Page 21 of Gilded Fake

He pulls me into his lap, and I land hard, one of my heels knocking his drink to the floor. The glass rolls away, but he doesn’t even look. He’s only looking at me.

I have no time to be embarrassed about my clumsy mounting. He pulls my legs into position on either side of his, so I’m straddling his lap, and then he clamps his hands on either side of the chair and smirks at me. “Do your worst, Queen Gloria.”

His smirk brings me back to my senses, reminds me who he is, how we are. “Oops!...I Did It Again” starts and I flip my hair in his face and then back. I’m rewarded with a startled look, so I rise off his lap and lean forward to do it again before I start to roll my hips above his.

“Don’t you mean Glory Hole?” I ask, bracing a hand on the back of the chair and leaning in, so my tits are in his face.

Ignoring them, he stares up into my eyes. “I’m not going to call you that.”

“Why not?” I challenge, strolling around his chair, grazing my fingertips up the side of his neck. I lean down and whisper his ear. “You don’t like my hole?”

I rake my fingers through his long hair, trying to ignore the way his silky strands feel between my fingers, the way it makes me picture doing that while my legs are wrapped around his hips. I start to scold myself, to tell myself to keep my head in the game, and then I remember there is no game. He won in that locker room. He knows how I feel. He knows I’m his the moment he says the word. All he has to do is take me.

He drops his head back and grins up at me. “Your hole is pretty glorious. But it’s not my favorite part.”

“Now I’m interested,” I say, leaning over him, letting my hair cascade over his cheek and down his neck. “Tell me more.”

“Guess.”

I strut around the other side of the chair and straddle him, this time facing the stage. I lower myself onto his lap, grinding my ass into his groin. He sucks in a breath, and I grind again, and again, moving slowly with the rhythm. I turn and give him an inviting grin over my shoulder. “Did I guess right?”

“No,” he says.

“You sure?” I ask, dropping my head back so the tips of my hair trail against him as I give a few quick bounces on his dick. “You seem like one of those guys.”

“What guys?” he asks, his voice taking on a guarded tone.

“A dog,” I say, standing and bracing my hands on my thighs to twerk over his lap for a second.

Then I pivot and step over his thigh, lowering myself to sit this time.

“Can’t deny that,” he says, giving me an aww-shucks grin that makes my tummy flutter and my heart skip a beat, even though he’s admitting to something that shouldn’t make me hot.

“My mom once told me that men fall into three categories—pigs, dogs, and little boys who want their mommies. Since working here, I’ve figured out who likes what.”

“Which is?”

“Pigs go straight in. Their favorite part is pussy. Dogs are always sniffing after tail—they call themselves ass men. And little boys, well, they want boobies.”

He finally lifts his hand from the chair, cradling my chin and thumbing my lower lip. “This is my favorite part. Your mouth. These lips make me lose my fucking mind, and that forked tongue cuts like a knife. What does that make me?”

“You like that?” I ask, cocking a brow. “My sharp tongue?”

“No,” he says, staring at my mouth like he’s about to devour it. “I fucking love it. Every time you walk by at school and don’t cut me down, I die a little. I miss it. I miss you.”

Suddenly, my eyes are stinging, and I want to cover myself, to run into the back room and hide. But I can’t, because we’re not even halfway through. The next forty minutes are going to be hell on earth after that confession.

Colt leans forward, sliding his hand behind my head and burying it in my hair as he rests his forehead against mine. “Am I allowed to kiss you?”

I want to say no, to tell him I can’t do this, I can’t keep enduring this torture. But he endured mine for a year, so I swallow the dagger in my throat and nod. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips over mine. My heart quivers, and I melt on his lap. He pulls my head closer, giving me a little more, his lips commanding mine to answer. I open, but he doesn’t give me his tongue, pulling back from the kiss instead, then starting again. I let him take the lead, following his cues. He kisses me gently, intensely, tenderly, like we’re not in the middle of a strip club with “Let Me Blow Ya Mind” thumping from the speakers, like I’m not in a thong and a top that doesn’t cover much more, like he’s not paying for this.

At last, he opens for me, and I melt into his mouth this time. His piercing presses into my tongue, and I shudder against him, burying my hands in his hair the way I wanted to earlier. He moans into my mouth, gripping my hip and squeezing, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. The sound makes my core throb, and a rush of heat fills my center.

The next song starts, “Never Be Me,” a slow song that I use to visit the tables and walk around collecting tips and flirting, but Colt doesn’t let me go. There’s no one else here, and he doesn’t seem to care that it’s not a dance song. He grips my head, dragging my mouth deeper, our tongues battling, dancing, playing. My clit throbs every time his tongue piercing reminds me what it can do to other parts of my body. I grind slowly against his thigh, aching with need.

His hands move over my hips, up my sides, around my back. I don’t have to tell him what’s off limits. For him, nothing is. I’d let him lay me back on the stage and eat me out like he did in the locker room. I’d let him fuck me right there, where the owners or bouncers could walk in on us, even if it meant getting fired. But he doesn’t even undo the strings holding up my top.

He presses his fingers into the center of my back, between my shoulder blades, and moans like he’s fingering my cunt. I whimper helplessly into his mouth in response, needing him inside me so badly I think I’ll explode. His tongue strokes over mine in a rhythm that makes my head spin and surges of wetness bloom in my center with every pass. I’m soaking his thigh, but I don’t care. I’ve never been kissed like this in my life, not even by him. I never want it to end, but I need it to end, need so much more. My swollen clit aches, and I grind harder, dragging my piercing against the hard muscles of his thigh until I can’t hold back.

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