Back, back, back I walk him, until we’re back in the bedroom. Until his calves are up against the bench at the foot of our bed. I bring both hands to his shoulders and apply pressure until he catches on and sits, like a good boy.
The song is restarting, and what timing.
It’s my turn to inflict some damage.
Leaning forward so my lips hover a breath away from his, I whisper the words that set the tone for what’s about to come. Our mouths brush in a cruel way with each whispered syllable.
“No. Touching.”
My fingers trace up and down his torso as I speak them, making it clear to him that the rule appliesonlyto him.
I’ll be doing whatever the fuck I want here.
He groans, biting his lower lip, looking pained. That massive erection of his looks painful, at least. It jumps when my fingers run down his stomach, jerking as my fingers ghost over the hard ridge beneath his pants, his eyes fluttering shut at the almost contact.
My face falls into a comically sympathetic pout at the sight of it. “That looks mighty urgent, sir. But just a reminder, we run a clean establishment here. No funny business with the dancers.”
His eyes shudder, his head dropping back and he breathes out heavily through his nose, already frustrated. This is gonna be fun.
I step back, just a few steps, enough so he can see all of me, and his head snaps up, locking his gaze on me. The feeling that I’m all he sees? That I’m all hewantsto see? Fuck it’s a heady rush.
My nipples tighten, hardening underneath the fabric of the bra, and every inch of skin turns hypersensitive, lust riding shotgun, a passenger on board every single blood cell in my body as it flows to each organ, all my extremities and everything in between, lighting me up from within.
One of my hands trails down and over my chest, in between my highly visible cleavage, and down the curves of my stomach, until it rests at the hem of the tiny, ruffly skirt covering so little of me. I pick up the very edge of it, lifting just enough to show him what’s on underneath. A black, very lacy, hardly there thong.
His nostrils flare as he inhales sharply, need racing through every line of his body.
From this angle, he probably can’t see how wet I am, and I know he can’t feel how torturous this lace feels against my intimate skin, but that’s for me to know and him to probably never find out.
And now it’s time to start the rest of the show.
The intoxicating beat sets the rhythm, and I turn this bedroom into our own VIP room. My hips drop down, then roll in a wide circle, ass sticking so far out as they do. I pop each hip, first at the left, then the right side, skirt swaying and shifting teasingly with each motion, giving him a peek but never the full view of what lies beneath the short fabric.
I mumble a prayer under my breath to whoever watches over burnt out moms who survive on iced coffee and spicy books, then drop down to the floor, giving my knees a run for their money. There’s a quiet creak or few as I do, but it doesn’t kill the mood, luckily.
It’s fucking worth it to see the look on his face, the way he adjusts himself without thinking as he watches my ass drop low like that.
I spread my knees teasingly, a delicate hand on each one as I pop them open for him for just a blip of a second. Flash him the money shot real fast, then again for good measure, before arching my back and standing back up, ass leading the way. I make sure to lean over on my way up, so that he sees damn near down to my navel through the low cut of this magical fucking shirt.
The insistent, pumping beat of the song keeps pounding through our bedroom, hopefully reminding him of all the times he’s pounded me in here, and elsewhere.
He breathes my name out on a low breath, and his throat could be full of the gravel from our fish tank right now for how thick and heady it sounds. “Fucking hell, Di.”
I’ll take ways to torture your hard-up spouse for $500, please.
His eyes don’t even know where to look. They’re racing around, stuck on my face, then dragged down suddenly to my thighs, what’s hiding underneath this skirt, up to my rack, peeking around to see what he can of my ass, then my face again. It’s like he can’t afford to miss a single glimpse of any part of me, and the power I feel in this moment is addictive. I want to give him every reason to never let those eyes stray again.
The sultry song keeps playing, the rap verse pumping me up to take this further. I let it sink in, the added confidence, a reminder of all the times I’ve driven this man absolutely crazy with the dirty shit we’ve done.
“Do I need to remind you that the no touching rule also applies to your…ahem…own body?” My voice is a lot more innocent than the rest of me is right now, with one hand in my hair and the other between my legs.
He looks down to his lap, surprised to find one of his hands stroking himself over his pants absently.
“You’re killing me here, Di,” he moans after he pulls both hands back, placing them behind him on the bench, so he’s leaning back on his arms now, almost against the bed as he watches.
I know, Chance. That’s the plan.
I lean forward, flashing him a view of the milk makers again, hands on my knees as I get close to his personal space.
