StripperwithSpice

Afton
Locke

Getting back on her feet after
unemployment, Janice treats herself to an erotic-romance convention. After winning
a two-hour fantasy date with Carlos Aguilar, a young stripper, she decides to
have a one-time fantasy fling.

When Carlos entices her back to the
bedroom—and a few public places—for more sizzling sex, he unleashes her
passions, including a secret desire to be a chef. Janice learns there’s more to
this heartthrob than a hot body, but job security comes first.

To convince her he’s more than a
fantasy, Carlos teaches her trust with his body. But when that trust is finally
tested to the limit, she’ll be torn between clinging to safety and taking a
chance on a whole new life.

A Romantica®
older woman, younger man erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

This story is dedicated to the Ellora’s Cavemen. The
gentlemen I’ve met have been handsome, charming, motivated and unique. They’ve
inspired me to dance, exercise, sing, write, keep up with social media and have
fun.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Taylor Cole and Justin Whitfield for writing
Take
It Off! The Naked Truth about Male Strippers
. This informative,
entertaining book was an essential reference as I spun my story.

Author Note

The romance convention portrayed in this novel is fictional
and solely the product of the author’s imagination, as the result of attending
conventions hosted by a variety of sponsors.

Crave-a-thon—welcome and satisfy your cravings!

The big red sign is the first thing I see as I pull into the
hotel parking lot near Cumberland, Maryland. The beautiful autumn-colored
mountains in the distance fade in comparison. I wince and park the car.
Holy
crap.
Is it October already? The crisp air tells me it is. Did I really
sign up for this romance reader conference? I must have been under the
influence of a hormone spike.

I pull my suitcase out of the trunk, glad my aging brown car
got me here without breaking down. The click of cooling metal parts and smell
of hot tires reminds me how far I drove. This long weekend can’t be over fast
enough.

Thanks to the lousy economy, my budget didn’t include
vacations for a couple of years. Now that I can afford it, why didn’t I go to
the beach down south like I used to? I’d be unfolding my beach towel right now
instead of making a fool out of myself. Or why didn’t I buy a bunch of exotic
ingredients and create a gourmet meal?

I don’t even know what to expect here besides the partying
the brochure promised. I’d wanted to do something self-indulgent. After all, I
wouldn’t be young forever and I deserved a treat after everything I’ve been
through in the work world lately. Did other forty-three-year-old women get
urges to do such crazy things? Hopefully, I’ll soon grow out of it.

The lobby with its heavy jungle decor might as well be
another world. I’ve never seen so many potted plants in one place. Smiling
women—standing in the check-in line or sitting on the couches chattering
away—are even more plentiful than the leopard-print draping.

Why did I come here to act wild with a bunch of women when I
should be catching up on all the work I have to do?

And men… I stop in the middle of the lobby, causing a
traffic jam, when I spot the first young man. Wearing a snug-fitting tank top,
he has a military buzz cut and so much muscle he must get tired carrying it
around. The cold draft in here has me shivering in my jacket. He sure doesn’t
look cold though.

Ah, yes. This is one of the reasons why I signed up. The
website promised four male cover models to dance for us and provide all the eye
candy we can eat.

My shoulders droop as I roll my suitcase to the end of one
of the lines. What was I thinking? Muscular guys aren’t my type and never have
been. I’ve always gone for older, distinguished men—the type who work with me.

Judging by the animated female voices, I’m not the only one
who notices the attractive man. At least three women line up to hug him, acting
as if they’ve met before. Do people actually do this every year? Thank goodness
I brought some books to read. I have a feeling I’m going to spend this entire
vacation locked in my hotel room.

As the line inches along and the monotonous sound of the
automatic doors nearly puts me to sleep, my gaze travels to the man in front of
me. He wears a blue windbreaker and black exercise pants. His hair is so dark
and glossy it reflects the overhead lights. When he turns his head to the side,
I get a view of his profile.

It doesn’t take more than a glimpse to tell me he’s younger
than me. Probably a lot younger. I never used to give age a second thought. Now
I classify everyone into two groups,
older
or
younger
.

The cool air must have shut off because warmth radiates from
my body and hovers under my clothes. And what smells so good? It reminds me of
mesquite and smoky sunsets. He must be wearing an exotic new cologne. Careful
not to do anything totally embarrassing, such as knocking my suitcase over his
feet, I lean a bit closer for a better sniff.

Well, I’m off to a great start. I haven’t even checked into
my room yet and I’m already sniffing men as if I’m a dog in heat.

