Priest (23 page)

We walked over to the glassed-in elevator vestibule and Poppy ran a keycard over the secured door. When it clicked open, she led me to the far elevator, ran the keycard again, and we shot up to the 30th floor.

Finally, I ventured to ask. “Where are we going?”

She gave me a small smile, one of those smiles that left me transfixed by her mouth. “To my job.”

I barely had time to process this before we were walking inside, before Poppy was nodding at the woman at the front desk (who was dressed in a tailored suit, as if she was working at an investment firm and not at a strip club.) Poppy pushed at the smoked glass doors, and I followed, and then we were inside the most exclusive club in this city, the place that had lured a Dartmouth MBA to stay when Wall Street couldn’t.

Walls had been constructed along the perimeter of the space, blocking the windows, presumably so the flashing lights wouldn’t shine out during the night (and so that daylight wouldn’t shine
in
during the day.) But there was a sizable gap between the walls and the windows, meaning any guest could take his drink and roam in between the two, gazing out at the cityscape, as several men were doing now, some of them fielding what sounded like business calls as Poppy led me past.

Here and there, the walls broke, giving me a glimpse inside the main room. Two or three women danced alone in glassed-in boxes, but several were out on the floor, and I instinctively turned my eyes away from all the exposed female flesh. Maybe I was still a priest at heart.

But then my eyes were drawn back to Poppy’s short tunic and where I could see the shape of her ass through the fabric.

Yeah, right.

We ducked through one of the openings and then Poppy led me inside a room.

“What are we doing?”

“My boss said I can use these rooms whenever I want. And I want to right now.”

“For me?”

“For you. Now wait here,” she said with a grin, and then left, closing the heavy wood door with a
snick
.

So these were the private rooms she’d told me about, like the one she’d fucked Sterling in. That thought sent the now-familiar corkscrew of jealousy spiraling deeper, but then I remembered the car, her desperate I love yous. She was here…with me. Not with him.

But why did this snake of anger still slither in my belly? I hated myself for feeling it, but I couldn’t chase it out, couldn’t dig it out. It slunk through my veins, tickling the inside of my fingertips with the urge to—to what? Spank her ass for spending time with her ex without my permission? Fuck her until she grunted, until my cock was the only thing she knew?

God, I was such a fucking Philistine.

To distract myself, I examined my surroundings. I’d never been to a strip club before, but this was admittedly much nicer than what I’d expected. There was a chair and a sofa, both leather (
easily cleaned
, a bitter voice thought) and a dais in the middle of the room, wide enough to host a pole and also wide enough for a dancer to dance without it.

The light was low—shades of blue and purple—and the music was loud but not loud enough to be annoying. The kind of volume where it sank into your blood with a thrumming, demanding beat, where it fused with your own thoughts and set your pulse higher, set your adrenaline on a slow, steady drip.

I sat on the leather sofa and leaned forward, looking at my hands. What was I doing here? Why had she brought me? Of all the places—

But then the door opened and I stopped wondering anything except when I could push my cock inside her because
fuck
.

She wore a wig the color of blue cotton candy, and eye makeup so heavy that all I could picture were those kohl-rimmed eyes peering up at me as she sucked my dick. And I immediately saw what she’d meant when she said the club liked to hire girls who looked expensive. Because while I knew fuck all about lingerie, I did know that the delicately embroidered fabric of her sheer panties was not probably not the usual stripper garb. Nor the matching silk shelf bra or the lace pasties covering her nipples—all in a soft champagne. A strip of the same champagne-colored silk was tied around her neck in a bow, and I wanted to unwrap her like a present, right then and there. She always looked amazing—in clothes and naked—but she was transformed right now, a Poppy I had only seen glimpses of even in our most intimate moments.

She strode over to me, just as graceful in six-inch heels as she was in ballet flats, and held out her hand. “Your wallet.”

Confused, I dug it out of my (suddenly very tight) jeans and handed it to her. She dug a roll of crisp fifties and hundreds out of her bra and slid them neatly inside my wallet, handing it back to me. “I want to play a game,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Let’s play a game.”

