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And, fuck, I want that. I want every inch of her body pressed against every inch of mine.
"Three," Mercy says. "One for each dance. Say red if it's too much. Yellow to slow down. And green to keep going. A stop-light. You got that, baby?" The dancer stays firm and in control. She's done this before. She's done this a million times.
Daphne hasn't. She's lost in the blur of anticipation. She murmurs a yes as she curls her fingers into her palm.
The dancer raises her hand and brings it down on Daphne's ass. A soft spanking to start. "One," she counts.
Daphne grunts at the impact.
The dancer goes again, a tiny bit harder. "Two."
Daphne grunts with pleasure this time.
"Bad girls need punishment." She spanks her again. "Three." She releases Daphne's skin. "I'll let your fiancé decide on the rest." She looks to meyou got this.
A Domme recognizing a Dom.
Or the usual dynamic of a couple buying a dance.
I don't know.
Right now, I don't care.
I only care about one thing: satisfying this woman who wants me desperately.
I help Daphne up.
The dancer beams as I slip her a stack of twenties. "We're not supposed to let customers stay here," she says. "But I won't tell if you want to spend a song rewarding his patience." The dancer winks at Daphne and struts back to the main room.
Daphne stays where she is. "Should we do it?"
Fuck yes, I need to touch you.
"Should we play that game the right way?" she asks. "I give you a lap dance and we see who breaks first?"
I should sayno, but I don't. I say, "What are the rules?"
"As many songs as it takes. You lose if you touch me here." She motions to her breasts and pulls her dress back in place. "I lose if I bring your hands here."
A fair game.
"What do you think? Are you in? Or are you scared?"
Chapter Seventeen
Daphne
Alcohol is known as a situation-specific drug. People who drink whiskey alone as they stare at the fireplace expect to feel lonely, so they do. People who drink hard seltzer at a backyard barbecue expect to feel relaxed, so they do.
People who drink blow jobs at bachelor parties expect to feel wild, crazy, horny—
So they do.
Add the lights, the stage, the naked women, and, well, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for the desire racing through my veins.
The heat in my core. The warmth of my skin. The absolutely absurd request on my lips.
Only I know it's not the cheap wine or the tacky shots.
