“You fuckers need to get the leashes off your balls and stop ruining the fuckin’ party!”
What kind of no-good, up-tight dick didn’t enjoy a private party at a strip club? Turns out the answer was my fuckin’ club brothers.
Seriously, these assholes were bringing me down.
It was their idea to throw my party at the same club I’d convinced them to buy instead of the clubhouse yard like normal. But after they'd sprung that news on me and we’d all gotten there, they’d decided to be a bunch of downers just because they had balls and chains at home.
“My woman likes a leash—not that she’d ever get that shit around my balls,” Jager shot back.
There was a second of no response from the brothers seated around us. This was partly because Jager was a surly fucker. That had lightened some since Ember came into his life, but not by much. He wasn’t one to share shit from the bedroom much before or since she’d been around. We all fucking knew what he was into, though. I’d wager one of my nuts that comment about the leash wasn’t just a line. He’d actually gotten a leash on his woman at some point if it wasn’t a regular thing.
The other part of our surprise was that Ember wasn’t a woman you fucked with. She was hot as hell, particularly since she liked to deck herself out like a damn pinup model, but she also taught kickboxing classes at the gym Jager ran. She could lay a man out in under a minute—and I was speaking from fucking experience. Seeing as Ember’s dad was one of our brothers, it was safe to guess she wouldn’t love Jager getting into any details of the kinky shit they got up to. I didn’t know that she’d turn those skills on her man, but after seeing what she could do, I wouldn’t have taken the chance if I were him.
“I hope to fuckin’ God I didn’t just hear the shit I think I did,” Roadrunner—Ember’s dad—said as he grabbed any empty chair nearby to pull up to our table.
Jager sat there with a hint of a grin like the fuckin’ devil himself. Ember obviously got something from it, but I found that look downright scary.
“Christ,” Roadrunner muttered, “I should have just cut your fuckin’ dick off as soon as you got your hands on my girl.”
“My girl,” Jager said then.
“You might have her now, son, but she’s been mine since before she was born. She’ll be mine until the day they put in me in the ground, and she’ll still be mine even after that.”
“Is no one going to focus on the naked women?” I demanded. “We’ve got the hottest dancers in the fuckin’ county. I know, I’ve checked.”
Gauge looked to his left, where Sketch was actually fucking drawing something on a napkin, to his right where Ham was on his phone, then back to me. “No.”
“Just because you’ve got women at home doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate a good view. God damn.”
Ham set his phone down and took a pull of his beer. “I appreciate what you’ve got here. I’m busy tryin’ to keep my crazy fucking woman at home instead of showing up.”
Max, of all the girls, might have been my favorite. I gave the guys shit, but I actually liked their women. They were fucking loyal, and that went a long way for me. They were also all good women, funny, some sweet. Max, however, knew how to have fun.
“Tell her to get her ass down here,” I invited. Max was the last person who would put a damper on the party.
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” Ham stated firmly.
“Why the hell not?”
“I let her come here, I’ll end up murdering all you fuckers when she gets herself up on one of those poles,” Ham answered.
Fair enough. Max would absolutely pull something like that. Probably get the other women to stop stripping and ask to teach her some moves. Max was hot, but I wasn’t feeling that show. Mostly because I figured Ham wasn’t exaggerating on how it would end.
The music pumping through the dark room switched from “Lollipop” by Flaming Hanley to “Come Together” by The Beatles. I’d never seen any of the girls dance to that track even in rehearsals, so it grabbed my attention right off. The lights on the stage were dark, only flashing for a beat in time with the music, but that was long enough for me to catch the way they shone on red hair.
Fuck, that goddamn hair.
When the song really got rolling, there was still no spotlight to see her properly, just the runners along the frame of the stage. There was no stopping it. My body moved of its own accord, rising from the chair and walking like I was fucking hypnotized by her. I took the seat right at the end of the runway. The whole thing had a table fixed along it to give customers a way to sit close and still have a place for drinks. It also gave the dancers more space.
For the first time, I fucking hated that gap.
The song wasn’t typical for what we played here. It was quieter, less high energy. But Avery was right there, rolling her body to the low beat like the song was fucking written to provide the soundtrack while she seduced a man.
She was wearing tiny shorts I knew would be ripped off at some point and a black bustier. The tall as fuck heels she had on were right at eye level, but I was leaning back in my chair to take in the whole damn picture of her long legs and sexy fuckin’ curves.
The bustier was the first thing to go, coming off when Lennon finally sang the first “Come together.” The fabric flew away, revealing a see-through mesh bra beneath, and sailed right toward me. Usually, the girls didn’t do that. Too hard to keep costumes to wear if they threw them at desperate customers. Tonight, the usual rules didn’t apply. The fact that Avery was taking advantage of that pleased me to no fucking end.
Her shorts followed after another minute of her teasing at taking them off. In their place was a little thong that matched the bra. It just barely hid what it was designed to, but there was so much to see, it didn’t even fucking matter. Particularly with the sensual way those hips of hers swayed as she gripped the pole above her head and slid up and down.
My dick was hard as fucking stone, and it didn’t help when Avery dropped to her knees and crawled across the stage. I gripped the counter so hard, I was sure I’d be paying to have the fucking thing fixed tomorrow. I didn’t care. All I cared about was the living wet dream in front of me, moving her body in ways that had me losing my ever-loving mind while her eyes stayed on mine.
This wasn’t her working. This wasn’t a stripper on stage trying to please to make tips. I’d seen more than my fair share of those performances. They got the job done, but they’d never consumed me like this. I’d had women on their knees blowing me who weren’t as effective.
And it was for me. She might try to deny it later, but that sex in her eyes wasn’t an act. That heat was burning through her the same way it was for me. If I let go and reached out, I doubted she’d stop me. And I’d find out what I already knew in my gut to be true—that her pussy was just as hot as her eyes and wet for me.
Her knees were right at the edge of the stage, close enough for me to touch if I only tried, when she flung the bra that’d been doing almost nothing off. Still, the spectacular sight of her tits had me feeling like I might start leaking cum into my jeans.
I all but growled when she backed away, returning to the pole to finish off the dance, spinning herself around on it, rubbing her nearly exposed body against it erotically. It was all a good show, a typical performance for her up on the pole. It had nothing on having her right there on her knees. I’d put money down that her being close to me had never been a part of the routine at all, that she’d gotten carried away by the same pull I was feeling. Then, it had hit her what she was doing and she’d retreated, going back to the choreographed moves that gave her space from me.
Fuck that.
The rules didn’t apply tonight.
I was out of my seat as soon as the music and lights faded.