It’s been so long. So, fucking long since I’ve been touched by a woman. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I got a lap dance either.
Her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, and I take a moment to look at her face clearly for the first time. Maybe that’ll help me get my dick under control.
Nope, fuck, she’sstunning.
Full, soft pink lips. Big, round green eyes—way too big for her face but somehow, they work. Dark blonde waves that fall past her shoulders. Her nose is slim and straight, and her cheekbones are high.
There’s no other way to describe her face than like a faerie, or maybe a ballerina.
And her body?Damn.
It’s small but toned. Her back looked strong like she works out and her curves are petite but easily a mouthful. Perky little tits, high and tight. But it’s her smile that’s easily the prettiest thing about her.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” she says, her voice playful.
I come back to the present. “It’s true. It’s not really my thing.”
“Oh, half naked women and lap dances aren’t your thing?”
“I swear,” I say quickly, holding my hands up in defense before realizing they’re dangerously close to touching her chest. I drop them to my sides and run a hand through my too-long hair instead.
It’s nearly shoulder-length now, messy, dark brown and in need of a good wash, but it keeps me warm under my helmet when I'm out on the ice and frankly, I haven't cared about my appearance much lately. And I intend that in multiple senses.
“My teammates… they dragged me here. We had a huge win tonight, and they insisted on celebrating. Apparently, this is the club our rivals frequent, so they thought it’d be funny to show up and outspend them or whatever. Make a point that we just kicked their asses.”
“I see.”
She doesn’t sound convinced and I'm not sure why it matters to me that she believes me. It shouldn’t matter. I’ll never see this woman again. And yet, the disbelief in her eyes makes me want to keep trying to defend myself.
Her hips shift with the beat change, and her hands slide down to my chest as she does some sort of body roll that she absolutely shouldnotbe doingif she doesn't want me to embarrass myself.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, switching gears because that feels like a polite thing to ask. Ask a professional how long they've been doing their job when they're so good at it.
Yeah, sure. Not creepy at all.
Her smile shifts, softening, her eyes sparkling just a little. “It’s my first night.”
“Your first…” The word gets stuck in my throat as I try to process that.
No way. The way she just danced on stage like she'd been up and down that pole a thousand times—hell, the way she’s still moving against me—it doesn’t line up with someone new to this.
She’s too polished, too confident and I'm way too turned on right now.
“Tonight was your first night?”
“Yep.”
I’m stunned, and it must show on my face because her smile deepens, a touch of amusement there now.
How does someone like her end up here? Sure, this club is high-end, way nicer than the grimy, neon-lit dives I’d always pictured strip clubs to be, but she doesn’t fit the mold. There’s something too refined about her, polished in a way that doesn’t quite match the setting.
But then again, maybe that’s part of her charm.
My gaze drifts to her fingernails—perfectly manicured, trimmed short, and coated in a simple nude polish.
Even that detail feels deliberate, understated, like her refusal to wear nipple tassels or take off her top, unlike her dance partner. It’s different, and it stands out.
I don't think I've ever met a woman who didn't have colorful nails but nude screams ‘I'm a professional and I’m not trying to distract you from whatever the hell I’m about to say. So, listen up!’