Sooty lashes frame eyes so dark they’re almost black. His
skin is kind of dark too. Maybe he’s Hispanic. More importantly, why does he
look so serious? Suddenly I have to know his name and his entire life story.

When he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, his
restless impatience tickles the length of my back as if it’s a feather. He
obviously wants to do something besides wait in this excruciatingly slow line,
but what? Work out? Dance? Wrestle with a lover in an unmade bed?

Then he waves at someone across the room, his face breaking
into a white-toothed smile and panty-melting dimples. He’s one of them. Of
course he is. Because he has a jacket on, it took me a while to realize he’s
one of the models.

Looking down, I grimace at my shapeless brown sweater, old
jeans and scuffed loafers. To avoid attracting unwanted attention, I travel in
dumpy, non-revealing clothes. How was I to know I’d meet such a fine specimen
in a hotel line?

He’s next in line. Should I say a few words to him before he
goes to the front desk, such as “Hi” or “My name is—”?
Uh, what’s my name
again?
I hope the hotel doesn’t ask me for my license plate number because
right now I’m not even sure what year it is. Or should I utter something stupid
along the lines of, “Come here often”?

Too late. He’s at the front desk now. He even appears sexy
just standing there. His hips tilt and his legs spread a bit, as if he’s just
gotten off a horse. And what does he look like without a shirt on? Or pants,
for that matter. I watch while he completes his transaction and frown at the
disappointment swirling inside me when he finally walks away.

I’ll see him again later, I tell myself, but only from afar.
He’ll probably dance on a stage but that’s about it. Sure, he might make small
talk with me but only because he’s supposed to be polite to us. Unless…

Don’t even think about it.

A handsome young guy like him surely has two dozen
twentysomething knockouts lined up and willing to open their legs for him. What
would he want with a boring financial analyst over forty?

While the hotel employee pulls up my reservation, the urge
to cancel the whole thing and drive home wraps around my throat. I should never
have come. Maybe I should just burrow into bed with a book and stay there for
the next three days.

* * * * *

By evening, I’m rested from reading and napping but still
uneasy about being here. I can’t complain about the room though. The earth
tones harmonize with the rustic mountain view from the window. And everything
looks and smells so clean! I could get so used to having a maid.

After eating my delivered pizza, I run my hand across the
smooth, bare desk, realizing it looks strange because it doesn’t have work
piled all over it. Time to sort through the goodie bag. What do we have here?
Hmm…erotic romances, logo pens, colorful condoms and a small pulsating egg.

The first two I can use, the third I can’t and the fourth
I’m not even sure where to put or what to do with. Luckily I drove here. I
would hate to watch TSA hand-search my luggage and ask me to explain this
stuff.

I read the event schedule for what must be the hundredth
time. Since it’s too late to cancel, I might as well get at least some of my
money’s worth and attend an event or two. In one hour, the Molten Mixer will
take place in the hotel lounge. Who thought of the names for these things?
Probably someone with overactive hormones, a problem I haven’t had in quite a
while.

Maybe that’s why I bought this. Stepping to the luggage
rack, I retrieve the glossy pink shopping bag from the bottom of my suitcase.
Spreading the ribbon bag handles and pushing aside the matching tissue paper, I
lift out the expensive bra-and-panty set. Dangling the push-up bra from my
fingers by the straps, I admire the black-and-gold lace. The panties can hardly
be called that. I’ve never worn a thong before. It doesn’t look too
comfortable.

Had I really spent such hard-earned money on something so
impractical? That money should be sitting in my IRA, helping to make up for the
long months I went without retirement contributions. After all, who would see
me in it besides me?

Maybe you should wear it tonight.

I gnash my teeth. There it is. The same annoying little
voice that urged me to sign up for this crave fest thing in the first place. I
have to figure out how to shut it up before it causes me to lose everything,
something I can’t possibly go through again.

I could wear it tonight…just this one time. Might as well
get my money’s worth out of it. Then it can live buried deep in my bureau until
I’m too old to wear it. Maybe I already am. Shucking my clothes and then my
practical white bra and panties, I put on the naughty undies before I lose my
nerve.

The stiff lace—so different from the usual washed-a-million-too-many-times
cotton—teases my skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. Stepping to the
full-length mirror, I adjust my boobs so they don’t fall out of the plunging
bra.

