Page 4 of Watch Me

Heat flames through me at the realization.

Erections certainly aren’t uncommon in the VIP booth, and usually, I politely skirt them, avoiding contact to keep it from getting uncomfortable. But this time, I tease my crotch over the bulge in his pants again, unable to resist how good it feels—how the thought of his cock getting hard for me makes my insides ache pleasurably. Strangers’ hands touching me and strangers getting hard as they imagine fucking me is the stuff my arousal is made of. I rub my breasts against his hands and grind shamelessly on the hard bulge in his pants.

I’m getting hot, foggy-headed, distracted—fixated on the throbbing ache that’s building inside of me until the music is drowned out by the pounding of my blood in my ears. With my palms flat against the wall behind him, I lean forward and draw the warm, clean smell of him in, undulating my body like a wave until, this time, the ache inside of me seizes up tight, and I gasp.

I’m on the verge of coming.

I’ve gone too far.

I straighten up and take a sharp breath, missing the warmth of his hands as they slip down my sides, and stand to put some distance between us. I need to get a grip. I turn around and bend over, lifting my ass so he can see the thin strip of fabric covering my pussy, but there’s no touching between us.

Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts.

He runs his hands up the backs of my thighs, and it feels like sparks are rippling out from his fingertips and traveling over my whole body.

We’re not really supposed to remove our bottoms in the club, although some girls do. But some girls turn tricks in the VIP booth, too. As long as it’s just for show, I don’t think it’s so bad to tug my thong down over my hips, showing this most private part of myself to a stranger and knowing he’ll see how wet I am. How aroused.

I want to be a good girlfriend to Tate, I do. I tell him that stripping is just a job, that certain lines never get crossed, and that he has nothing to worry about. But the truth is, there is something in me that Tate can never fulfill. Something shameful, something dirty. I would never want him to know how hot and breathless I can get in a small booth with a strange man. How my darkest fantasies involve this and so much more—men taking me for their pleasure, one after the other, using me as a vessel and an object. Being watched. Being exposed. Being seen.

But they’re thoughts and nothing more. Nobody needs to know about the dirty things I dream of doing in private. I am a good girlfriend to Tate, and there are lines that never get crossed. This is just a moment, a fantasy… a job. I would never betray his trust. And showing myself isn’t the same as being touched.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“That is a beautiful fucking pussy,” says Nick, in such a raw voice that a fire spontaneously combusts in my belly. I can hear the desire in his voice, how much he wants to touch me, and even with the space I’ve put between us, I’m aching like he has his hands all over me. “You’re doing such a good fucking job turning me on, sweetheart.”

His praise undoes the little that’s left of my self-control. I push thoughts of Tate out of my mind as I sit down on his lap again, this time with my back against him, and reach for his hand. I lift it to my waist and let my pussy rub against his erection, feeling the roughness of his pants directly on the aching center of my need.

I’m going out of my head, thinking about his cock, thinking crazy things. Just losing all fucking reasoning.

This man is intoxicating me. I’m drunk off his touch and his smell, his low voice, his dark eyes. I lift his other hand to my breast and keep rubbing myself against him, making him groan.

He grinds back against me—so hard and so close to actually fucking I have to ignore the tiny warning voice in the back of my mind, the one trying to form the word Tate. I can’t pull myself out of the moment. Feeling him move against me is too good. I can’t stop.

“I loved watching you dance,” he breathes in my ear. “It changed the whole energy in the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch you. All those eyes watching you. Wanting you.”

His voice is rough, his breath hot against my shoulder, his words stoking the heat pulsing between my legs. My lips part, my breath unexpectedly catching at his words, my hips still moving with a cadence of their own.

Yes.

All those eyes watching me.

“You like being watched,” he observes.

“Yes.”

His right hand trails down to my inner thigh, holding me against him so that his erection is pressed even harder against my ass as I move.

The pressure building inside of me is unbearable and I can’t stand it any longer. I need his touch like it’s an oxygen mask, like my life depends on it. I place my hand over his and slide it up my leg until his fingers brush over my pussy, and then he starts rubbing me—small, rhythmic strokes that make my stomach clench.

“Imagine if they could see us now,” he murmurs, and just like that, a convulsive orgasm rocks through me.

I shudder, release, find my breath, and then, for a brief moment, I sag back against him, utterly transported—unaware of who I am or where I am. Just warm, heated goo melting against a hard body, breathless sensation coursing through me in gentle, shivery waves.

And then full consciousness descends upon me all at once. An avalanche of thoughts. Sudden clarity in the aftermath of my release, like an anvil falling from the ceiling.

“Fuck.”

I get off his lap, moving away from his hands so suddenly there’s no time for grace. I careen forward like a massive animal waking up from sedation. Panic slams into me.

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