the right places and left little to the imagination.
Clear, hard plastic stripper shoes that looked like glass, with two-inch platform soles, led up to long, lean legs, and Micah briefly pictured those legs around his hips, her body under his on his bed, her fingers digging into his back as she cried his name. He blinked and shook his head. That image was way too real. Almost like a premonition. What the hell?
Scarlet worked the room like a maestro. Everyone came to the Garter to see her, which was why management usually pushed her show toward the end of the evening to keep the patrons hanging and spending. And tonight was no exception. The room was packed even more now than before. Standing room only.
Scarlet gripped the pole, swung around, upside down, and contorted herself into positions worthy of Cirque du Soleil. God, she was one fucking flexible human being, and Micah's cock twitched as another shot of her getting flexible on him in his bedroom dashed through his mind.
Who knew what to expect from Scarlet? Sometimes her shows were softer, more angelic. Sometimes they were more classical. Then others, like tonight, she was hard and in your face, almost like an angry, bondage queen ready to pull out a whip and draw blood. She leaped off the pole, sank into a power squat, rotated her hips hard, arms strong and flexed, head back as if she were pleasuring herself to orgasm, and then she whipped herself around the pole again, her body all hard angles and strength.
If men here cheered, they would be losing their voices right about now. Because, shit, Scarlet was hotter than Hades, on fire beyond the usual. Maybe it was the heavy-duty beats she cavorted to, because White Zombie provided a raw soundtrack for the extreme moves she was laying down, and Micah sat transfixed, taking in this last bit of enjoyment.
All too soon, the song ended, and Scarlet bowed and left the stage. And for what felt like the first time in almost five minutes, Micah breathed. She had that effect on him, and as he glanced around the room and picked up the vibe of heavy arousal from the crowd, it was clear he wasn't the only one she affected. Possessive jealousy hummed under his skin, and he glared at the other patrons, ready to rip off the heads of anyone who tried to touch her.
What the fuck? Why was he going all mated male medieval all of a sudden? He was already mated—well, half-mated—to unreciprocating Jackson. His reaction to Scarlet didn't make sense.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malek check his watch. It was almost time for his private dance. "You sticking around?" Malek said.
Micah shook off the odd mated aggression roiling through his nerves…emotions that Scarlet, not Jackson, had evoked. "No, man. I'm going to get out of here." He needed to clear his head, get some fresh air, move, do something. Because his brain was fritzing out.
"You sure?" Malek stood and downed the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass back on the table.
"Yeah, I'm sure." Micah adjusted himself, killed his own drink, and dropped a twenty on the table to cover their bill as he stood.
"Okay." Unspoken promises thickened the air between them. Promises of good-bye and secrecy, as well as protection. Malek would keep his word and not let anyone come for Micah when Jackson left. "You take care, Micah."
"You, too, Malek." He clasped hands with his old friend, and then pulled away and headed for the door as Malek slinked toward the private rooms in back, a shroud of guilt falling over him. The guy still felt like he was cheating on Carmen, and Micah stopped for a moment and stared with compassion after him. Poor Malek. What would happen to him after Micah was gone?
The snow had picked up, coming down in blustery curtains of large, heavy flakes, coating the sidewalks and streets with over an inch of powder. Within minutes, Micah's hair was covered, as were his shoulders.
He didn't mind the cold, so he kept walking. A couple of times, he felt
Clear, hard plastic stripper shoes that looked like glass, with two-inch platform soles, led up to long, lean legs, and Micah briefly pictured those legs around his hips, her body under his on his bed, her fingers digging into his back as she cried his name. He blinked and shook his head. That image was way too real. Almost like a premonition. What the hell?
Scarlet worked the room like a maestro. Everyone came to the Garter to see her, which was why management usually pushed her show toward the end of the evening to keep the patrons hanging and spending. And tonight was no exception. The room was packed even more now than before. Standing room only.
Scarlet gripped the pole, swung around, upside down, and contorted herself into positions worthy of Cirque du Soleil. God, she was one fucking flexible human being, and Micah's cock twitched as another shot of her getting flexible on him in his bedroom dashed through his mind.
Who knew what to expect from Scarlet? Sometimes her shows were softer, more angelic. Sometimes they were more classical. Then others, like tonight, she was hard and in your face, almost like an angry, bondage queen ready to pull out a whip and draw blood. She leaped off the pole, sank into a power squat, rotated her hips hard, arms strong and flexed, head back as if she were pleasuring herself to orgasm, and then she whipped herself around the pole again, her body all hard angles and strength.
If men here cheered, they would be losing their voices right about now. Because, shit, Scarlet was hotter than Hades, on fire beyond the usual. Maybe it was the heavy-duty beats she cavorted to, because White Zombie provided a raw soundtrack for the extreme moves she was laying down, and Micah sat transfixed, taking in this last bit of enjoyment.
All too soon, the song ended, and Scarlet bowed and left the stage. And for what felt like the first time in almost five minutes, Micah breathed. She had that effect on him, and as he glanced around the room and picked up the vibe of heavy arousal from the crowd, it was clear he wasn't the only one she affected. Possessive jealousy hummed under his skin, and he glared at the other patrons, ready to rip off the heads of anyone who tried to touch her.
What the fuck? Why was he going all mated male medieval all of a sudden? He was already mated—well, half-mated—to unreciprocating Jackson. His reaction to Scarlet didn't make sense.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malek check his watch. It was almost time for his private dance. "You sticking around?" Malek said.
Micah shook off the odd mated aggression roiling through his nerves…emotions that Scarlet, not Jackson, had evoked. "No, man. I'm going to get out of here." He needed to clear his head, get some fresh air, move, do something. Because his brain was fritzing out.
"You sure?" Malek stood and downed the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass back on the table.
"Yeah, I'm sure." Micah adjusted himself, killed his own drink, and dropped a twenty on the table to cover their bill as he stood.
"Okay." Unspoken promises thickened the air between them. Promises of good-bye and secrecy, as well as protection. Malek would keep his word and not let anyone come for Micah when Jackson left. "You take care, Micah."
"You, too, Malek." He clasped hands with his old friend, and then pulled away and headed for the door as Malek slinked toward the private rooms in back, a shroud of guilt falling over him. The guy still felt like he was cheating on Carmen, and Micah stopped for a moment and stared with compassion after him. Poor Malek. What would happen to him after Micah was gone?
The snow had picked up, coming down in blustery curtains of large, heavy flakes, coating the sidewalks and streets with over an inch of powder. Within minutes, Micah's hair was covered, as were his shoulders.
He didn't mind the cold, so he kept walking. A couple of times, he felt
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