Stripped (2 page)

Chapter Two

Stone

My dick rambles

(And stalks)

Foreplay has its very own unique opiate brand of funk-you-up hard on. Lights pulse to the beat of the music—flashing and streaking over the stage—bathing the walls, the floor, and the tables in scintillating, hypnotic seduction. Each woman is intoxicated by a potent mixed cocktail of strong alcohol, throbbing music, and nearly-naked strippers swinging their dicks and winding them into a frenzy.

Jay’s got the stage now, but soon it’ll be my turn and they’ll forget about every other man before me.

Jacked up on adrenaline, I dart behind the bar undetected and scoop my absolute favorite blonde barmaid into my arms from behind before landing a smooch to her full cheek.

“Shouldn’t you be making yourself pretty for your big performance?” Glenda says in an out-of-place Aussie accent as thick as mine.

“And miss the opportunity to kiss my favorite girl?”

“He’s already too pretty as it is,” Kate, her best friend and fellow barmaid, quips as she rubs a towel along the outside length of a cylindrical hurricane glass.

“None of the women are gonna to be lookin’ at my face.” I ogle the dark haired beauty like the good friend I am. Her more than ample cleavage is bursting to say ’ello in her white button-down and push-up bra.

“Look who’s hot and bothered thinking about me whilst fondling that smooth, long glass.” I leer down over her plump breasts as her nipples try to pierce through the fabric. “Is that you needing to get laid or are you just happy to see me?”

“Shut up, Stone!” She whips me with the end of the towel.

“OH MY GOD, IT’S STONE WRIGHT!” a woman at the bar screams.

In seconds a tsunami wave of estrogen comes rushing in and floods around me for autographs.

“That’s why he does it, you know—comes back here all shirtless and baby-oiled up, with nothing but a pair of low-slung, hip-hugging denim Lucky’s on—to take the attention from Jay,” Kate says to Glenda then shoots me a know-it-all look before turning to stack the glass she’s holding.

She’s right about that. Plus, it’s damn fun. With a wink, I whip the black Sharpie out from my back pocket and begin signing whatever body part I’m offered—that usually means tits.

What a hard job. I’m really put out.

A second later the lights flicker. That’s the house cue.

“Get out of here and get ready,” Glenda reminds me as she pours Jim Beam into a row of shot glasses.

“I’m always ready,” I crow and jump up on the bar.

The ladies scream their approval and run their hands up and down my legs as Glenda rolls her eyes. I can see her lips form a silent,
Eww
. I bask blatantly in the shining rays of her disgust. My first act is strictly a dance number, and she’ll stick around for that; my second, however—that’s when she’ll take a long break.

After
extending
—literally—my gratitude to each groping fan I dash to my dressing room. Okay it’s not just
my
dressing room, but it’s mine while all the other blokes are waiting backstage, like say, now. That’s where we’re
all
supposed to be so we don’t steal another dancer’s thunder. But Jay’s a dickhead. He deserves it. It’s precisely why I time myself like this.

I stand facing the full body mirror to take a quick assessment. My body hasn’t changed much since my high school years and the sports I played—I’ve made damn sure of that—surfing, netball, running, chin ups, burpees, and of course, dancing has kept my physique.

Closing my eyes in the quiet little room, I breathe in through my nose and expand my lungs with oxygen as I relax my mind. The second act is as easy as copping a feel from a virgin on prom night. It’s the first act that’s another story altogether. I’m reminded that there are less than six weeks before the audition that could change my entire life.

A sudden burst of sound erupts from behind me.

Fuck, I thought I’d locked the door!
Probably Thompson, the stage manager, saw me cramping Jay’s style and is coming to give me shit. I position myself to give it right back.

I’m more than surprised when I whip around and discover a young woman standing inside the doorway who looks so much like Anne Hathaway that, being in LA, I have to do a double take. She has large, round, soft dark eyes—the kind you could get lost inside—and gorgeous dark hair falls around her shoulders in sexy waves. Anne has a lithe dancer’s body. She appears confused and embarrassed.

