Ball Peen Hammer (30 page)

I put a hand on her forearm. “Calm your gorgeous tits, baby doll,” I say. “Your only job is to sit-and-submit.”

“
’Sit and submit
?’” Maddy giggles. “Oh my God, Keane. You gotta say that in a video. That’s hilarious.”

My skin is suddenly on fire. “Dude. Are we gonna do this or
talk
about doing this?”

“Sorry, yes, we’re totally gonna do this.” Maddy makes a big show of shimmying her shoulders and shaking her hair, apparently readying herself for her lap dance like a method actress preparing for an emotional scene, and her boobs jiggle delectably with her effort.

Okay, holy motherfucking shit. Maddy totally meant to waggle her glorious boobs at me that time, I’m sure of it. I mean, she can’t possibly be so clueless as to not realize when she’s waggling her braless tits at a defenseless man, can she?

Maddy places her palms together after she’s done shaking her body. “
Namaste
,” she says. She shoots me a solemn expression. “Okay, Ball Peen Hammer, I’m ready to ‘sit and submit’ now.”

Wow. It turns out Maddy Milliken is sexy as hell. Who knew? Which means I should stop this shit right now.

Yep.

That’s the right thing to do.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I say eagerly, rubbing my palms together. “First off, let’s take care of bid-nass, shall we?” I hold out my palm to her. “You wanna see Ball Peen Hammer shake his ass, you gotta pay for the privilege.”

“What?” She laughs.

“Pay me,” I say evenly, shoving my open palm at her. “I’m a professional.”
And if you’re a paying client, I can’t fuck you
.

Maddy slaps my open palm with hers. “Here you go, hot stuff—an imaginary buck. Go buy yourself an imaginary cuppa coffee from 1991, on me.”

“I’m not kidding. Pay me. It can be a buck, a penny, whatever—but real money must exchange hands for this lap dance to occur.”
Because if you’re a paying client, I can’t fuck you
.

Maddy rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, you dork.” She pops off the bed and rummages around in her purse. She pulls out a crumpled dollar bill and lays it in my palm. “Here you go, hot stuff. Now go buy yourself a
real
cuppa coffee from 1991. Boom.”

“Thanks.” I toss the bill onto the nightstand next to our empty bottles of beer and look around the small room, trying to figure out how the hell I’m gonna do my
Magic Mike
routine in such a cramped space. “Okay. It’s gonna be hard for me to do what I usually do in this tiny room,” I say, my pulse pounding in my ears. I pull the only chair in the room out from under a small desk next to the dresser. “I’d normally have a speaker with a full light show, so you’ll have to use your imagination a bit.” I lead Maddy to the chair, place my palms on her bare shoulders and guide her to sitting.

“A
light
show?” Maddy says, settling herself into the chair. “Wow, you really
are
a pro. Gosh, should I be scared?”

“Not at all. I’m just gonna show you a good time.”
And make you want to fuck me.

Maddy giggles. “What exactly are you gonna do to me?”

Make you want to fuck me
. “Well, since you’re a newbie,” I say, “I’ll keep it simple. I’ll just serve up a little fried eggs, bacon, and toast with jam.”

Maddy giggles again. “Which would be... ?”

“What you saw in the movie. I’ll dance, tease you a bit, turn you upside down, flip you over this way and that, and then strip down to my briefs and shake my ass.” I pause. “Unless, of course, any of that makes you uncomfortable, in which case, I’ll only serve up what you think you can handle.”

Maddy’s eyes are sparkling. “What I can handle? I’m a baller, baby. Bring it Salt-N-Pepa style, son.” She winks.

I look at her blankly.

“’Push It,’” she says.

“Now who’s the dork?”

She giggles. “Just treat me like any other paying customer, Ball Peen Hammer. No holding back.”

“You sure?” I ask.
Because when I’m done with you, you’re gonna wanna fuck me.

“Hell yes!” Maddy shouts, pumping her fist into the air like a cheerleader. “Hit me with your top-of-the-line
smoove mooves
. Don’t think of me as Maddy; just think of me as another nameless pickle with a dollar bill.”

“All right. But fair warning: you’re gonna be obsessed with the idea of sleeping with me when I’m done.”

