Page 22 of Gilded Fake

The climax ripples through my entire body, pulsing in my center, clenching my thighs, curling my toes, tingling in my fingertips and the crown of my head. I tear my mouth from his, dropping my head back and gasping out my bliss, riding his thigh while I cum and cum and cum. When I start to sink back into my body, he drags me forward, swiping his tongue along my collarbone and up my neck, licking up the dew of sweat on my skin. He moans into the hollow of my throat, nipping at my skin. I let out a breathy giggle as his teeth graze over the tickling spot, and he does it again, his low chuckle vibrating through me and electrifying me all over again.

“Are you laughing at me?” I manage, too dazed to feel the mortification I should.

“I found another ticklish spot,” he murmurs against my throat, stroking his thumb inside my hipbone and making me giggle again. “I remember this one from before.”

“You’ve found all my weaknesses,” I say, cradling his head, not wanting to let go, to let even a few inches of space separate us. “When do I get to find yours?”

“I only have one,” he says, nuzzling my ear.

“Then I should know it. It’s only fair.”

“You already know it,” he says. “You are it.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, sliding my arms around his neck as a new song comes on.

“No more Miley?” he asks.

“There’s more later. Why? You like Miley?”

“I love her now,” he says, still holding me close, like he can’t get enough either. He cradles my shoulder blades in his palms, his eyes falling closed like he’s lost in pure bliss just having me in his arms. It’s so foreign to me that I don’t know what to do with it, how to process that someone could want to touch me in a nonsexual way, that a man could want anything else. Even last year, when we were so wrapped up in each other we were blind to the world, it was pure and raw, the most simple, primal instinct driving every encounter. It was sex and only sex.

Wasn’t it?

We sit there for an entire song, tangled together, holding on without words, Colt’s head nestled under my chin, his ear against my chest, his arms supporting me, mine around his neck.

Finally, I kiss the top of his head and pull away. “Your time’s halfway up. What do you want now?”

“I want you to walk out of this place and never come back.”

“That’s not on the menu.”

“Then do what you just did again,” he says, his voice hardening. “But this time, do it on my dick.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to change the music.”

I have a couple playlists, and they all work, but I need a minute to get my head on straight. He didn’t like when I told him no, and he’s pissed, and I have to tread carefully because I know what angry men are capable of. I’m thankful for the moment to walk away, to breathe, to tell myself he’s just a client, and it doesn’t mean any more than any other client. He has a girlfriend, and now that I pissed him off, he’s ready to humiliate me. I steel my nerves, change the music, and then tease him by spending the first song on the pole again.

Then I get to strut down the steps the way I wanted to before, feeling his gaze on me as I approach, swaying my hips, letting my fingertips graze my skin as I go. He watches, his eyes glazed with drugs and lust, his jaw set. He has another glass of bourbon in front of him now, and he toys with it while I make my way over.

I approach cautiously, my heart hammering, my mind clear and sharp. I have to be. I’m a snake charmer wading into a pit of vipers. He could hurt me in a million ways, and even though I could call for a bouncer, by the time they reach us, plenty of damage could be done. I know how quickly a life can be ruined.

I don’t tease this time, don’t do my sexy stroll around his chair or grind my ass on him. I don’t want to turn my back to him right now, so I straddle his lap, slide all the way in until our hips connect, and watch him. There’s no talk this time, no smiles, no playfulness. I sit on his dick, and I grind.

He stares back, not taking his eyes off me. I can feel the thick ridge of his erection, and I drag my pussy along it from base to tip, giving a little pump against the hard piercings I can feel in the head. His nostrils flare, and the muscle in his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t react otherwise. I do it again, and again, and I don’t stop until the song is over. We’re locked in some silent battle of wills, and I’m not going to stop until he stops me, until he can’t take it anymore, until he shows his hand or folds.

The problem is that I always fold first. I care more, I love more, want him more. I try to hold back as I find my tempo to the next song, but before it’s over, I know I’m going to lose this one like I lost in the locker room. How can I stop myself? He’s a fucking wet dream in human form, his strong arms covered in ink, the tattoos climbing his neck, the piercings in his nipples obvious through his shirt, the ones I can feel in his cock through his jeans. His smoky blue eyes that smolder with lust as he watches me lose control, the long, messy waves of his hair, still tousled from my fingers.

“Colt,” I cry, rising from his lap, knowing I’m going to break before he does.

His hand shoots out, closing around my throat. It’s not hard, but it’s enough to stop me. He slams me down onto his lap. “Keep. Going,” he growls, his voice ragged.

“I can’t,” I gasp, and then the last threads of my self-control slip, and I feel my core throbbing out my climax against the thick head of his cock, my piercing making my clit painfully sensitive as it pulses against his damp jeans. I want to hide my face in shame, that I lost again, that I can’t get him off.

But when I drop my gaze, it snags on his chest, the planes of muscle straining against his shirt, the rapid rise and fall as he breathes. No, it’s not just breathing.

It’s panting.

A thrill goes through me, and I take a second to catch my breath.

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