She licked her lips, and I realized that I wasn’t the only one crazy fucking turned on right now. “You’re just a client, and I’m just a dancer, okay?”

“Okay,” I echoed.

“And you know there’s certain rules about private rooms, don’t you?”

I shook my head, unable to keep my gaze from raking over her form, over her expensive lingerie, over that strip of silk tied around her neck that could so easily be turned into a leash…

“Well, first you have to pay me for being here.” And then she put a hand on her hip, looking so impatient and so hot, and any philosophical arguments Good Guy Tyler might have had about pretending something so degrading—about being in a strip club in the first place—vanished. And the moment I placed the bills in her hand, the air instantly changed. The game vanished and this was our reality—no matter that we loved each other, that this wasn’t even my money—I was paying her and she was taking it and now she was on the stage, one hand on the pole, her eyes on me.

She started dancing, and I leaned back, wanting to memorize every detail of this, of the way her legs wrapped around the pole as she swung, the way her blue hair brushed against her shoulders, the way the muscles in her arms and shoulders pulled and strained against each other.

The low light, the loud music, the anonymity of the sex on display in front of me…all combined with the heated blaze in her eyes, like she wanted
me
and me specifically and me right now—I now understood why Herod had offered Salome anything she’d wanted after she danced for him. There was something so delicious in the tug of power between us; I presumably held all the control and dignity in this situation, but the reverse was actually true. She was captivating me, she was putting me under her thrall, until I wanted to offer her everything, not just the money she’d put in my wallet, but my house, my life, my soul.

Poppy and her dance of seven veils.

And then she bent over, and I was distracted by the fact that her ass was now front and center, that I could see the shadow of her folds through the fabric, and I would’ve sworn any oath right then to caress her there.

I shifted, trying to make more room for myself in my jeans, but it was useless. And then she was in front of me, a hand on each of my knees, and she spread them wide so she could step between them. She turned so that her ass was in front of my face, so close that I could make out the individual flowers embroidered on her lingerie, and I ran a finger across them.

She caught my hand. “You have to pay more if you want to touch,” she purred, and I followed Herod down the path to spiritual perdition, because no price was too high for her.

I handed over the money without question, which she tucked in her bra. Then she guided my hands to her hips and moved them down to her flanks and then back up to her tits. I toyed with the pasties a moment, both loving and hating the unfamiliar feeling of having her nipples blocked from me.

She sat in my lap, pressing her ass against my erection and laying her head back against my shoulder as I fondled her tits. I nuzzled her neck. “I bet you do this with all the guys who come in here.”

“Just you,” she said in a velvet voice, wriggling against me, the friction against my dick making me groan quietly. She flipped over, so she was straddling me.

“You know,” she said, in that same low, kitten voice, “I never let guys do this, but if you want, I’ll let you see my pussy.”

Yes, please.

“I would like that.” I am very proud that I managed to not squeak like a teenage boy.

She extended her hand, and I fished out the wallet again. It was just as well that this was a game; I’d never be able to afford Poppy on a priest’s salary.

After she was paid, she hopped on the dais and spread her legs wide again, pulling the crotch of her panties aside to show me what I wanted to see. It was wet and an enticing rose color in the dim blue light of the room—the color Renaissance painters should’ve used to paint the light of Heaven.

I stared, hypnotized, as she slowly let her hand drift from her neck, down past her breasts to the gentle rise of her pubic bone. From there she traced wide, light circles around her pussy, a loose spiral across her lower stomach and inner thighs, drawing closer and closer, and when she finally grazed her clit, I let out a shaky breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

She too sighed at her touch, her hips rocking tiny little rocks into her hand, as if she was unconsciously trying to fuck the air, and I was beginning to lose track of everything that wasn’t her cunt. Didn’t she know I could fill it for her? Didn’t she know I could make her feel good, if only she’d let me?

