I want her.
Cowboy tried to shake the mental hold the stripper had on his dick. Something about the blonde tempted him and it should have been hard to keep his interest. After all, he’d bellied up to a busty bar full of options.
Far as his cock knew, she was the only woman in the club.
He tried to focus on his surroundings, instead of the woman dancing on stage. Not much to report. Although his twenty-something self would have loved the Pussycat Palace’s brothel vibe, he had outgrown that stupid shit for the most part.
The place left a lot to be desired. Cheetah fabric covered the booths, with cheap black acrylic tables. Fake gold stripper poles lined the stage and the long catwalk. The Palace waitresses walked around in tight white tank tops which featured a nearly naked woman in a cat costume, along with black Daisy Dukes that showed a generous amount of ass.
Well, the outfits weren’t that bad.
The music sucked though. Cowboy pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to fight off a headache as the DJ started up George Michael ’s I Want Your Sex. He’d never really cared for 80s artists because all of the music sounded the same to him. He loved old school country, Johnny Cash in particular.
Cowboy needed to get some info and he’d hoped the dancers or the waitresses would be a bit more chatty on such a slow night. But they’d been skittish, dodging his questions and giving him a wide berth. Other than the club owner, the bouncers, and himself? No bikers. Only a passel of drunken, horny military dudes crowded around the main stage hooting and hollering at the women.
That and a man in a very expensive suit.
He kept to himself in the corner, scribbling away in some leather bound notebook. Somethin’ about Suit Guy bugged the shit out of him. All buttoned up and squared shoulders, he didn’t react to the dancers. What man comes to a strip club and ignores the main attraction? And while Cowboy glanced in his direction, the dude actually yawned. Yawned?!
Cowboy shrugged. Weird as it was, it didn’t happen to be his business and he had much more pressing concerns. Like sneaking a glance at the stripper again.
Great rack. He could get lost between those big tits. Damn. She had just been fucked hair, a blond tumble of curls surrounded her pretty face, like she’d left some lucky bastard’s bed moments ago and he’d been running his hands through it all night. Her tight ass cheeks peeked from beneath a tiny skirt. She’d topped off the outfit with red, fuck me heels, and black thigh highs trimmed with crimson bows.
He loved the tat on her shoulder. A lioness growling, with teeth bared, and claws out. It extended down the line of her back, and then disappeared beneath a red corset. It made him wonder if she was a wildcat in bed or a sweet purring pussy.
When he tore his attention away from her, he noted the rest of her co-workers were in a daze. Sure, strippers usually regarded horny guys with bored expressions as they danced. But these girls? Lifeless. Nothing but a row of pretty painted zombies shuffling around the catwalk as George crooned about gettin’ some. He supposed they could be junkies. Cowboy recognized the signs. They had red-rimmed, spaced out eyes, dull hair and skin, slowed reaction time. Not to mention they were skinny as understuffed scarecrows.
His girl didn’t look bored though.
She eyed the crowd, evaluating them, and then marched down the catwalk like a drill sergeant traipsing by the new recruits. All obey my commands and kiss my boots attitude. He had no clue why she had come to the Palace, but he’d bet his blue Harley Fat Boy, she hadn’t come here to strip.
When she reached the edge of the stage, she launched herself at the pole and spun on it like a wild thing. Women usually seduced the pole, treated it like a lover to be gently rubbed against. Not his girl. She attacked it and then forced it into submission, upending her body on the rod, and then clenching it with her strong thighs. Squeezing.
Holy fuckin’ shit.
Cowboy had a boner the size of Texas in his Levis. He’d love nothing more than to explore every single inch of her long, powerful legs. He couldn’t help but think of them wrapped around his waist as he fucked her.
Oh hell yes. He could back her up against a wall, drive into her while she clawed up his back, coming for him again and again.
He drained the rest of his lukewarm beer and tried to pull his shit together. He had a job to do. He’d come to question the girls since the Raptors were out on a run and he shouldn’t be sitting here getting his motor revved.
The Four Horsemen, his MC, had gotten wind that the Raptors had been trafficking in women, using them for profit. From what he’d pieced together from the night of the living dead strippers on stage, there had to be some truth to the stories. That sort of shit didn’t sit well with the Four Horsemen. He’d bring the info back to his club and they’d sort this out, preferably the hard way.
The Horsemen were something of an anomaly in the MC world. They had many ways to earn, but none of them involved using women. By far their favorite business, a very lucrative one at that, involved karmic facilitation, a Horsemen term for meting out some richly deserved vigilante justice. Usually for profit and hell, sometimes just for fun. In other words? What goes around comes around to bite you on the ass.
