Beautiful Bombshell (Beautiful Bastard 2.5)

The door was ornate and heavy, like something out of a castle or, fuck, some sort of creepy Gothic basement sex dungeon. Fucking Max. I shivered and turned the knob, exhaling in relief when I saw that there was no iron cross or handcuffs, and no woman inside yet, only a long chaise with a small silver box in its center. Tied to the box with a silky red ribbon was a white card with Bennett Ryan written in neat script.

Great. Random Vegas Dancer might already know my f**king name.

Inside the box was a black satin blindfold and a sliver of thick cardstock with the words Put this on written in black ink.

I was meant to put on a blindfold for a lap dance? What was the point of that? Just because I didn’t want one tonight didn’t mean I didn’t recall lap dances past. Unless the format had changed in the past few years, getting one meant looking, not touching. What the f**k was I supposed to do if I was blindfolded when she came in? I sure as shit wasn’t going to touch her.

I laid the slip of fabric on the chaise, ignoring it as I stared at the wall. Minutes ticked by, and with each one I grew more convinced there was no f**king way I was blindfolding myself in this room.

I could almost hear the sound of my own irritation building. It sounded like a roar, a wave, a flame crackling. Closing my eyes, I took three deep breaths and then looked more carefully at my surroundings. The walls were a soft gray, the chaise a dusky blue. The room looked more like a dressing room at a high-end store than a room where men got what I assumed amounted to a lot more than just a dance. I ran my hand over the supple leather of the chaise, and only then did I notice the second note that had been buried beneath the blindfold inside the box. Written in the same script on the heavy paper, it said,

Put on the f**king blindfold, Ben, don’t be a p**sy.

Fucking Max. Would I really have to sit here, captive, until I put on the blindfold and got this over with? With a groan, I lifted the black fabric, slipping it over my head and hesitating just a heartbeat before pulling it across my eyes. I was already plotting how I would get back at Max. He’d known me longer than almost anyone in my life other than my family, and was aware of how much I valued fidelity and control. Asking me to come back to this room and cover my eyes without knowing what was coming? What a f**king dick.

I leaned back against the wall and waited in annoyed isolation, my ears picking up sounds I hadn’t noticed before: the dull pulse of the music in the other rooms, the sound of doors opening and closing with quiet, heavy clicks. And then I heard the sound of the handle to my room turning, the door opening with the gentle slide of wood across carpeting.

My heart began to thunder.

As soon as I got a whiff of the unfamiliar perfume, I felt my back go rigid with discomfort. Other than the scent of the stranger, I knew nothing about who was in here and I hated not being able to see what was coming at me. She did something against the wall: I heard rustling, a small click, and then quiet, rhythmic music filled the room.

Warm, soft hands took hold of my wrists and gently but expertly positioned my hands so that they rested idly at my sides. No touching? No f**king problem.

I sat motionless as she slid over me, her breath smelling like cinnamon, her h*ps grinding on my lap, hands pressed to my chest. So this is how it was going to go: I would remain blindfolded, she would dance over me, and then I would leave? I felt myself begin to relax incrementally. The woman moved above me, her h*ps shifting against my thighs, her hands moving gently over my chest. I could feel enough of her body that the blindfold didn’t seem completely absurd, but if I’d been the kind of man to enjoy this sort of thing, being robbed of my sight would have been a hindrance.

But maybe Max knew this would be the only way this experience wouldn’t be unbearable to me. The thought made me want to kick his ass just slightly less.

The dancer rolled over me, h*ps rocking rhythmically with the music, undulating in small, suggestive circles. She leaned away, gripping my shoulders to anchor herself, and I felt the press of her ass on my thighs, the suggestion of her sex so close to my dick that I tried as carefully as I could to inch away, to push my body deeper into the chaise. And then she sat upright again, and I could feel the shape of her br**sts as she brushed against my chest. Her breath was warm and soft on my neck, and although it wasn’t unpleasant, per se, it quickly grew awkward. My initial fear that I would have to make eye contact, or smile, or appear to be here voluntarily dissolved, and instead I registered that this dance was for neither of us. Certainly she wasn’t getting anything but money out of it, and because of my blindfold, I didn’t even need to fake my enjoyment. I found myself straining to calculate how much was left of the song. It wasn’t one I knew, but the formula was clear and I exhaled the rest of my tension as the song started its predictable ramp-up to the end. Over me, the poor woman seemed to slow, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

When the song ended, the only sound remaining in the room was the stripper’s quickened breathing.

Is she going to leave? Should I say something?

With dread weighing down my stomach, I understood very clearly that maybe this was when the show really started. To my absolute horror, the stripper leaned forward and grazed her teeth across my jaw.

Then . . . I froze, a cloudy awareness starting to overtake my impatience.

“Hello, Mr. Ryan.” Her breath was hot in my ear and I startled at the sound, my entire body going stiff. What in the actual fuck? My hands curled into fists at my sides. “I really, really want to kiss that sexy, angry mouth of yours.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Chloe Fucking Mills.

“I just danced my ass off, and you aren’t even a little hard right now?” She leaned in, licking up my neck as she lowered her h*ps and wiggled over my cock. “There we go . . .” She giggled into my neck. “Now you are.”

My mind exploded with reactions: relief and anger, shock and embarrassment. Here Chloe was, in Vegas, not skiing in the f**king Catskills, and she’d come in here to find me blindfolded and waiting for a dancer to do exactly what she’d done: dance on my thighs, grind herself into my cock. But for once I’d managed to do with Chloe what I’d been able to do in every one of my business relationships: hide the reaction you have until you’ve transformed it into the reaction you want.

I counted down from ten before asking, “Was this some sort of test?”

She leaned close, kissed my earlobe. “No.”

I wasn’t going to explain why I was in this room; I’d done nothing wrong. Still, I felt the strange war inside me: growing arousal that she’d done this for me and anger that she’d set me up. “You’re in trouble, Mills.”

She pressed a fingertip to my lips, and then trapped it between our mouths with a brief kiss. “I’m just happy to be right. Max owes me fifty dollars. I told him you would hate getting a lap dance from a stranger. Your hard limit is infidelity.”

I swallowed, nodding.

“I used all of my moves, but nothing. Not even a twitch down there. I’m really hoping you had no idea it was me or else—I’ll be honest—I’m a little insulted.”

Shaking my head, I murmured, “No. The perfume is . . . off. You hate cinnamon gum. And I can’t see you or feel you.”

“You can now,” she said, lifting my hands to rest on her bare thighs. I ran my palms up to her h*ps and felt the sharp press of small stones on her underwear. What the f**k is she wearing? I was dying to take off the blindfold, but as she hadn’t done it yet, I suspected this was another thing I was meant to wait for.

I ran my hands over her thighs, down to her calves, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get laid in this room in the middle of a questionably legal Vegas club. My relief that it was Chloe in here with me, and not some stranger sitting on my lap, overwhelmed me, and a burst of adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. “You should feel free to f**k me in this room, Miss Mills.”

She leaned forward, sucked on my jaw. “Hmm . . . maybe. Want a second chance to enjoy a dance first?”

I nodded and exhaled as she slipped the blindfold off me, exposing her . . . outfit. She wore a tiny bra that tied with thin satin straps at her shoulders and appeared to be made entirely of gemstones held together with the barest scrap of silk. Her panties were similarly flimsy, and even more fascinating. The thin satin ties at the sides hinted to me that I probably shouldn’t destroy them.