StripperwithSpice (3 page)

I can’t believe I’m discussing underwear with someone I’ve
known for barely an hour.

“It worked. You should dance with him tonight.”

I shrug, thinking it’s as likely as finding alien life on
Mars. “If he asks me.”

Zena flings a hand out. “It doesn’t work that way here. If
you wait to be asked, you’ll be waiting all night. You gotta ask him.”

I finally button the rest of my blouse and say my goodbyes
to Zena and Dorothy.

“You can’t leave now,” Dorothy protests. “The dancing hasn’t
even started.”

Asking a young guy to dance and getting turned down would be
worse than being ignored the entire night. Besides, I already had my thrill for
the evening just talking to him. It was more than I expected. I look at my
watch again, realizing my hour, and then some, is up.

If it’s all about the fantasy, why ruin it with the reality
that Carlos would never truly want me?

The next afternoon, I sit in my hotel room studying the
convention schedule over my lunch, which consists of a spinach wrap I grabbed
from the hotel’s sandwich shop. What can I say? Being around so many muscular
men inspired me to eat healthier.

Crave-a-thon sure is an action-packed conference. In the
past few hours, I attended a workshop about sex toys, learned how to lap-dance
and did a fitness workout led by Butch. Maybe the organizers figure if they
keep us busy enough, we’ll be too tired to try to break the rules.

Next up is a book-cover photo shoot, but the novel on my
nightstand beckons. Why not read and nap the rest of the afternoon? It would be
safer in here than out there in jungle land. I sweep the crumbs from lunch into
the trash and flip through the schedule again. I’ve dog-eared the page with the
cover model pictures.

A pair of haunted, dark eyes stares out at me from the
glossy paper. Carlos is out there, which means I can’t stay in here. After last
night’s gallant introduction, I want more. Forget going home early. I’m here
for the duration now.

To go or not to go to this cover shoot… Watching him pose
with some gorgeous female model will eat me up with jealousy, but maybe I can
pretend I’m in her shoes. If I get too uncomfortable, I can just walk out.
That’s what I like about this event. Unlike work, it’s optional. If I screw up,
it won’t cost me my livelihood, which might as well be my life.

I go to the bathroom to smooth my unruly hair and brush the
spinach out of my teeth. The moss-green V-neck sweater and dressy jeans I’ve
worn all morning should be good enough for this too. I’ve actually gotten used
to the push-up bra and may never go back to the old one.

* * * * *

When I walk into the room for the cover shoot, my first
thought is,
Where are the female models?
Are they going to drop from the
ceiling or pop out of a box? The men, as shirtless and sexy as ever, stand on a
low stage with a leopard-print chair on it. The attendees form a line, which
lengthens at amazing speed. Behind the stage is a wall depicting a tropical
jungle landscape.

This is weird. Shouldn’t we sit in some chairs facing the
stage? Before long, one of the organizers shoves a clipboard at me.

“Sign this model release form.”

Huh?
I might look good for my age but I’m no model.
My frown of confusion deepens even more when other women receive clipboards
too. I skim the fine print while dance music pours out of a nearby speaker.

Holy cow.
I am a model. We all are today. I shove the
clipboard back at the woman.

“No thanks. I’m just going to watch.”

“Suit yourself.”

I step out of the line, which grows ever longer. The first
woman steps onstage where three men position her body around the chair in a
suggestive pose. Her friends egg her on with enthusiastic comments and poised
cameras. Looking stiff and uncomfortable at first, the woman eventually smiles
and sinks into the fluid pose the men choose for her. Bright flashes fill the
room as the professional photographer shoots away. The woman varies her pose
for several shots.

My eyes dry out as I forget to blink. This can’t be real.
Zena’s words come back to me.
It’s just a fantasy.

The men’s faces are so close to the woman’s it’s as if
they’re kissing her, but I can see they’re not. This scene is typical of
romance book covers. It appears as if the man is about to whisk the woman off
to bed, or vice versa.

What good is fantasy? I prefer the real thing. Fantasy is
frustrating. Just watching this is swelling the nipples in my bra and what good
is that? It’s not as if I’m on a date and might get lucky. This bra is already
too tight. Any more pressure and my breasts might overflow. Now that would be
something to photograph!

Carlos enters from the sidelines. The movement of his
tattoos hooks my gaze as he mounts the stage. Heat flares through my body and I
hope to hell it isn’t my first hot flash. He’s probably going to be in the
pictures too. With other women… With…me?

