I take a step forward to my future.
Happiness and bone-deep contentment rise within me like champagne bubbles. I am exactly where I belong—a Hollywood bride to the love of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elliot
I’ve been to a lot of strip clubs, and I’ve watched a lot of women putting their assets on display.
But this girl on stage…
Her face is pretty enough. Klieg lights glint off too red hair, and a heavy layer of makeup enlarges her green eyes and gives her mouth that “ready to suck a dick” look.
Underneath all the artifice, though, she’s got something. A quality I haven’t seen in the others.
Too bad she’s the worst stripper I’ve ever seen in my life.
It’s not her body. Her tits are big and bouncy—probably real—and firm from youth. Her ass is round and taut and would be a great double-handful to grab when I thrust into her warm, wet pussy—the thought of which makes my cock swell with interest.
But she has zero moves.
Stripping is like fucking. A guy can have the biggest dick in the world, but if he has no idea what to do with it, he might as well have no dick at all.
I turn away, but the girl’s awkwardness tugs something at me, and I feel bad for her. She’s obviously new and has no talent for the work even though she’s doing her best to imitate what the other girls have done before her.
When she comes my way, I sigh and stick a couple hundred-dollar bills under the tight string of her thong. Even in the dim lighting, her expression makes it clear that she knows they’re a mercy tip. At least she isn’t stupid.
“You really should get another gig. This just isn’t your calling,” I tell her.
I guess it’s not really kosher to point out a lack of stripping talent. The girl looks murderous as she glares at me.
I wonder if she’s going to slap me. That would liven things up…
But she doesn’t. Despite her total lack of talent in stripping, she apparently has some professionalism.
I watch her walk away, almost tripping over her shoes. What the fuck is wrong with me that I’m almost disappointed she didn’t try to slap me?
——