A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement1

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"You care," she says. "Or at least, you seem like you do."

"I do." Usually.

"Is that fake, because they pay you?"

"That's a good question."

She smiles. "Sorry… I'm going past sex research, into sociology. Cass and I talk about it a lot. We started a non-fiction book club, you know."

"Cassie reads now?" I try to latch on to the subject of my sister. A strange distraction in a room of half-naked women and horny men, but it's what I've got.

Daphne does the same. Or it's easy for her. I can't tell. "She's a writer!" she exclaims.

"A songwriter," I tease, the way I tease Cass when she's here.

"I'm going to tell her you said that." She smiles. "And, yeah, she reads more than she did. But not as much as you'd expect for a writer…" Her eyes go to the stage. She watches as the woman in black leather rolls her body suit to her waist.

Daphne's eyes go wide.

Her breath hitches.

She tries to look somewhere else, but everything in the room points to women's bodies.

"So, uh, you don't like it, because it feels fake," she says. "Is that all? I mean, you must enjoy looking at naked women, right?"

Of course. Women are beautiful. I understand that appeal. I just don't enjoy it in this context. Not in particular. "I prefer when I can look and touch."

She bites her lip. She tries to hold on to intelligent conversation. "Is it a hard line? It's only fun if you can touch? Or is the tease fun too. And can't you touch a little? I thought most lap dances were pretty handsy these days."

How in the world does she know that?

"I've read a few books. Memories by sex workers," she says. "Usually, the guys are touching the dancers everywhere except between the legs. And the opposite too."

Is that what she wants here? For a dancer to touch her?

To watch a dancer touch me.

Or watch me touch a dancer.

She came along for a reason. I thought I knew what it was. At the moment, it's hard to concentrate on anything.

"Is that it?" Her voice drops to a low tone. All curiosity, only different. Deeper. A physical, emotional curiosity, not an intellectual one. "Is that it? It's no fun unless someone comes?"

"No. It's fun to draw it out sometimes."

Her eyes go wide.

I should stop, but I don't. "But it's more fun if it's a contest of will." Words pour from my mouth without stopping in my brain. It's the music, the lights, the topless women.

No. It's my desire to connect with Daphne.

Here.

There.

Everywhere.

"I don't want to play a game with an unwilling participant," I say.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Say you're right. Lap dancers are anything goes except the—"

"Fun zone?" she offers.

My lips curl into a smile. It eases five percent of the sexual tension. Brings me three percent closer to my senses. Then my eyes dip to her cheeks, and I lose all sense of progress. "Let's say anything goes except the fun zone."

She smiles.

I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "That's what she's willing to do. I could test myself, by trying not to touch at all. But I can't test myself to see if I can resist going for the gold. And even if I try to, say, avoid touching her breasts."

Her chest heaves.

My eyes go to the neckline of her shiny white dress. "I'm playing the game by myself. She doesn't know. That might be fun if we're consenting partners, but in this situation, it's…" I struggle to find a word. "Off."

"Is that what you usually do?" she asks. "Do you usually play games?"

"Sometimes."

"So, your coworker had it right?" Her gaze goes to the dancer in black leather. "You're a Dom?"

The waitress arrives before I can answer. She hands us our drinks, takes my credit card, disappears.

Daphne's eyes go to me, but she doesn't ask me to answer the question. She sees it in my eyes. "Do you play games like that? To see how long a tease can last?"

"Sometimes."

"Can we play?"

I should say no, of course, but I don't. "Name the terms."

She doesn't hesitate. "We're going to do a lap dance, right."

I nod.

"Let's see who can resist touching the dancer."

"You don't like women."

She shrugs. "So?"

"Won't it be easier for you to resist?"

"How do you suggest we play?"

How about you take off that dress, and we see if you can resist coming. No. I like her idea. "You're right. This works." I have more practice. And I need an option that doesn't involve me making her come.

Daphne bites her lip. "Good. Yeah. Perfect." She brings the copper mug to her lips and takes a long sip. "Who do you like here? Of our options." She looks to the four dancers on stage. Then, through the crowd, at the dancers talking to customers.

Mostly white, thin women with big fake tits. A curvy Black woman. A short Asian woman. A tall Latina.


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