No way.
I clench my hands behind my back and pace.
Then I sigh at least five times. If only I could sit down and write a
cost-benefit list to help me with this decision. A tickle of curiosity between
my legs makes my decision for me.

Hell, yes. Give me one of those damn clipboards.
The
line has now filled the length of the room and is curling along the back wall,
reminding me of a scorpion’s tail. I almost knock someone down in my rush to
get one of the organizers to hand me a form. Scrawling my name and shoving the
clipboard back before I can change my mind, I head to the end of the line.

I wish I’d worn something sexier. The next woman up is Zena.
I laugh when Rolf and another guy suspend her upside down. Luckily her
lime-green tank top has enough Lycra in it to keep it in place. I hope they
don’t do that to me. Passing out from a head rush would not be cool. But Zena
just laughs and points her megawatt smiles to the camera.

Suddenly I wonder about her. Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?
It’s as if she left her outside life at the door of the hotel. Fantasy can only
take a person so far. Being single can be lonely.

“Look at her,” the woman behind me exclaims. “She’s eating
this up.”

I turn and realize it’s Dorothy. Seeing her makes me feel
good about my decision. If a married woman can do this, so can I.

“She’s posing with Rolf,” I point out. “Aren’t you jealous?”

She sighs and adjusts her glasses. “A little but I suppose
there’s enough of him to go around.”

When Zena’s session ends, we clap and cheer louder than
anyone else. The next person up is an older woman. Will the guys suspend her in
the air too? Instead they seat her in the chair and sit at her feet, each
enfolding one of her legs with muscular arms.

The line moves pretty fast. The closer I get to the front,
the harder my heart pounds. The men participating in the photos changed a
couple of times while I waited. Now Carlos is taking his turn. He’s wearing a
pair of worn jeans with a bit of underwear waistband peeking over the top,
which sets off his tan abdomen to perfection.

In fact the track lights above give his exposed skin a warm,
bronzed glow. Sun-warmed, carved wood comes to mind and my cold, clammy hands
heat up as I imagine touching him.

Dorothy tugs on the neck of her sweatshirt in a fanning
motion. “Is it hot in here?”

“Steamy,” I reply.

Watching one suggestive pose after another has raised my
temperature several degrees too. The men must work some kind of magic to get
each woman’s face to light up. Carlos exudes it tenfold. My gaze catches every
one of his smiles and movements until I’m sure I’ve memorized them all for the
rest of my life.

Zena waves at us from the sidelines. “I’m going to get your
pictures too.”

My vision and hearing dim when I realize I’m at the head of
the line.

Dorothy gives me a gentle shove. “You’re up, Janice.”

Getting my feet to move toward the stage is harder than
learning how to walk when I was a toddler.
I can’t do this!
Why did I
come? Why did I sign that stupid paper? When I look up, Carlos looks back at
me. Nothing exists but those dark eyes. They reach out to me, pulling me up.

I’m sure my heartbeat has exceeded one hundred-twenty beats
per minute as I concentrate on climbing the stage stairs without tripping. As
if on cue, the music changes to something slow and sultry with a Latin beat.
The other models melt into the background while the audience blurs into a cloud
behind the lights shining down on us.

Just inches away, Carlos’ gaze locks onto mine with the
force of an earthquake. I take a slow, deep breath to keep from trembling and
looking stupid.

“So what do you want to do with me?”

A blush scalds my cheeks.
Please tell me I didn’t just
say that.

“Put your foot up on the chair,” he says with businesslike
authority.

Luckily I wore sandals instead of sneakers and remembered to
paint my toenails. A thrill races down my spine and settles in my belly. Hmm. I
kind of enjoy having him tell me what to do. It’s too bad he’s not my boss at
work.

What’s he going to say next?
Take off your clothes?
At this moment, I’ll do anything he asks. After all, he’s the model and knows
what he’s doing. To hell with the audience.

“I can lift you up.”

Say what?
The way he says it reminds me of the
construction foreman who renovated the office.
We can knock out that wall.
The quick analysis and decision quickens my pulse even more.

I guess it’s a good thing I skipped dessert last night.
Before I can form another thought, two strong hands grip the undersides of my
thighs. Now I understand why he told me to put one foot on the chair. It gave
him easier…um…access.