The club motto wasn’t Think on Your Sins for nothing.
Unfortunately, he had to stay in a holding pattern until he conferred with his brothers. Cowboy felt naked without his Four Horsemen cut, the leather vest which marked him as a member of the MC. He wanted to shut this thing down. Tonight. He fantasized about drawing his Colt, rounding every single one of these dickheads up, and then making an example of them, all by his Lone Ranger self. But he knew it would be suicide.
And he’d gotten over his death wish a couple of years ago.
He scanned the back of the club. Two big guys served as bouncers. They both had to be pushing three hundred and fifty pounds, easily six and a half feet. Both of them wore Raptor prospect cuts, so they hadn’t been officially let into the club. Like a fraternity, potential members had to pledge before they became full members.
Down the hallway, to the left of the stage, he spied the Raptor meeting room. The club symbol, a bird of prey with talons bared, had been carved into the wooden doors. Took some balls, to put your MC’s club house in a strip joint funded by drugged women.
He couldn’t help but eye the pretty stripper again.
And damn if she didn’t look good enough to eat. From the way his dick reacted, you’d think he hadn’t seen a woman in years. Even though he’d gotten a blow job this morning from one of the hellions, naughty girls who hung around his club. Nothing special, but it had drained his balls and cleared his head. Well, until he saw the stripper.
Wildcat 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 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 Wildcat , 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 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.
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, practically 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?
“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 brown 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. He 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, Wildcat.” 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 grin. “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.
“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 Texas, 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, Wildcat ?” he asked.
“Why are you calling me that?”
“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?”
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.
He 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.
He 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 a glimpse of heaven.
Oh, fuck me.
Between her thighs, her panties had twisted 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. He 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, 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.
She undid a few hooks on the front of her corset and turned around again. Winked. The corset peeled away from her skin, fully revealing that smokin’ hot tattoo. He had the urge to trace the line of it with his tongue.
The corset dropped to the floor, but she wouldn’t turn around. She could teach a course in teasing When, she finally came his way, she held the champagne flutes and he was treated to the sight of her breasts bouncing. He rubbed his hands up and down the length of his thighs, hoping to ease his need to touch her by stroking himself, trying desperately to quiet his greedy body. His good intentions nearly shredded by need.
“Champagne is delicious, although it is an acquired taste.” She set her glass down, but held on to his and then straddled him once more, knees on either side of his thighs.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Try it again, for me?” She brought it to his lips and he obligingly took another sip, some leaked from the corner of his mouth. Yep, still tasted like shit, not that he fucking cared at the moment.
“Oh, you missed a spot.” She captured it with her fingertip and he sucked it in his mouth, licking the sweet little digit clean. He drew on her finger in a pantomime of what he’d rather be doing, sucking fiercely on one of her nipples. Both of them were hard, pinkish tan and so tantalizingly close he could fucking scream. The Wildcat was slowly killing him.
Her voice lowered to a throaty whisper. “Here,” she said, pressing the glass to his lips once more, “have another drink.” He gulped down the rest of the foul-tasting stuff. He would have done anything to make her happy in that moment. He didn’t want her to get off his lap.
She brought her mouth to his, soft lips grazing his. For a second, he thought she would kiss him, but no, she teased him with the promise of one.
Damn. I’m going to cum in my pants.
And that’s when shit started to go south in a big way.
He suddenly felt a little lightheaded. Tipsy. But besides the girly champagne, he’d only had a couple of beers tonight. Okay, four beers. But that couldn’t be it. Now and then he’d stay out with the brothers all night, doing shots with beer chasers for hours sometimes. He had a high tolerance. Sure, he felt queasy as fuck afterwards and sometimes he even made an ass out of himself by singing Ring of Fire at the top of his lungs but he never, ever passed out. He could handle his liquor like a man.
But not this time.
A few drops of champagne had him feeling like a debutante on prom night. He had the strangest notion he’d just been fucked over.
He searched her face, but she seemed perfectly fine. In fact, she’d dropped the stripper facade altogether and watched him with a raised eyebrow and an air of impatience.
What the hell? Did she drug me?
He slumped further down in his seat, nearly unable to keep his eyes open. He heard her chuckle as she crouched over him. He struggled to lift his head, move his arms, but it felt like lead weights had been cuffed to him.
“Lights out, Cowboy,” she purred.
And the world faded to fucking black.