Watch Me Novel – I have a perfect life. Ballet by day, stripping by night, and a great boyfriend. But I never imagined that one day I would have my boyfriend’s father see me dancing provocatively and even touch me to make me release. It’s a mistake. Stripping isn’t like prostitution. I ruined everything. “You’re doing such a good job turning me on, sweetheart.” says Nick, a fire spontaneously combusts in my belly. His right hand trails down to my inner thigh. “Imagine if they could see us now,” he murmurs, and just like that, a convulsive release rocks through me. I shudder, release, find my breath. And then full consciousness descends upon me all at once. “God.” I get off his lap, moving away from his hands. What have I done? I just cheated on Tate.
THREE OF THE men at the table watch me approach, their eyes tracking me with an avid hunger, but the man closest to me doesn’t even turn around. “Hi.” I smile in a way that I hope is sweet, tilting my head and feeling the smooth curtain of my hair sweep over one shoulder as I do so. I straightened my naturally wavy hair and added a weave tonight, and I’m enjoying the way it feels heavy and sinuous. “Hi,” replies the auburn-haired man at the far end of the table with a wide, confident smile. The two men on either side of him smile too and nod. The fourth man, the one with his back to me, finally turns his head and gives me an appraising look. He doesn’t say hi, or smile, but his face isn’t unfriendly. He just seems quiet. Serious. He’s also staggeringly attractive. Dark, almost black hair, with salt and pepper starting at the temples.
A carved face, like it’s been sculpted from marble, and deep mahogany eyes. In fact, all four of these men are good-looking, and they look like they have money, too. Suit jackets are slung on the backs of the chairs and the handsome, dark one has a large, expensive-looking watch that draws my eyes down to where his massive hands are resting on the table. We like this demographic. They have money to spend and are usually more respectful than the rowdy, younger guys. “It’s Nick’s birthday,” Rachel-as-Jazmyn tells me, smiling between me and the dark-haired man, “and he’d like a lap dance from you.” I’ve only been giving lap dances for a couple of months, and Nick is something I haven’t encountered yet a genuinely hot man I actually feel a nervous tremor about being close to.
But this man is a test of my professionalism, I’m a good stripper. “I’d love that,” I say—sincerely, for once—and place a hand on his shoulder. It feels like a granite boulder. “Great.” The auburn-haired man waves his hands upward to urge his friend to his feet. “Go on then, Nicky.” Nick stands and shoots the redhead a frown. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man a lot of people call Nicky. The other man laughs jovially and reaches across the table, thrusting a short stack of twenty-dollar bills in my direction. Ten, I count quickly. This job has given me an almost supernatural ability to discern the value of cash at a distance. “Take good care of him,” he says with a wink, and I smile as I take the cash from his hand. “I will.”
I lead Nick towards the VIP area at the back of the club. There are six booths with heavy curtains that close for privacy. I sashay to an empty one, my platform heels forcing me to sway from side to side as I walk, and indicate the padded bench as I stash my money bag underneath it. Nick sits and leans back, long legs stretching across the entire length of the booth. His crisp, white dress shirt lays flat against a muscled stomach, two buttons open at the collar. He doesn’t smile nervously, like some customers do. He doesn’t laugh or try to make small talk. He’s composed and confident, and it’s a little bit intimidating. “Happy birthday, birthday boy,” I say in a low murmur. I step over the long bridge of his legs to lower myself onto his lap until we’re face to face.
He smells good. I brace his legs with my hands, the muscles so hard it’s like gripping steel bars, and roll my hips slightly so that the fabric of his pants skims my inner thighs. When I lift hooded eyes to him, the look he’s giving me back triggers an electrical pulse in my rib cage. It’s not the glazed look I’m oh-so-familiar with—the distant look of booze and lust that the men in here normally have. It’s sharp, present, and so frank I have to blink away so I don’t forget what I’m doing. I take in the grey at his temples instead, and the slight lines around his eyes. He’s definitely much older than I am, but there’s something so hot about him. It’s more than the chiseled lines of his bone structure and the obvious power of his physique. It’s the intensity below the surface. The heat in his eyes belying his cool exterior.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s hot. And being this close to him is making my blood thrum in my veins in a way it’s not supposed to. This isexactly why Tate doesn’t want me to do this, I think guiltily, taking a deep breath to clear my thoughts. I need to compartmentalize my feelings and be purely professional. I need to be a good girlfriend. So I shake back my extra-heavy mane of hair and try to snap out of it while I give the lap dance preamble. “I’m going to take my top off, and you can touch me from the waist up. No touching from the waist down. And is it okay for me to touch you on your chest, arms, and shoulders? And your legs, here?” I give his hard thighs a squeeze and don’t even make a dent. “Yes,” he says. It’s the first word I’ve heard him speak, and his voice is deep and rich. Of course.
Steadied, I exhale and roll my hips, the music starting to pulse through me, just like the rhythm of his chest, rising and falling. There’s an indefinable harmony when everything syncs together, the music, the client, and me, and the energy becomes fluid and smooth. That’s the dance. I bend down and slide the front of my body up the front of his and then rest my knees on either side of him. I close my thighs around his hips until I can feel his belt buckle against my cherry. I swivel my hips again, and this time I brush against a hard ridge in his crotch. He’s hard. Heat flames through me at the realization. Erections certainly aren’t uncommon in the VIP booth, and usually, I politely skirt them, avoiding contact to keep it from getting uncomfortable.
But this time, I tease my crotch over the bulge in his pants again, unable to resist how good it feels—how the thought of his shaft getting hard for me makes my insides ache pleasurably. I’m on the verge of coming. I’ve gone too far. I want to be a good girlfriend to Tate, I do. I tell him that stripping is just a job, that certain lines never get crossed, and that he has nothing to worry about. But the truth is, there is something in me that Tate can never fulfill. Something shameful, something dirty. I would never want him to know how hot and breathless I can get in a small booth with a strange man. But they’re thoughts and nothing more. Nobody needs to know about the dirty things I dream of doing in private. I am a good girlfriend to Tate, and there are lines that never get crossed. This is just a moment, a fantasy… a job. I would never betray his trust. And showing myself isn’t the same as being touched. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“You’re doing such a good job turning me on, sweetheart.” His praise undoes the little that’s left of my self-control. I push thoughts of Tate out of my mind as I sit down on his lap again, this time with my back against him, and reach for his hand. I lift it to my waist and let my private part rub against his, feeling the roughness of his pants directly on the aching center of my need. “Imagine if they could see us now,” he murmurs, and just like that, a convulsive release rocks through me. I shudder, release, find my breath, and then, for a brief moment, I sag back against him, utterly transported—unaware of who I am or where I am. And then full consciousness descends upon me all at once. An avalanche of thoughts. Sudden clarity in the aftermath of my release, like an anvil falling from the ceiling. “God.” I get off his lap, moving away from his hands so suddenly there’s no time for grace.
I careen forward like a massive animal waking up from sedation. Panic slams into me. What have I done? “No way.” I pick the pieces of my lingerie up from the floor and rescue my money purse from under the bench without looking at him, as if I can undo what happened if I move fast enough. “Hey,” he says in a concerned voice. But I can’t meet his eyes. I just cheated on Tate, and that’s all I can think about. I did exactly what he was afraid I would do the one thing I kept telling him again and again I never would. Stripping isn’t like prostitution. How many times did I tell him that? It’s just dancing. No touching. “Hey,” says Nick again, a little louder. “Sorry,” is all I can muster. I slip through the curtain without looking back at him and away from what I’ve just done.