Stripped Bare (Stripped #1)(26)

Don’t look at his dick. Don’t look at his dick. Don’t look at his dick.

“Yeah. Sure,” I answered, looking at his dick.

“Great. My cock will get right on figuring out how to use the coffee machine.”

I grabbed my pen and threw it across the room at him. He grinned, catching it in one hand, and then he threw it back onto the sofa.

Dirty, smug, sexy, cocky bastard.





I was playing with fire, and I could already feel the burn.

I’d never been in a strip club alone before. As I remembered back to two nights ago, I knew there was a good reason for it, but I knew that there, in Rock Solid, I was safe.

If West Rykman wanted to f*ck with me, to push my buttons and make me squirm until I couldn’t cope any longer, I was going to f*ck with him right back.

I don’t know what made me change my mind. Maybe it was the acceptance that he was right. There was an intense attraction between us, one that defied logic. I would inevitably give in to him. Even if it was just for one more night. The sensation of his lips on mine and the memories of how he played my body were too strong.

Besides, I wanted him. I did. I was human, after all. He was the kind of man who could get you pregnant just by walking in a room and meeting your eyes. Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, move on over. West Rykman was the new giver of immaculate conception.

I wanted to make it as hard for him as he was for me. He was making it almost unbearable. He hands down had the dirtiest mouth I’d ever come across. The fact that he could make me so wet just by talking to me was incomprehensible. It made no sense at all because it shouldn’t have been able to happen. He shouldn’t have been able to talk about me being wet and then, poof, I was wet.

He wasn’t f*cking Dynamo with his fancy-ass magic tricks.

He was a stripper who owned a strip club and had tricks of his own—but none of them were magic or even illusions. They were pure skill, and he probably should have been arrested by the CIA to perform sexual torture on women prisoners by now.

Lord knows the filthy f*cker was torturing the ever-loving shit outta me.

I was sure that, the moment he walked out onto that stage, the crowds of women gathered around it, waiting for him, would start throwing their panties at him.

That was perhaps an exaggeration, but I’d seen it at concerts, so why would a strip club have been any different? It was actually the more obvious place for a Flying Panty Palooza.

That’s why I was sitting at the bar. Far away from any flying panties, but still with an awesome view of the stage.

“Working?” Vicky asked, her long, blond hair now tied into a high ponytail. Apparently, she came in early, got the bar ready, went home, and then came back for the late shift five days a week.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” My gaze flicked back to the stage, where some hunk wearing, well, nothing but tight, red boxer briefs was performing with the pole. When he grabbed it and swung himself around, his arm muscles bulged. I honestly thought I’d orgasm a little—I was that impressed. “I could have a worse job.”

I could. Sure, I was there to hopefully torture West, but it wasn’t a bad thing. I wanted to see what he wasn’t doing in terms of promotion. Aside from fliers that had the names and the pictures of the strippers and the prices for both public and private shows, he was doing nothing. I wrote it in my notebook to rectify it. He needed to get that figured out and quickly.

How he’d been running a successful club until now, I didn’t—well, I did know. It was the naked men.

You’d get a lot less store closures if you had hotties like these working at the registers.

“True that. Another drink?” Vicky pointed to my empty glass.

“Uhh...” I hesitated. I shouldn’t, but what the hell? “Sure.”

She winked with a playful smile as she snatched the cocktail glass up and turned back to the drinks. I was within walking distance of my apartment, I reasoned. Not to mention I’d walked there in the first place.

I had a feeling I’d need something strong inside me if West saw me here.

He’d said that his hard cock would be for me tonight—I was going to make sure of it.

“Waiting for someone?” Vicky’s big grin said one word: busted.

“Screw it. When’s your boss on? Don’t judge me.”

She laughed. “Girl, I’m not judging. I’ve fantasized about him more than once, along with every other woman in the city. He’s like the unattainable god around here. Most of these guys?” She waved toward the stage. “They leave with someone. They’re the biggest whores. But West? No. I’ve think I’ve seen him leave or go meet two, maybe three women in two years after a shift.” She held up her hand and went to serve someone a little farther down.

The unattainable god.

I tilted my head to the side and picked my glass up as the guys on stage grabbed their clothes and evacuated it as the music trailed out.

The lights cut out, plunging the club into silent darkness. Several women squealed in excitement, and others in shock.

“Ooooh, here we go,” Vicky whispered, grabbing a glass from beneath the bar and settling in on the stool next to me.

I shot her a look.

God knows how she saw it, but she leaned in and whispered, “No one’s comin’ to the bar. Don’t worry.”

The low, seductive beat of “High for This” by The Weeknd filled the club. The eerie music echoed around the club in waves until the bass kicked in. At that exact same time, a spotlight flashed in the center of the stage.