Sweet Perdition (19 page)

The wild cat locked eyes with him and wrapped one, long, lean leg around the pole, held on tight. Then bucked against it. Hard. Again and again as he watched every fucking movement. He imagined her thrusting against him like that, as she rode his cock.

He clutched the empty beer bottle in his hand, worried he might bust the fucking thing.

She shimmied away from the pole, teasing him with more glimpses of her panties beneath the fabric of that short skirt. Then, turned and rocked her ass back and forth to Warrant’s
Cherry Pie
, pausing only to glance at him over her shoulder and then she winked.

Oh fuck me.

She glided down the stage steps, but snubbed the military douchebags and Suit Guy, eyes completely focused on Cowboy alone. The boys frantically tried to flag her down with dollar bills, but she strutted to his table instead. Then eased her arms up over her head and danced just for him.

She swung her hips, shook that ass. Then, she leaned over, giving him a real good view of those big tits, straining to break free from her corset.

Cowboy clenched his jaw.

She leaned down and whispered to him, her cherry mouth against his ear. “What do you say, baby? Take me to the champagne room?”

Christ.
His cock reared at her words, stood up in his pants like the stripper pole she’d twirled on. He knew she had only offered him an invitation to buy a lap dance, a poor imitation of what he really craved but his cock didn’t seem to give a shit about the circumstances.

Mentally, he said no. However, his dick, the traitorous fucker, made him say yes.

Before he could stop himself, he’d gotten to his feet and followed her down a very narrow hallway to a small, empty room. Discreet, and off the beaten, the room had red velvet chairs, a private pole, and a big black coffee table that could serve as a tiny stage.

Another thought suddenly occurred to him.

What if the Raptors used the dancers as prostitutes as well? Maybe the club had the girls proposition men for sex on site. It made sense. The club didn’t have to buy or rent a separate facility or even secure a hotel room. The bouncers could even protect their “merchandise” from dudes who might damage their investment.

And this situation put Cowboy securely on the horns of a real fucking dilemma.

When it came to the wild cat, he didn’t know if his moral compass currently pointed due north. Could he pass up the chance to fuck her if she offered it up? He swallowed thickly.

Dear fluffy Lord, I hope so.

He’d never paid for sex.
Never
. He considered it a point of pride. The women he slept with craved him as well. Nothing but mutual lust, attraction and never a business arrangement.

Cowboy argued with himself. He’d just look, okay, maybe touch, but
definitely
not fuck. Because it wouldn’t be right. He just needed to know exactly what kind of bullshit the Raptors were into. That’s it! If she offered, he’d pony up the cash and make her turn on the dickheads and blab all the details.

But, she didn’t offer him anything.
Not. One. Damn. Thing.

They stood staring at one another for a moment and he got the distinct impression that she’d never done this before. She bit her lip, not meeting his gaze and her confidence seemed to fade. The silence stretched in the small room. Just the two of them without the hypnotic, hard pounding music and the benefit of nearby alcohol to smooth the rough edges.

To clear the tension, he reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “We’ll worry about that in a bit.” She stepped up on the coffee table. “For now, I want you to watch me.”

A stripper or possible prostitute who wouldn’t take money up front? His bullshit o’ meter started ringin’. Yeah, she didn’t belong here. She didn’t seem drugged and had way more attitude than any stripper he’d ever seen.

None of it added up.

She hit the button on a remote she plucked from the table and then tossed it on the carpet. Chris Isaak’s
Wicked Games
filled the room. Much more mellow than the bump and grind music on the main floor. Like a puppet on her G-string, he sank down in the nearest chair, duty promptly forgotten in a haze of lust.

Everything seemed to melt away, the throbbing music from down the hall, the drunken catcalls. Nothing in all of Texas, but the two of them.

She started to move leisurely, seductively on the table. He couldn’t talk now, even if he wanted to. She ran a hand down the long, graceful line of her neck and then rubbed between the mounds of her breasts, touching herself where he longed to. Then, she turned around slowly and bent over, showing him her shapely ass as she stroked her impossibly long legs.

Cowboy gulped.

He gripped the armrests to keep from reaching for her.
Fuck
. Bent over like that, he could yank her panties aside, push his stiff cock in her. He could spread her wide open for him and then take her again and again, making her come for him until she pleaded with him to stop. Then he’d fuck her some more. Until they were both too exhausted to see straight. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

What the fuck am I doing?
Engaging in some masochistic blue ball torture, that’s what.

She hopped off the makeshift stage and walked to a table by the door. “I’m sorry. I forgot to offer you some bubbly, baby. This
is
the
champagne
room, after all.” She reached into a bucket of ice and pulled out a small bottle of champagne. The cheap shit. Not that he expected Dom Perignon or anything but it figures the Raptors would stock second rate alcohol. Perdition, the bar his club owned, only carried top shelf, but nothing as girly as sparkling wine.

She poured them two glasses of bubbly and then carried them both over. Her breasts nearly spilled over the top of her corset, bouncing as she walked. He wanted to see her rosy nipples puckering up, just begging to be taken in his mouth. Damn. Then, he wanted to pour the alcohol over them, lick it off her while she squealed and not in protest either.

But he settled for taking a sip from the glass she offered him, eyes glued to her chest. The alcohol tasted strange, medicine-y. It reminded him of the foul flavor of uncoated aspirin on his tongue. He took another swig of it, just in case he’d been mistaken.
Nope, shit still tasted bad.
Maybe because it was the cheap stuff?

“Something wrong?”

“This tastes like ass.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m more of a tequila man?”

