Page 37 of Addicted

All I could think about was Indie.

The way her ass looked when I had her bent over. The way her pussy gripped my dick. The way she moaned my name when I made her come.

Fuck.

I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass down on the table harder than I meant to. Kenzoglanced at me but didn’t say shit.

The stripper in front of me kept dancing, bending over and touching her toes, looking back at me with a seductive smile.

“You like what you see?” she asked.

I stared at her, my face blank.

“Yeah,” I lied.

She smiled wider and moved closer, straddling my lap and grinding on me. I should’ve been hard by now. Should’ve been ready to take her ass to a private room and fuck the shit out of her. But I wasn’t, because she wasn’t Indie, and that shit was pissing me off.

After about thirty minutes of sitting there, drinking and half-watching the strippers, the one who’d been dancing for me leaned in close.

“You wanna go somewhere more private?” she whispered in my ear.

I hesitated.

Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe if I fucked her, I’d realize Indie’s pussy wasn’t even all that. That I’d been building it up in my head.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She smiled and stood, taking my hand and leading me through the club toward the private rooms in the back.

The private rooms at Chrome were clean and luxury as fuck. There was nothing dingy or cheap about them. Leather couches, dim lighting, mirrors on the walls. The kind of spot where you could get comfortable.

She closed the door behind us and locked it, then turned to me with a sultry smile.

“Sit down, daddy,” she said, nodding toward thecouch.

I sat, spreading my legs and leaning back.

She walked over slowly, swaying her hips, then dropped to her knees in front of me. She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans, pulling my dick out. It was semi-hard, but not fully. She wrapped her lips around it and started sucking, her head bobbing up and down.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to focus. Trying to get into it. But all I could think about was Indie.

The way she looked at me when I was inside her. The way she bit her lip when she was about to come. The way she cussed me out and then kissed me like she couldn’t get enough.

The stripper was doing her thing, going dumb on my dick, but it wasn’t doing shit for me.

After a few minutes, I was hard enough to fuck, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out a condom, rolling it on.

“Get on top,” I said.

She stood and stripped off her G-string, then climbed onto my lap, positioning herself over my dick. She sank down slowly, moaning as she took me in. I gripped her hips and let her ride, watching her titties bounce as she moved. But I just wasn’t feeling it. My mind was somewhere else.

On Indie.

On the way she felt. The way she tasted. The way she looked at me like I was the only nigga in the world who could make her feel that way.

The stripper was riding me faster now, moaning louder, putting on a show. But I couldn’t come. Couldn’t even get close. Because she wasn’t Indie.

That realization hit me like a punch to the gut.