I stood up and walked to the dais. Our eyes were at the same level, and I kept her gaze as I slid my hands from her knees up to her inner thighs, my thumbs coming teasingly close to her pussy. I did it again, this time daring to go closer, wondering if she would let me, if her lust would overtake her rules about money. My thumbs ran over her folds and she shuddered, and so did I, because holy shit, she was wet. So wet that I knew I’d be able to push my dick right in with no resistance.

“You want to stick your fingers inside me?” she asked.

I nodded, taking my thumbs and spreading her folds apart, moving that smooth pink flesh aside so that her entrance was completely exposed, begging for fingers or a cock.

“It’s going to cost you,” she said mischievously, placing her hands over mine.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I breathed. Hard was the right word for how I felt too. I was about three seconds away from unzipping my jeans and taking matters into my own hands (as it were.)

I found the bill, folded it lengthwise to make it easier for her to stow away, but this time she didn’t take it with her fingers, she took it with her mouth, her lips grazing my fingers, and it was so degrading, so wonderfully degrading, and the Herod in me was exultant on his throne, delighted with a king’s delight to see her with that money in between her teeth, knowing that now her pussy was mine to touch as I wanted.

She raised up on her knees as if to stand, but I was getting what I paid for, and right
now
, and I wrapped one arm around her waist and yanked her down, onto the two fingers I had waiting for her. She cried out and I smiled grimly, planning on taking full advantage of this particular service tier. With the arm around her waist, I pushed her down even farther, so that her pussy was grinding against my hand (which was currently smashed against the dais, but I didn’t mind,) and so the hot locus of nerves at her front rubbed relentlessly on my palm. My fingers crooked forward, finding the soft textured spot that would send her over the edge.

I moved my fingers while I crooned in her ear. “If I make you come, do you have to pay me?”

She laughed but the laugh immediately faded into a ragged sigh as I pressed her harder against my hand. I bit at her collarbone and at the soft skin around her pasties, her wetness quivering against my hand and that silk bow just begging to be wrapped around her wrists, and then she came with a sharp noise, bucking fruitlessly against me as I held her tighter, worked her harder, wrung every last drop of pleasure from her climax.

As she came down, her body relaxed against mine, but I was nowhere near relaxed. I slid my hand out from underneath her and put my fingers to her lips, making her suck her own taste off of them, my other hand unbuttoning my jeans.

Poppy glanced down and back up to my face. “You want me to put it in my mouth?” she asked, looking at me from under her lashes in a way that was utterly fucking debilitating to my ability to form coherent thoughts.

I grabbed a few bills and tucked them into her bra myself. Then I took that silk bow in hand and slowly untied it, baring that lovely neck for me to suck and nip at, as I slid the silk through my hands—reverently, like I would hold my stole or my cincture.

I pulled back and wrapped one end of the length around her neck, tying it to itself in a secure knot—the kind of knot that meant I’d be able to yank on it without worrying about it tightening around her neck.

Leash secured, I wrapped the loose end once around my hand and gave an experimental tug. She jerked forward a bit, making a surprised noise, but her pupils dilated and her pulse thrummed in her neck, so I felt free to pull again, forcing her to slide carefully off the dais and to her knees. I sat in the chair and made her crawl to me, watching the way her tits swung as she did.

Once she was in between my knees, I yanked up, perhaps a bit harder than I should have, but I was almost lost with lust at this point, lost to my inner caveman and my inner Herod, and all he wanted was that pretty red mouth on his dick right the fuck now.

She curled her fingers around the waistband of my black boxer briefs and pulled down, and my dick sprang free, jutting up between the V of my zipper. I wound the end of the leash around my hand a few more times until the silk was taut, and then I pulled her head to my cock, but she didn’t open her mouth right away, those red lips sealed. But the hint of a smile was at the corners of her mouth, a delighted defiance in her eyes, and I remembered my kitchen counter all those weeks ago, when she’d asked me to steal her kisses—no, not even steal. She’d wanted me to
force
them from her.