“Incidentally, if you did do one…” He yawns, reaching forward to spoon some chicken and cashews onto his big, round, white plate. “Who would you give a lap dance to?”
I glance around the living room, at its bare walls and stark, modern furniture. It’s a bit cold and sterile, lacking personality and warmth. But as far as backdrops go, it would work.
“You.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs, licking sauce off his thumb. “And I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“Maybe I want to.” Shut up, Abbott—since when have you ever wanted to do a striptease in a man’s living room? Since never, that’s when.
Jealousy rears its ugly head—not jealousy of another woman or of sexier women, but jealousy for women with balls bigger than mine. Big enough to get on a stage with one single objective: make a man go wild by showing off her body. By flaunting what the good Lord gave her. Maybe by sticking her boobs in a man’s face? That seems like a good place to start…
“No you don’t.”
He can’t tell me what to do! “Yes, I do.”
Brooks laughs a strangled laugh, almost choking since his mouth is filled with food. Disgusting. “Sure, sure.”
He’s no longer looking at me, his attention on dinner and the television, which he powered on shortly after plopping himself down beside me, remarking how great it felt not to worry about the attack cat.
Earlier tonight I joked about giving him a kitten as a Christmas gift, to which he replied, “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I remove the napkin on my lap, dabbing at the invisible mess in the corner of my mouth before excusing myself to use the bathroom.
Brooks barely spares me a glance, cramming chicken into his gullet as if he hasn’t had a meal in weeks.
Gross. I hope he cleans that up by the time I get back.
It takes me no time at all to do my business, wash my hands, and—what’s this now?
The blue velvet jacket is hanging in the laundry room, catching my eye as I walk past, hands still damp from the sink. I wipe the moisture off on my leggings, detouring into Brooks’ mini laundry center.
I finger the fabric of his smoking jacket; it’s cool under my touch, but soft. Rich. Quite exquisite, actually. I briefly wonder where it came from, reaching up to remove it from its velvet hanger, and hold it out, arms outstretched in front of me.
The tiny room is chilly, but I remove my leggings first, shivering as I pull my shirt up over my torso. Then my underwear. Stand in the center to unclasp my bra and what hell are you about to do, Abbott Margolis?
This isn’t you! You are not the girl who gives lap dances or stripteases. Put your clothes back on before you make a decision you’ll regret.
But I can’t silence the other voice, the one telling me to take a chance—the one telling me to step out of my comfort zone and have fun, fun, fun for a change.
Therefore…
I kick the pile of clothes aside and slide into Brooks’ gorgeous blue jacket.
It hangs on me, hitting just below the hips, loose. The material lining the inside is silky smooth, gliding over my skin luxuriously.
I wish I had a mirror so I could see myself, and I imagine the look of shock he’s going to have on his face when he sees me in this.
I shiver again. This time, it’s not from the cold.
21
Abbott
It takes Brooks a few seconds to notice me standing at the entry to the living room, framed by the doorway, not wearing any pants. Takes him so long to notice I actually have to clear my throat to get his attention off the television, and when he moves his neck to glance in my direction, it’s in slow motion.
Takes another silent moment for him to notice I’ve donned the smoking jacket. My lack of pants.
His reaction is delayed. Stunned. “Wh…at a-are you doing in that jacket? T-Take it off!” he damn near shouts, panic in his eyes. Legitimate panic.
Lord, what on earth is his problem?
Why on earth would he be panicked that I’m wearing this dumb jacket? It’s outerwear, for crying out loud, not the precious tears of a unicorn or a diamond he must protect with his life.
He needs to relaxi-taxi. “You need to calm down.”
“You need to take that off.”
If he notices my hands trembling, he’s polite enough not to mention it. “That is part of the plan.”
“Take it off.”
Duh, I’m getting to that part and he’s ruining it.
“You want the jacket off? Fine. I’ll take the jacket off.” I slide it down my arms, shrugging it off, enjoying the feel of the rich velvet on my bare skin and the dazed countenance flashing across his eyes.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. Abbott…” Brooks’ voice is hoarse. “Where are your clothes?”
Why is he asking where my clothes are? What does it matter? He either cares that I’m naked and wants to see my bare skin, or he doesn’t. I’m naked over here and all he seems to care about is this dumb coat?
“My clothes are on the laundry room floor.”
This conversation is humiliating. Brooks was right; I’m not the type of girl who can pull off a lap dance—I can’t even get the approach nailed down, standing in front of him now like a defeated puppy dog.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe I should get dressed. Maybe I shouldn’t give him a lap dance. It seemed like a good idea at the time, moments ago when I spotted the coat hanging above his washing machine, taunting me.
Daring me to take a chance.
In my defense, Brooks never said I couldn’t try it on. Then again, he didn’t exactly give me permission, either.
Too late now.
The luxurious fabric lies in a heap at my bare feet and I am wearing my birthday suit. “Do you want me to cover up?” He’s already seen my pussy—had his mouth on it—so what’s a fantastic pair of breasts thrown into the mix to get the guy twisted up?
My boobs are quite fantastic.
I stick my chest out, posturing, letting him look his fill. “If you want me to cover all this up, say ‘Abbott, go get dressed. I do not want to see you naked.’”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, head gives a jerky nod I can’t translate.
I cup a hand around my ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” I step closer, one foot after the other, creeping slowly like a tigress stalking her prey—Desdemona would be proud. “If you’re disgusted by the sight of these”—I cup my breasts—“I want you to say it.”
Brooks gulps.
I reach him on the couch, nudging his legs apart. As I step between them, his hands automatically reach around my hips and grip my ass, sliding up and down the backs of my hamstrings. Forehead pressing against my belly, he runs his lips across my abs.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” I tell him, heart beating wildly. This isn’t like me at all, but sometimes, you go for broke. Perhaps my goal is to call his bluff; maybe once he’s slept with me, he’ll realize he can’t live without me. Maybe once he’s slept with me, he’ll lie in bed thinking about me, too.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
My fingers slide through his hair, and I’m able to bend down and kiss the top of his head as he kisses my stomach.