense.

“How do you want me?” I’m demanding this time. I need to know. Because I need to stop this strange intimacy that only increases with every murmured word and tender touch.

“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”

My eyes widen. How does he know?

Maybe he’s not really that perceptive. Maybe all the men that come through here can see I’m terrified, but they don’t care as long as I make them hard.

“How do you want me?” My voice is hoarse, pleading. This is all I have to give. Take it.

His jaw tightens. “I want you like this. Spread open. Waiting for me to do whatever I want to you.”

His hand returns to my pussy, and I feel relief. Disappointment too. It hurts that he’s stopped kissing me, because for some reason I liked it. And I know, most likely, it won’t happen again. Not tonight. Not ever again. But it’s for the best. I shouldn’t get used to this.

He pulls more wetness from my core and paints my nipples—first one, then the other. I shiver under his touch. It’s more like shaking, really. Because I know what comes next, the same thing he did to my mouth.

He pulls me up so my breasts are in front of his face. He licks the wetness off my nipple, sucks me until I moan. Then he gives my other breast the same treatment.

And I can’t say anything. Can’t demand to know how he wants me. He dips his fingers one more time, deep inside me, pulling out all the wetness he can find. I clench around his fingers and hear his breath catch.