“I was looking for the ladies’ room.”

“That’s what they all say, Love.”

“Only difference is that I really mean it.” Anne tries looking annoyed, but she can’t seem to tear her gaze away from my oil-slick abs.

I consider telling her it’s flavored. At the mere thought of it, my manstick’s mind-of-it’s-own runs positively wild with a porno fantasy of Anne swiping her tongue over my Essence of Hawaii-oiled abs.

She’s absolutely the most exquisite creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I reel it in and use her flustered state to my advantage. Flexing my muscles to keep her attention I say, “No such thing as accidents, Sunshine.”

“Me… My… Opening this door was.”

She’s sexy when she stammers, all rattled.

Interestingly, and maybe oddly, she’s wearing a one-piece black dance leotard under a little sheer pink shirt that quakes with each gasp of air she pulls in. It ties just below her breasts, accentuating her toned waist and midriff. On her hips sways a flowy piece of fabric that can’t be legal as a skirt—it is way too short—and shows off her long, smooth legs all the way up to her creamy, delectable thighs. She must’ve just come from ballet practice.

Now I’m thinking about sliding my tongue up those perfectly edible legs.

“Stone Wright.” I hold out my hand, undaunted, to greet her.

She swallows hard. I watch her throat muscles tense then let go. There is a timidity behind her expressive eyes—which is ironic considering most women coming through Foreplay are predatory as panthers that haven’t had a kill in three days.

Anne
begins to reach her hand to mine but, having second thoughts, pulls it back at the last second. “I have to go.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” I offer.

Now another woman pokes her head through the door. “What the…?” she begins and then sees me standing there. “Fuck me.”

Anne backs away from me so quickly she slams into her
fuck-me
friend.

“This is… um… Stone,” Anne says, her pretty porcelain face blotching into red tones.

“Stone, huh?” her friend reiterates with a leering gaze.

“She seems a bit misguided,” I tell her.

“OH, THAT ACCENT!” Fuck-me friend starts off staring at me, then tilts her head towards her friend when realization dawns. “You’re in Dirty Aussie’s dressing room?!”

“I didn’t mean to be.” Anne
looks horrified.

I can’t help but crack a cheeky grin at her sweet embarrassment. God, she’s cute. It’s rather refreshing. I wonder how much she’d blush if she knew where I was visualizing placing my tongue now.

“Sorry, Mr.… Aussie. My friend was just trying to locate the little girls’ room. After three drinks she’s a little tipsy. She doesn’t get out of the ward much—if you only knew what I went through to get the doctors to let her out.”

“I’m not tipsy,” Anne retorts.

“Oh, you’re totally tipsy.”

“Both rooms have white doors, and you said the white door.”

“Really, loves, it’s all good,” I assure them. “In fact, why don’t ya come back and meet me here after the show.” I
need
to know this girl’s name.

“I have to get out of here.” Anne pushes her friend out of the way and rushes back out through the door.

A second later, the door to the ladies’ loo down the hall slams shut.

“I apologize for her obvious dementia. She’s my best friend, but she hasn’t been herself for the past year.” She leans in, close and comfortable, like we were once adjoined twins, and the scent of tequila wafts from her lips.

I nod as my eyes trail back to the doorway.

“Her asshole-douche-ex really fucked with her head. Left her a mess during the darkest time in her life. It was all I could do to get her to come out here with me tonight. She’s forgotten how to have fun, ya know?”

Oh, how I know.

“Anyway, I better get back to her before she tries making a break for a taxi. Good luck with the show.”

I let out a deep rushing breath.

If I wait by the loo for her, I’ll be assaulted by every other woman going in… and it’ll probably make me appear like a stalker.

“Stone, get your fucking ass back here!” Thompson’s voice cackles through the room’s private intercom system, interrupting my stalker-ish thoughts. “You’re up next!”