“Yeah, yeah, Ball Peen Hammer,” Maddy says, smirking. “So you keep telling me.” She makes a signing motion in the sky. “Another waiver signed. Now hit me with your best shot and I’ll take my chances about what happens next.”

Chapter 30

Maddy

Keane looks around the small motel room while I sit in a rickety chair, watching him. He seems nervous, though I can’t imagine why. Isn’t this what he does for a living?

“There isn’t a lot of room to maneuver in here,” Keane says, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m not gonna be able to do most of my usual moves.”

“No judgment here,” I say. “Just jiggle a little bit and I’m sure I’ll be duly impressed.”

Keane rolls his eyes. “I don’t
jiggle
, Maddy. I
dance
.”

“Okay,
gyrate
. Writhe. Shake your booty. Whatever. I’m just saying I’m easy to please.”

Keane twists his mouth, still surveying the small space. “I can’t do any of my acrobatics or flips in here. This is gonna be pretty lame, actually.” He sighs. “And I’ll definitely have to use the bed for some stuff. Okay? Otherwise, there’s no place to maneuver.”

I bite my lip, trying not to smile. “Do whatever you think is best,” I say. “I won’t know the difference. It’s my first lap dance, remember?”

Keane furrows his eyebrows adorably. “Okay. But just so you know I’m usually way more exciting than what you’re about to see.”

I purse my lips and flare my nostrils, trying to keep a huge smile at bay. Why the heckity-heck does Keane seem so freaking
nervous
? “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll mention the cramped performing space when I write my Yelp review.”

“Hang on.” Without warning, he leans over me, giving me a whiff of his delicious, soapy scent, grabs ahold of either side of my chair, and rotates me a quarter turn so I’m facing the length of the narrow “alley” between the beds and the dresser. “Okay, that’s better,” Keane says. “Gives me a little more room to work with.” He grabs a shirt from his duffel bag and throws it over the lamp on the nightstand, further dimming the already low lighting in the room. “Can I use your laptop to play some music?”

“Sure.” I motion to my computer on the bed and tell him the password.

After calling up something on my computer, Keane places the laptop onto the dresser to my left. “Press play on the song when I cue you,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

Keane positions himself a few feet in front of me, his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of his crotch, his legs spread into an athletic stance, but before he can do anything else, I burst into a manic giggle.

Keane looks up. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I just realized I’ve paid a male stripper for a private lap dance in a motel room.” I snicker. “Okay. I’m good now. Proceed.” I exhale and shake out my arms.

After a beat, Keane puts his head down again, but then immediately raises his face to look at me again. “Picture colorful lights swirling around the room, okay?”

“Ooooh. Aaaaaaah. Pretty.”

Keane levels me with the most hilariously annoyed expression he’s ever flashed at me (which is saying a lot). “Are you gonna be
sardonic
this entire time, or can you at least
try
to act like a normal pickle with a dollar bill?”

“Sorry. I will most definitely relax and act like a normal pickle with a dollar bill, starting now.”

“Thank you.” He takes a deep breath, shakes out his arms, clasps his hands in front of his crotch again, and lowers his head. “Cue music,” he says.

I dutifully reach over to my computer and press play on the song Keane’s got cued up on YouTube: “Pony” by Ginuwine, of course.

The song begins blaring in the small room. But Keane doesn’t move. To the contrary, through the first familiar chords of the iconic song, Keane remains stock-still, apparently letting anticipation build the same way Channing Tatum did when he danced to this song in
Magic Mike
. And I must say his tactic is working like a charm: I’m transfixed.

But, still, Keane doesn’t move, other than to subtly flex the muscles on his forearms.

Finally, after a few bars of the song, Keane begins moving his hips and slowly touching his chest over the fabric of his tight black T-shirt—an understated move that most definitely piques my interest—and when the song reaches Ginuwine’s vocals, Keane’s magnificent body finally springs to animated life, jerking and gyrating to the beat of the music.

Whoa.
Hotness
. I had no idea Keane could move like this. He’s as fluid as mercury.

“Woohoo!” I scream. “Yeah, baby! Now
that’s
what I’m talkin’ ’bout!”

Keane smirks at me, as if to say, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He thrusts his pelvis in rapid succession and then glides back a step, his body shuddering.

“Channing’s got nothing on you, baby!” I shout.

Keane’s body is bending and twisting now, undulating like an upright worm along with the song.