He started to reach around her to place the flute on the table, but she clinked her glass to his. “A toast to discovery?”

Shit.
It’d be rude not to drink, so he forced himself to bolt the rest of it like a shot.

With a catlike grin, she set her glass aside, settled herself on his lap and he forgot he had the ability to form words. She put one strong thigh on either side of his, draped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts into his chest. She smelled like vanilla, slightly musky from dancing, and he wanted to lick her from head to toe.

“What brings you here, baby?” she asked. She had a slightly raspy voice, sensual. For the first time, he had the chance to see her up close. She had a hint of dark lines beneath her blue eyes, though she’d concealed most of it with makeup. He could still see the bruised appearance at the edges.
Hmm.
She hadn’t been sleeping well.

Well, he knew an old-fashioned horizontal remedy for that. He’d made more than one girl pass out.

His hands hovered at her sides. He knew he couldn’t touch, but he wanted to. Actually, grope. Yeah, that’s what he wanted to do. Grope the hell out of her, but that really wasn’t his style. With a woman he really liked, he took his time. Cowboy kept his head and he teased, tempted. Seduced her. He loved caressing her until she came apart in his arms.

But this one seemed to short circuit his sexual chivalry.

He suddenly remembered the question she’d asked him. “Just a good time, wild cat.” He smiled. “Call me Cowboy.” Not sure why he cared, but he didn’t want her to think of him as some nameless, faceless man.

Her full lips curled into a puzzled smile. “That can’t be your real name.”

“It’s my road name.” Bikers often called one another by nicknames.

She ran a hand through his hair. “No hat?” She glanced down at his shit kickers.

He smiled. “Not tonight. I ride a Harley and I can’t be chasin’ the damn thing up and down the highway when it blows off.”

Born and bred in the panhandle, Cowboy lived up to his road name. In his early twenties, he’d been a bull rider in the rodeo circuit and he still loved the gear—leather pants, cowhide gloves, and ten gallon hats. He had a serious hard on for cowboy boots too, owned a hundred pairs at least. Tonight, he’d worn a black leather pair, decked out with longhorn skulls.

“What’s your name, wild cat?” he asked.

“Why are you calling me wild cat?”

“Your tattoo. Come on, tell me your name.”

She hesitated a moment and then pasted on a seductive party girl expression. “What do you want it to be?”

He shook his head. “No. I want to know your real name and don’t tell me it’s Candy or Cinnamon or any of those other bullshit stripper names. What is it really?”

Like before, the guise of professional stripper deserted her and he could see the real flesh and blood woman, not the dolled up fantasy girl persona she put on to entertain drunken, horny guys. “
You
didn’t tell me
your
real name.”

“Well, let me rectify that. It’s Jake Grant.”

She nodded to him as though they’d met at a fancy citizen party or something and were making polite conversation. “Good to meet you, mine is Daisy Weston.”

“Daisy.” He liked that name, very old-fashioned and authentic. “What brings you here, Daisy?”

She hesitated a moment and he thought she might confide in him, tell him something real but the actual woman fluttered away, and fantasy girl took her place. She licked her cherry lips. “Exploration.”

With that, she started to move on his lap and he lost the ability to speak once more. Let alone think. He didn’t come here for a thrill, but dammit, he was only human. He leaned back in his seat and let her grind on him. She carefully avoided his cock at first, perched a few inches above it, but he doubted she didn’t miss the way his jeans puckered and bulged at the crotch.

Nine Inch Nails’
Closer
came on next and all that talk about feeling a woman from the inside sounded damn good. Might not be country, but he could relate to that shit. Especially now.

She raised her hands above her head and he thought for a crazy second about tying them. Fuck yes. He could tie her open, arms and legs stretched out. So, she couldn’t close herself off from him, spread her wide so he could fuck her. Endlessly.

She bucked against him then. Mimicking riding his cock. How much temptation can one man stand? Then she perched above him, bracing her arms on either side of the velvet chair, putting his face even with her cleavage.

Cowboy grabbed the chair arms again.

Then, she slowly slipped off of him, gliding her body down over his. Every single inch of her brushing against him until finally she knelt between his splayed legs. She caressed the outside of his thighs and he couldn’t help but buck his hips up. Meeting her. He spread his legs even wider and she rubbed his inner thighs.

Cowboy nearly lost his fucking mind. His cock twitched in his pants, as though it wanted to reach for her of its own accord.

She lowered her head between his legs and he groaned.
Damn.
The thought of her red, swollen mouth around his cock. Fuck. Sucking him deep, licking every single, hard throbbing inch of him.
Christ, please!
He needed it. Wanted it.

But instead of undoing his pants, freeing his cock and giving him the blow job he so desperately craved, she bent down and then placed the long column of her neck up against the seat with her face to the floor. Then, she gripped his thighs for balance and thrust her body upwards like a fucking gymnast. She pressed her tight ass up right against his chest and splayed her legs for him. Giving him just a glimpse of heaven.

Oh, fuck me.

Between her thighs, her panties had twisted just a bit, revealing swollen pink pussy lips, so slick and wet. She wanted him too.

He clamped down on the chair, viciously, fingers digging in. Cowboy called on every single ounce of willpower he possessed, anything to keep from lifting that tempting pussy to his hungry mouth. Licking it. Burying his face there.

He hovered in hell, unable to touch or taste, for minutes but it felt like hours.

Then, agile as a goddamn cat, she rolled back off him. With a grin, she snagged the glasses and sauntered to the table near the door once more, just tantalizingly out of his reach. She peeked at him over her shoulder. He knew the look. She silently dared him, like a grown up game of keep away.