Then I put my hands on my hips and pose. Not bad for over
forty. Green eyes, average height, and skin that won’t tan worth a damn. As an
afterthought, I attempt to smooth my brown, curly hair, which got more than a
little rumpled during my nap. As usual, it’s a lost cause.

I turn to get a view of my butt cheeks, which floods the
cheeks on my face with a scalding blush. As expected, I’m all too aware of the
black strip of fabric between my buttocks. The elastic moves with me as if it’s
alive. To my surprise, it’s more arousing than annoying. In fact it calls to
mind other objects that could be lodged there such as a man’s finger…or hard,
oiled cock. Heat flares through the triangular lace scrap covering my pussy.

What if I go to the Molten Mixer dressed in this and the
pair of black heels I brought? Turning to face the mirror again, I laugh out
loud and cover my mouth with my hand. For all I know, the other women will show
up in their underwear too. The schedule indicates casual dress, which could
mean just about anything.

And what would the mysterious, dark-haired guy in the hotel
line think? I trace the exposed swell of one pushed-up breast with my
forefinger. Would he gaze here first and be tempted to touch? My other hand
drops to the thong and I slide my finger along the waistband. Or would this
draw his gaze before anything else?

Dizzied by the pulse leaping to life in my clitoris, I tug
down the fabric to reveal a narrow strip of brown pubic hair and bare folds
peeking below it. Did I really shave myself for this trip to feel sexy? In a
few days, I’ll itch to death from the new hair growth. For now, though, I
resemble a heroine in an erotic romance.

Closing my eyes, I picture him here in the room with me,
pulling down my panties with strong, bronze fingers and stroking my bare labia
until they swell. Planting me against the wall and tasting me from the top
down.

Carried away by my fantasy, I press my back to the wall,
hissing from the sudden slap of cool, textured wallpaper against my sensitive
skin. My nipples harden to rocks inside the lacy bra while my pussy swells,
warm and damp.
Oh yes.
It would be…just…like…this.

Who am I kidding? He probably wouldn’t even look twice at
me. Or worse yet, he’d laugh. Arousal and common sense obviously don’t mix. I
step away from the wall and reach behind me to unhook the bra.

Fine.
I’ll wear it tonight under jeans and a blouse
so no one will know but me. If I’m going to be self-indulgent, I might as well
do it right so I’ll never have to go through this nonsense again.

With that decided, I put on my best jeans and a gold silk
blouse that harmonizes so well with the lingerie it’s as if it was made for it.
I haven’t worn it in so long the smell of airless closet clings to it. My
fingertips pause on the shiny buttons as I wonder how many to leave undone at
the top.

I button and unbutton a couple of them so many times it’s a
wonder they don’t fall off. Swallowing hard, I decide to leave the blouse
unbuttoned enough to show my cleavage and a potential glimpse of bra if I bend
over or stand beside a taller man.

Stuffing my hotel keycard into my back pocket, I race for
the door before I lose my nerve.

* * * * *

“I hate cocktail parties,” I whisper under my breath as I
enter the lounge. Glasses clink from the bar area while two bartenders in white
shirts and red ties scramble to fill drink orders for dozens of women. Animated
conversation forms a wall of sound. What a difference from my quiet hotel room.

Amid the jungle decorations and groups of women, I catch
glimpses of shirtless men, and women forming clusters around them as if acting
out a science experiment on magnetic force. I can’t help wondering if they’re
married or single like me.

My nails dig into my palms, making them tingle. It would
help to have some friends to hang out with. I visually scan name tags, seeking
my favorite authors, but don’t see any yet. Although I’d like to get to know
some other readers too, breaking the ice with small talk has never been my
talent. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans and check my watch, deciding to stay
for one hour and talk to at least somebody during that time.

Thank goodness my job doesn’t depend on this. As I get in
the drink line, an awful thought occurs to me. What if someone from work
happens to travel this way and find me here? How could I be stupid enough to
risk such a hard-won job, one that took no less than a combination of eight
phone and in-person interviews to get?

Instead of fancy lingerie, I should be wearing a hat, wig
and big sunglasses so no one can recognize me. As if to remind me of its
presence, the strange bra holds up my breasts as if it’s a pair of male hands.
Not to mention the piece of floss bisecting my butt.

“Hurry up! I need to get drunk.”

I can’t help turning to see who said that. A short Asian
girl with blonde highlights taps her toes in her fuchsia slides with
impatience.
Younger.
This girl has to be in her late twenties. Someone I
obviously have nothing in common with.