Page 5 of Time Out

I don’t even know him.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I could kick your butt at Mario Kart if that’s the kind of play you’re talking about,” I snap back, my tongue still thick from the gin and tonics I threw back in order to gain the liquid courage to take the stage wearing the world’s smallest Harley Quinn costume.

“Yeah?” His gray eyes fix on mine so I can’t move, and I want to look away, but I force defiance onto my face as I stare right back. “Cute. I like a little sass to go along with your ass.”

He tips his head in a way that makes me shiver, with a glimmer in those wild eyes that also has me clenching my inner muscles while a treacherous warmth soaks into the slip of red shimmering fabric between my legs.

His earthy, spicy scent isn’t helping me hold onto my anger. He’s scary, and sexy, and those two things shouldn’t happen together but right now my body doesn’t seem to care. I could run, except I’d be flat on my face in two steps. These shoes are far from practical, especially for escaping a wild-eyed maniac that just dragged me from the stage.

Without warning, he lurches forward, recovered from the shock of my smack, and takes my chin roughly between his thumb and forefinger, turning my face towards his as he plants a kiss on my lips. Not a peck, like some embarrassed teenager fumbling around. This is hard, entitled and demanding.

His lips crush against mine, squeezing them against my teeth, forcefully pushing his warm tongue past my lips as I whine, but instead of biting it off I kiss him back as his hand spreads my thighs, greedy, thick fingers pressing hard against my sex.

I try to shift back, to regain some control, but his enormous frame covers mine, slamming me back into the car and taking a handful of pussy like he has signed, titled ownership of it.

That little bit of fabric between my legs is no barrier to entry as his rough fingertips slide through my slit, my Judas body responding with a rush of slick arousal.

“Skilled gamer, huh?” he mutters as I half moan, half sob, embarrassed that I’m so turned on by his touch. “You’ve got all the pieces to play the game, that’s for sure. Not sure you know how to use them though.”

Why didn’t the bouncers stop him, I wonder? When I did my initial on-boarding, or whatever they call it for Chubby Chaser’s night at The Easy Street Strip Club, I was told the bouncers would keep guys from touching. That was left for VIP rooms, where the house always gets their cut.

Nothin’s free here. They pay to play, honey.

That’s what Desiree Dangerous—the den mother of the Easy Street back room—informed me as she went over the ins and outs of the amateur competition I entered for a shot at a two-thousand-dollar first place prize. She went on to only lightly veil the ins and outs of making some extra cash… Girls pay the club $20 for fifteen minutes use of the VIP rooms. Anything a dancer collects beyond that for whatever… VIP games they play… is theirs to keep.

It's a don’t ask don’t tell sort of arrangement.

I didn’t expect to take them up on that extra offering, and my dreams of landing some sort of prince charming and a two grand first prize were as far ahead as I thought this through.

Clearly, my game playing skills are not as honed as I thought.

My pulse is kicking up a hot fuss all through my veins as the stranger grunts, and his groping, heavy hands fix themselves onto my hips, his jaw clenched. I’m practically naked, my boobs are aching and exposed, and the temporary spray dye I put in my hair is flaking off all over me, but here in the grimy parking lot behind the club, we draw no attention.

“We’re going to play some games I hope to hell you have not been playing with anyone else.” His thick voice doesn’t fill me with fear like it should.

No one seems interested in the stripper that was just dragged out the back of the club to a super shiny black car, so my choices right now are a) fight, which clearly from the size of this guy and the strength of his grip, I would lose, or b) use my wits.

I go with the second choice.

I play into his lead with a cock of my head. “I like all kinds of games, so…”

“Good. First game is, do what you’re told.” His low voice sends a shiver over my skin. “Get in.”

He swings open the car door, not really giving me a chance to comply before he manhandles me into the seat, my bare breasts jiggling. The leather is cold on my back and legs as he centers me on the seat, one hand applying pressure with his flat palm on my chest while the other grabs the seat belt, tugs it across my nearly naked body, and clicks it into place.

My breathing is shallow, my heart fluttering like hummingbird wings as he swings the door shut, stomps around the front of the car, and practically battles his massive body behind the wheel.

He considers me sitting there in my disheveled, barely-there outfit, before stripping off his black jacket and stuffing it down my back and around my shoulders.

“As much as I’m enjoying looking at your tits and the fact that if I was a weaker man, I’d have you on all fours banging down the door to your womb right here, right now, I won’t harm you or let anything harm you. Including cold weather.”

With that, the door slams shut, and even with his crude words about banging down the door to my womb I’m not picking up on a Ted Bundy vibe from this guy.

If I am being honest, I think he really meant he wouldn’t let anything harm me. Including cold weather.

This night is not what I expected, but maybe, maybe…this is my white knight riding in. He just has a different sort of approach.

I don’t ask where we are going as the engine come on with a low rumble, the wheels spin gravel from the decaying asphalt parking lot, and we head out into the darkness.

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