Chapter Three

Emelie

Poor Kitten nearly drowns in a vat of margarita mix

(And I’m never drinking tequila again)

“I am
so
not
staying!” I try making my way to the heavy front door with the large red neon exit sign above it, but Violet grasps my shoulders and steers my nearly drunken ass back to our front row table.

“Oh yes you are.” She yanks me down then presses me to my seat. “His dance is about to start and you don’t want to miss it.”

The lights and music—not to mention thoughts of Mr. Wright and his freakishly stupefying abs—hypnotize me into a befuddled and dizzy state of mind.

I’m one drink away from utter inebriation.

“Your margaritas, ladies.” The waitress circles our table and sets fresh drinks in front of each of us. “Enjoy.” The drinks are a pretty shade of festive green with an unbreakable ring of salt around the rim, like a circle of protection from my favorite paranormal TV show. I have a feeling this one won’t protect me from a certain spellbinding stripper.

I groan. I’m completely mortified while being miserably fired up as hot as a NASA rocket that just fueled for lift-off and is waiting for someone to hit the launch button. “I really didn’t mean to go in his
un
-dressing room.”

“I know, I know. You’ve told me like a thousand times in the five minutes since you finally came out of hiding in the bathroom. Stop acting like an escaped mental patient.”

I let go of my lusty, margarita-addled thoughts and look kindly at my best friend. “I’m sorry I’m such a whiny pain in the ass.”

She smiles with an extra dose of sisterly love. “Just drink up. You need this.”

Without warning, the throbbing beat of hip hop techno music shakes the speakers as the bass makes the floor tremble. I can feel the sensation seeping rather luxuriously through my thin-soled shoes. It vibrates up through my calves and legs, scorching my thighs and taking my breath away on its ascent right into my—

“This is it!” Vi is ready to explode with excitement.

The house lights drop and the stage goes pitch black. The music quiets.

A deep voice rumbles, “Ladies… are you ready?”

The audience collectively screams.

“For the thunderous, dirty Aussie who stirs up torrential downpours while making you thunder down under?”

Nice.
How can anyone take this seriously?

“Foreplay’s very own Australian treasure of one-ton-hung tungsten…”

Vi just about loses her mind with the rest of the women in here as mine wanders to the oh-so-fresh and recent memory of the up close and personal viewing I got earlier of the perfectly formed V line pointing straight to that…err… treasure.

“…who is about to take you on a panty-exploding, wild outback ride.”

I shift uncomfortably. Did he have to say, panty-exploding?
Dear God, how long has it been?
And tilling in my own lady garden doesn’t count.

“Ladies, give a healthy, hot and bothered, wanton welcome…”

“Why are stripper MC’s always trying to string crazy-ass words into logical structure? I mean, who talks like that?” I wonder out loud.

“…to the solid-Stone Wright!”

The audience welcomes him with a deafening roar loud enough to possibly create a second big bang and a brand new universe.

A bright floodlight cuts through the darkness of the stage. There he stands, Adonis himself, with his back towards us. I would know that very fine, chiseled ass anywhere. After my eyeful in the dressing room, there is no mistaking who it belongs to. I’d like to think my breath is caught in my chest all feminine-vapors like, but the truth is I’m lustfully hyperventilating, like an asthmatic strumpet.

I feel myself lean forward in my chair.

I notice a thin layer of water on the stage, which now has a lip around it to hold in the liquid prop.
What’s that about?
I wonder.

The music starts off fast and furious and so does Stone.

He graciously turns, allowing his hungry, zombified fans—only instead of brains, we’re starved for sex—to rake our deliriously fuck-needy eyes over the heavenly front of him. The five o’clock shadow over his jaw gives his boyish charming smile a rugged look. He’s everything I remembered; his body is flawless—as in, he’s so absolutely ripped, no wonder this audience has lost its collective mind—from his solid six-pack of lady-leg-spreading abs to the hypnotic panty-disintegrating power of his solid walled, muscular chest, broad hulking shoulders, and long, strong arms.

