Survivals Price by Joanna Wylde Page A

personal pleasure. The music pumped in time, and he felt himself growing warm. He’d never seen anything so hot in his life.
    After a moment she swirled back up, her face flushed, her breathing hard. He could have sworn there was a darkening patch between her legs. She hovered on the edge of orgasm; it was obvious to everyone watching. Rather than looking embarrassed, she seemed to revel in her sensuality. He realized with a start that she wasn’t there to titillate them, her audience existed to heighten her own experience.
    She swaggered back up the stage, her back to the crowd, then turned her head to look flirtatiously at the men surrounding her. With a shrug, she let the coverall fall down across her shoulders, leaving her upper arms, shoulders and back exposed. She rolled her shoulders, and then pulled one arm free from the dangling coverall.
    Raising it above her head, she turned back to face the audience, her body stretching and thrusting her breasts out of the bustier once more. The thing was just a bit too small for her. She shrugged her other shoulder free, allowing the coverall to dangle down around her waist, the opening exposing just a tiny taste of her lower belly. Her hips, full and lush, seemed just rounded enough to hold the garment up.
    His breath caught; he couldn’t wait for the moment when she’d shimmy it down, revealing what he knew must be a spectacular ass and endless, muscular legs.
    Unwilling to lean forward like so many of the men around him, he propped one boot up on the stage, reclining back in his chair. She owned the room, there could be no doubt, and a part of him rebelled against that. He didn’t want to be owned, not by anyone.
    He wanted to own her .
    She swaggered back down toward him, as if reading the unconscious challenge in his stance. Halfway there she dropped to her knees again, dragging the drab coverall behind her. How could such an ugly garment be so sensuous? The closer she came to him, the tighter his breathing grew. A sudden desire to leap up on stage, to rip off her coverall and plow his cock into her, hit him. Instead he took another long draft of his drink, forcing himself to breath slowly in and out.
    She smiled at him, a secret, mocking kind of smile. The smile of a woman who knew her own power, and who could see right through his pathetic attempts to control himself. He tried to look away but he couldn’t. She was too intense, too real to ignore.
    She came closer and closer, credits raining down on her as she slithered past the mesmerized men. Sometimes she would stop and look at them, moving close so they could see her breasts. She wore twice as much clothing as any other woman in the room, but every eye was glued to her. There could be no question who was in charge.
    Finally she reached him, and he knew deep inside, that he had been her target all along. She stood slowly, turned away from him and slithered out of the coverall. Red thong panties matched the red bustier holding her stunning breasts. She stepped out of the pants, deliberately spread her legs and leaned forward, laying her hands flat on the stage before her, exposing everything to him. A stunning cunt matched her ass, perfect in and of itself. The thin swath of fabric hid her just enough to make him desperate to pull it off. He almost reached up, but managed to catch himself at the last moment. He wanted her all right, felt almost desperate to have her, but he knew that to get her he had to stand out from the crowd. That meant holding back, even if it killed him.
    She smiled back at him between her legs, as if reading his thoughts.
    Then she stood, took a step forward and grasped the nearest pole firmly. She pulled herself up on it, the muscles in her arms bunching as she lifted herself with an ease that bespoke her strength. Her legs came up, and then her body fell back, held aloft by one leg wrapped around the pole. Her thigh muscles bunched, and somehow she managed to slowly spin around, displaying