Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Now I hadn’t made any headway with work and I’d developed a raging hard-on. It strained against my suit pants. It begged for freedom. Who was I not to grant it? My buddy would suffocate down there, for fuck’s sake.
I unzipped and reached into my pants, drew out my cock, and stroked it once.
Riley’s image came back to me, this time bent over, grasping the pole, that ass and that precious inner thigh gap on display. Goddamn, she had the perfect body. It was womanly but toned, tight but curved.
I’d lost myself in her once, and damn if I wouldn’t do it again.
Tonight. It had to be tonight or I’d explode—no pun intended.
“Come sit on my cock,” I grunted.
Riley sauntered over, hopped off the stage, came to me in my velvet-padded chair and straddled me, her pussy inches from my dick.
I stroked faster.
“Sit, gorgeous.”
Defiance again. Even in my damn fantasies this woman wanted to seize control.
“Sit or I won’t let you come.”
Finally, fantasy-Riley sank downward, smiling now—the same sweet one she’d worn last night when I’d told her about my trip to France—and took me inside her warmth, her wetness.
I slammed my head back against my headrest and went faster, harder, deeper. It wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t her. Christ, before she’d come along, I’d never wanted for a woman. I’d hardly ever bothered touching myself.
Now, it was all I could do to keep myself from coming all over my desk.
“Riley,” I grunted. “Come for me, baby.”
My fantasy’s tight little cunt tensed up around my cock. I adjusted my grip in my office to match it and…
A knock rattled my office door. The doorknob turned.
“Shit,” I growled, and hurriedly tucked my dick back into my pants and zipped up. I rolled forward in my executive chair so I was shielded by my desk.
The office door swung inward and brought with it a cloud of perfume—some kind of flower, but damn, it was strong enough to scour the memory of all other smells from my nostrils.
“Cherry,” I snapped. “What the hell are you doing?”
Cherry Vanilla—yeah, that was her fucking name—stepped into the office and shut the door behind herself. She was one of the highlights at Club Queen, with tits so high they nearly touched her chin and an ass so big it wobbled when the air-conditioning came on.
Cherry wore her crimson hair loose around her shoulders and matched the color on her lips. She was in a state of perpetual duck face. She fluttered her fake eyelashes at me and adjusted the silvery corset she’d chosen for today’s shift.
There was nothing natural about her.
My cock deflated like a punctured balloon—without the noise, thank god.
“You know better than to interrupt me when my door’s closed,” I growled. I treated the girls well. They were protected, paid well above tips, and always respected in their personal choices. Christ, I gave them medical. We were one step away from a 401k.
I expected the best of them as a result, and that included never menacing me with their petty complaints.
“Sorry,” Cherry said and twirled a finger through her hair. “I just had to come see you, boss.” She wiggled her breasts at me. “It’s super real important. I mean, I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re busy.”
“I’m busy.”
“I—I heard you talking. I thought you were in a meeting or on the phone or something.”
“And that equaled knocking on my door and entering without permission?” I asked. In truth, Cherry had brought the club the most revenue and the most trouble. She was a drama queen. I’d put up with it, and perhaps she was under the illusion that she was irreplaceable. She was wrong.
“Who’s Riley?” Cherry asked.
I rose from my seat, towering as I always did. “Cherry, you’d better spit out what the fuck it is you want, or I’ll call Maurice and ask him to go through your locker again.”
She paled and stammered wordlessly, plumping her beehive of hair.
Cherry had been caught multiple times with alcohol stowed in her locker.
I had strict rules in the club: no drugs, no drinking on the job, and strictly no fucking the clientele. That and a ban on latex and KY Jelly. Buying an island was cheaper than cleaning up after one of those special shows.
“You don’t need to look in my locker,” Cherry said. “It’s clean. And this is why I knocked, Mr. King. I heard you were here, and I had to come see you. I feel like, I dunno, like Maurice is picking on me. He’s always watching me like I’m going to do something.”
I withheld a long-suffering sigh.
Maurice had called me last week with the news that Cherry had gotten into some spat with one of the other dancers. She wanted all the attention, all the money, and I could understand that to some degree.