“Yeah, baby!” I shout.

In one easy motion, Keane leans completely back, touches the ground with his fingertips, and then pops back up to standing.

“Wow!” I scream.

Keane’s suddenly on his hands in the tight space and then back on his feet, and then he’s dry humping the floor with jaw-dropping thrusts, much to my shrieking delight. Then he’s back on his feet, peeling off his T-shirt while thrusting his pelvis into the air like he’s in the throes of extremely rough sex. Holy hell, Keane’s sweatpants are riding so low on his hips, it’s a wonder they’re not falling off when he’s moving like that.

“Woohoo!” I shriek, laughing gleefully.

Keane throws his T-shirt onto the bed and shoots me a smolder so intense, my breathing hitches.

“Sexy,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, though I’d intended to scream the word.

In a flash, Keane’s standing over me as I sit in my chair, his body heat wafting over me. Right in time with the music, he picks my chair up off the ground with me in it, making me shriek, and then quickly releases my seat to the ground while holding my body up by my ass.

I open my mouth to say, “Hey, I remember that from the movie,” but before I can get the words out, Keane’s got my thighs on his shoulders and my crotch in his face.

“Oh my...” is all I can manage to eek out as Keane shakes his head into my crotch like a voracious dog with a bone. But before I can say anything more, Keane’s strong arms are cradling my back and lowering me confidently onto the bed.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Wow.”

In a flash, Keane’s on top of me, his forearms resting on either side of my head, his pelvis dry-humping me to the beat of the song.

“Whoa. At least buy me a drink first, big guy,” I say.

Keane flips me onto my stomach and, an instant later, his pelvis is driving into my ass in cadence with the sexy music.

“Okay, now I’m gonna need dinner and dessert,” I say.

Keane exhales from behind me and stops moving. After a beat, he flips me over onto my back and straddles me with his strong thighs, his knees on either side of my hips, his sweatpants riding low. “Are you not feeling this
at all
?” he asks, his breathing labored.

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I feel my cheeks blush a deep crimson. “Am I supposed to be reacting differently? I’m sorry.”

“No, I just mean...” He stares down at me for a long beat, his blue eyes blazing, his muscles tensing. “This isn’t turning you on
at all
?”

“
Oh
. Um. Of course, it is. I mean, you’re gorgeous. Look at you. And your
smoove mooves
are amazing. I especially liked that back-door-action simulation.”

There’s a long beat of silence as Keane stares at me, apparently rendered speechless.

Damn. I feel like I’m saying exactly the wrong thing here. “And, hey, you did that oral-sex simulation from the movie even better than Channing Tatum,” I add, filling the awkward silence.

Keane’s eyes are burning. Wordlessly, he grabs my hands and places them above my head on the bed, his eyes boring holes into my face like laser beams. But he doesn’t speak.

“Um,” I say. I swallow hard. Whoa, this is kinda hot all of a sudden. “And, um, when you ripped off your shirt,” I whisper, my heartbeat suddenly raging in my ears, “that part was really...” I trail off, too flustered to finish my sentence. Wow, this is suddenly really, really hot.

Keane lets out a shaky breath but, still, he doesn’t speak. He slides his palms into mine and clasps my fingers. “That part was really
what
?” he finally asks softly, his eyes flickering with heat.

“Cool?”

Keane smirks. He releases my fingers and slides his palms out of mine, down past my wrists and forearms, over my armpits, all the way down to my ribcage, where he finally lets his hands come to a rest mere inches from my breasts.

I open my mouth to speak, thinking I should fill the silence between us, but I’m suddenly too overcome to form words. Every inch of the flesh Keane just touched is tingling like crazy. And I’m hyper-aware of the placement of his warm, strong hands on my body. If he moved them a mere inch, he’d be touching my breasts.

“Did I do anything at all to get your motor running?” Keane asks softly, his eyes locked with mine, his pelvis heavy on top of me.

I let out a long exhale to steady myself. I’m really not sure how to answer Keane’s question. Honestly, this thing he’s doing to me right now is getting my motor running ten times more than the actual “lap dance” he performed a few minutes ago.

When I don’t reply to his question, Keane slides his hands up from my ribcage—over my armpits, past the sensitive undersides of my arms, across my forearms and wrists—and into my palms again.