And I, obviously, was anything but money hungry.
Maybe a little trashy, but I could totally roll with that.
Sexy Paul didn’t care.
I brought my hands up and folded them up behind my head, thrusting my hips at Vince, whose eyes were directly eye level with my crotch. He licked his lips and didn’t look away. I leaned forward and gripped his chin, forcing his gaze up to mine. “My eyes are up here, sailor,” I growled, throwing his words back at him that he’d used on me so very long ago that first day at the bike rack outside the office.
His pupils were completely blown out now, and he leaned forward, trying to kiss me, but I was a working girl; I didn’t have time to kiss him right then. I shoved his face away. I didn’t care if he could take me away from this life and protect me and my young daughter from my abusive ex-husband who we were on the run from, because I couldn’t run the risk of giving my heart away again, only to have it shattered in a billion pieces—
Whoa.
I shook my head violently, trying to get rid of the elaborate fantasy where I was a mother named Denise Smith who danced under the name Gigi Fontaine. I had already constructed an elaborate backstory and literally only four seconds had passed. I just had to Paula Abdul the crap out of the finish to this lap dance before worrying about the bad Lifetime Movie of the Week fantasy I had going on in my head.
(I would be played by Delta Burke. It would be glorious. There would be pantsuits. And shoulder pads.)
The song was coming to a close and I had a decision to make. I could go out on top. I could end this good.
Or I could end it amazingly.
It wasn’t that hard of a decision.
I didn’t think my pants were too tight. I could pull this off without embarrassing myself.
While Britney shrieked her sexy siren call about how she loved what I did because I had to know I was toxic, I did the one thing a man of my size should not be able to do.
I dropped into the splits, sinking down until my crotch touched the floor, my face right between Vince’s legs.
The crowd exploded behind me as the song ended.
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Vince looked down at me, jaw dropping, eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them.
I said, “You liked that, didn’t you,” in a husky voice.
He nodded slowly.
“You’re such a bad boy,” I said.
He nodded again.
“You want to do things to me right now, don’t you. Sexy things.”
He nodded a third time.
“Well, then,” I said, licking my lips.
He leaned forward.
I grabbed him by the sash and held on tight, pulling him down until my lips were near his ear. And then I said what had to be the most erotic thing in my life.
“If you ever want to suck on my balls again, you’ll help me up right now, Jesus fucking Christ, I think they’re about to break. Seriously. I think I’m stuck. Vince, I think I’m stuck.”
Have you ever done the splits trying to be a stripper named Gigi Fontaine while dancing to Britney with moves you learned from a Paula Abdul exercise VHS tape in the nineties after having four shots of Jager?
Me too.
Then you’ll know how hard it is to get back up, trying to make it look natural.