He’s easy on the eyes, like a slip and slide. Meaning it’s all too
easy
to imagine your naked self underneath him while he
slips and slides
all that animal physique over you.

Guys who look like that make smart girls do stupid things.

His shoulders, neck, and back ripple in sequence as he controls each muscle with precision.

The black backdrop behind him becomes a rush of stars and bursts of colored lights like the Aurora Borealis, working in sync with his motion.

This is not what I expected.
He
is not what I expected. Neither is his level of production or skills on the dance floor.

Clothed in nothing but his jeans—even his feet are sexy and beautifully bare—his entire body becomes one with the rhythm.

His audience screams but he seems oblivious to them.

I know where he is. The universe of the dance, where he’s able to turn off and shut out everything and everyone around him. It’s an incredible wonderland where you discover your true self. Where real life doesn’t even exist any longer—now the only thing that matters is this moment, this song, this move. I see him there, and I’m envious, as Stone becomes one with the thrum of his heart, the pulse of the music, the heat of his taut muscles, and the power of the dance itself.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been there myself.

The reminder twists my belly in a bittersweet memory. With an extra splash of vinegar.

Stone moves and spins, coordinating each movement so it glides fluidly into the next while he combines elements of hip hop, street, and contemporary dance.

His stunningly artful body twists and bends backward, folding towards the floor, and he lands on one hand, creating a body-bridge. He swivels his legs, flips abruptly in the air, rolls, and spins out on his back in an impressive old school breakdancing move. The water splashes and sprays around him, creating a dramatic presentation.

Suddenly, he stands, drops to one knee, switches to the other, then shoots back up; he sprints forward, falls to both knees, and slides across the stage—effortlessly, he rotates like a planet’s satellite. The water cascades around him, spraying out from his outstretched arms, soaking his denim to a deep, dark blue that clings to his strong legs and curvy ass.

When he stops mid-slide to execute a backflip, the crowd loses what’s left of their minds—which, ever since he took the stage, wasn’t much.

And I’m falling off the cliff right along with them.

While he pops and locks and allows his form to bend and wave, the light display as his backdrop either corresponds to his fluidity—causing him to appear to be some magical god controlling the lights and stars with his every move—or it becomes a contrast in art—a visual internal struggle brought to life.

The water enhances an already brilliant performance. The liquid flows with his body, creating another dancing extension of himself—droplets suspend then release, falling to the floor; with each motion, the fluid follows him, cascades about him, streaming over his arms and back, spraying out and arcing around him.

Next he stomps each foot to the rhythm of the song, drops to a roll, bounces back up with agile athleticism, and lands a spinning kick that fans the water out into a wave like a wall.

His most amazing gift, even more remarkable than the energy he possesses, is the emotion that he deftly displays. I can
feel
his joy and energy, his power. It is so tangible it gives me goosebumps. My own body responds to his passion.

As does my alcohol-lubricated lady business.
How many margaritas have I consumed tonight?

I now understand and can fully verify with a hardy amen that what the MC forecasted in Stone’s introduction was accurate—he is definitely causing torrential downpours and thunder down under!

His dance is sensual and raw. Nothing short of spectacular.

Stone Wright takes my breath away.

For the finale, he slams his hand to the floor, and the whitewater bursts up around him, ending the dance with a dramatic display full of power, angst, and need.

The music stops and he freezes, while the screams of the women in the club reach volcanic proportions at decibels sure to shatter all eardrums within a fifty-mile radius. Good thing I have all that tequila in my system, dampening
my
eardrums so they don’t explode.

They shower him with a standing ovation—or maybe ovulation—take your pick.

My eyes trail from his strong, beautiful toes up his dreamy, god-like body as he unrolls his spine slowly and comes to standing. His firm chest heaves with exertion, and his muscles are bunched and coiled like he has one very serious and pressing need on his mind.

Right before the lights go out, my eyes finally finish their ascent and meet his gaze. I realize he is staring straight at me.