Tied(50)

Her hands slide up my calves to my knees and she pushes—roughly jerking them apart. Then she ties each ankle to the leg of the chair with a surprisingly sturdy ribbon. The girl in back scratches red fingernails down my chest, stopping just above the danger zone. Then she yanks both my arms back and ties my wrists behind me. It’s not exactly enjoyable. Some guys like to be dominated, but as history has shown, I’m much more of the dominator type.

But my interest is piqued. The crowd goes wild as another woman appears front and center—swinging gracefully around the pole, obviously the star of the show. She’s petite, but thigh-high, leather, black boots with insanely spiked heels make her seem taller. Her hair is tucked under a black leather cap, shocking red gloss covers her lips, and dark sunglasses disguise much of her face. The rest of her body, however, is bared for all to see. A black thong with a scarcely there triangle hangs on her hips. Her tits are adorned with stick-on nipple tassels—and nothing else.

With her back to me, she rips off the cap and throws it to the crowd, revealing a cascade of shiny, brown hair. She takes a few more spins on the pole, then turns toward me and stalks forward.

For a moment, I’d swear on my kid that it was Kate. The face and body dimensions are that similar.

Upon closer inspection, I notice the differences, however. Besides the fact that Kate Brooks would never be up on a stage shaking her tits and ass in the faces of strangers—unless she actually wanted me to stick ice picks through the eyeballs of every * in the place.

And, yes, that would include the *s I came with.

But also, this girl’s skin is paler than my fiancée’s, her nose thinner, her hair lighter—not quite the same mahogany shade. Other than that, the resemblance is pretty f*cking frightening.

She spins and leans against me, her back pressed up against my chest. Her hair falls across my face and tickles my nose. She smells . . . great. Like honeysuckle and jasmine. It’s a musky incense, like the aroma of a closed room after hours of fantastic f*cking. She doesn’t smell nearly as incredible as Kate—but her bouquet is what I would’ve probably defined as incredible if I’d never had the pleasure of Kate’s sublime scent.

Her arms snake around my neck and her ass nestles perfectly against my dick. Then she slides down between my open legs and arches forward elegantly, raising her ass tantalizingly toward my face. She plants her feet on the floor and straightens her legs, while still bent over at the waist. Then she slides the thong down her legs and smacks her right butt cheek hard—in the way I’m sure every guy in the place is chomping at the bit to do.

She stands up and turns to face me again. She kicks one leg slowly up around my head—giving me an unobstructed, detailed display of her bare slit.

I swear I try not to look. Really.

But I do.

Give me a motherf*cking break—I’m engaged, not dead.

She climbs onto my lap, facing me. Then she shoves the thong she’d been wearing in my mouth. The crowd roars to a deafening crescendo.

I think the crazy train just jumped the track. I’d like to get off now—and not in the happy way. It’s all fun and games until you have another woman’s bodily fluids on your tongue. Kate would never be okay with this. Remind me to guzzle some Listerine when we get back to the room.

Her red lips smile as she snatches the tie off my neck, and I manage to spit out the thong. Unperturbed, she drapes the open tie around my shoulders and holds each side like a horse’s reins. She wraps the ends around her hands and uses them for leverage. Her hips sway and swivel expertly, the way only an experienced dancer—or expensive hooker—knows how.

To my utter horror—my cock gets hard. He moves quickly into position—rigid and ready.

Since the day Kate let me f*ck her, I, and my dick, haven’t given any other women a second glance. No matter how attractive or available, we haven’t been interested. Or aroused.

Not one frigging time.

It feels completely wrong. To use Kate’s words—it’s like a compass pointing south. If that were to happen, it would mean the universe was off-kilter. The end of the world as we know it. That’s almost what this seems like.

Like a betrayal.

Maybe the priests were right, after all. Maybe penises are evil.

I glare down at my lap.

Traitor.





Chapter 13


After the stage lights go dark and I’m untied from the chair, I can’t get off the stage quickly enough. I make a beeline for my happy place, also known as the bar.

The guys surround me, backslapping and laughing like chimpanzees at the zoo. “That was awesome!”

“I’m rethinking this whole marriage thing. If it gets me a f*cking show like that, I just might do it.”

“I’ll take those seconds any day. . . . Wasn’t anything sloppy about that brunette!”

A thousand frazzled thoughts race through my head at once, but I put up a solid front.

“It was great.” Talk quickly turns to joining the poker game in the back room. As the others make their way over, Matthew turns back to me, where I’m still sitting at the bar.

“You okay, man?”

I lick my dry lips. “Yeah, I’m good. Just going to finish my drink.”

He nods understandingly and leaves me on my own. Have to admit, I’m a little bit shaky. What was that hard-on all about? Did it happen because the woman grinding on me looked so much like Kate? And most important, do I have to tell Kate about it?