He lifts me as promised. In a sitting position, with my legs
hanging down at the knees, my body rises with the smoothness of an elevator
ride. I guess I’m supposed to touch him now. Not that I don’t want to. God, I
long to kiss the hell out of him, unzip his sexy jeans and run my hands all
over his naked body.

But this isn’t a date. I hardly know him and he’s only doing
this because it’s his job. With careful deliberation, I rest my palms on his
wide shoulders. Mmm, he feels fantastic. His warm skin has the perfect
consistency. Not too velvety-boyish and not too rough. It’s as smooth, hard and
warm as a polished wood carving baking in the sun.

My breasts surge against the stiff lace of my bra. The
nipples tingle as they harden, aching to taste his bare skin against them. He
tucks his head near mine. We’re so close I feel his breaths against my cheek.
And the more I breathe, the more his spicy, mesquite scent swirls in my head,
dizzying me with lust.

His waist is solid and thick between my thighs. Instinctively
I curl my legs around him. It’s a good thing I’m wearing the old cotton panties
today because the thong would never catch all the wet heat seeping from my
cunt.

If only all these damn clothes weren’t between us.

So many sensations overload me from head to toe I’m ready to
blow a fuse. I’m vaguely aware of the photographer snapping pictures. One click
and flash follows another while my heart thunders against his sculpted chest.
Without her having to tell me, I know I’m supposed to vary my poses.

“Pose sexy!” Zena yells.

I move my head to the side and then down. Unable to stop
myself, I even tip it back in ecstasy. It’s a good thing he has a good grip on
me because when he presses his mouth to my neck, my body convulses and I almost
do a backflip out of his arms.

It’s not just his hot body. It’s him. If any of those other
guys stood in his place, even Rolf, I know I wouldn’t enjoy this a tenth as
much. I’d want to get it over with so people would stop staring at me.

Maybe too it’s the way he holds me, as if he’ll never let me
go or let anything else bad happen to me. My mind drifts back to the hell I
endured when I lost my previous job and almost my entire career. If I’d had him
there holding me this way, I could have faced it so much better. After
stumbling on my own feet for so long, it feels good to be carried in a pair of
strong arms. As if reading my mind, he tightens his grip, drawing me closer.

The heat of his hands penetrates my jean-clad thighs and his
chest slides against my sweater, filling it with heat too. Never let this
moment end. Never let the strength leave his arms so that he has to drop me. I
change my grip so my fingers cover the intriguing tattoos. Muscle and man flex
beneath my fingers as his hips dip a bit to one side. The movement only makes
me grab him tighter.

But without being told, I know it’s over. After all, there’s
a line full of women patiently waiting their turn as I did. Much as I would
like to, I can’t make love to Carlos up on this stage for the rest of the
afternoon. The photographer lowers her camera and Carlos eases me back to a
standing position as carefully as a piece of china.

“Thank you,” I tell him, amazed I can manage to speak.

He answers with his eyes and a slight dip of his head. If
I’m reading them right, he enjoyed it too.

I’m so high from the hormones rushing through my body I
practically float off the stage. When Dorothy steps up, a twinge of jealousy
courses through me. Now that I’ve experienced my moment with Carlos, I can’t
stand to watch a repeat of it with another woman in my place. Even Dorothy, a
friend. Seeing it would make me feel as if I’m an interchangeable part, as if
the moment weren’t special at all.

“Somebody hold her glasses,” Zena says.

“I want Rolf.”

Dorothy’s voice is louder than usual as she yanks off her
glasses and hands them to the next woman in line. Did that meek housewife
really say that?

“Go for it,” Zena calls from the sidelines. “Get your man.”

Rolf flings back his long blond tresses as he struts toward
her. The special request must have stroked his ego. He takes Dorothy’s hand and
wraps his arm around her back, sweeping her into a tango motion.

Carlos steps back to the group of other men against the wall
and watches. I glance up at him and smile. It takes a moment for him to look in
my direction but he finally does. His smile is hesitant at first, almost as if
it’s a chore, then warms to full intensity. To be honest, he looks a little
down.

Great.
I depressed the man. If a photo shoot with me
does that to him, how would he feel after having sex with me? Luckily we’ll
never have to find out.

I remind myself this is just a job to him. While I was up
there, it felt as real as real could get. I didn’t realize until this weekend
how man-deprived I am—something I’ll have to remedy when I get home. This
fantasy stuff is dangerous and addictive. If there’s another silly photo shoot
or “fantasy” exercise, count me out.