I yawn. “Is that right? And where is it you think you know me from?”
I study her face, trying to pull up something familiar from my memory and coming up empty. There’s no way I’ve had sex with her before. I would have remembered. And if I had, that would have a direct effect on how this night will end. I do not hit the same honey pot twice.
She allows her weight to drop so that she’s sitting straddled on my lap. I feel the familiar stir of arousal as my body responds to the heat and friction, but nothing else. I know her type. They’re all the same: fake—from their practiced, ditzy voices to their ass implants. These women are good for one thing, and she seems more than ready to go. Perfect.
“I’ve seen you on all the billboards.”
My eyes roll to the ceiling then squeeze shut at the throbbing in my still-aching head. I don’t have time for small talk. “You want to get out of here?”
Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle. “Sure.”
What a surprise.
“Can we go to your place?” She’s practically bouncing with excitement.
I can almost see the dollar signs flash in her eyes, she’s so transparent. This chick is all about status, the money, and the right to brag that she bagged a fighter. She’s looking to snag someone with cash that she can lead around by his dick. Her porn-star looks and willing sexual prowess turned on so bright, she’s hoping to blind me so I’ll think I’m in love. So fucking predictable.
“No. Yours.”
I’d never take a woman to my place. Seems to me if a guy brings a woman home she suddenly feels like she can set up house. Before he knows it, she’s making breakfast and stuffing his bathroom drawers with tampons. Poor shmuck looking for a one-night stand finds himself with a live-in wife. When she finally does leave, the guy’s fucked because she knows where he lives. He never calls, but she doesn’t care. She’ll just show up at his house or, even worse, drive by or park across the street and stalk him.
No thanks.
“Fine.” Her reply sounds deflated. The excitement tarnished, but I can tell, this chick doesn’t give up. “I’ll meet you out front. Give me five minutes?” She perks up, her thin eyebrows high on her forehead, anticipating my answer.
I nod.
With a long, firm grind of her pelvis on my crotch, she disappears into the crowd. Blake has his tongue down the throat of a busty redhead.
“Hey, bro. I’m gonna bounce.” I say it loud enough for him to hear.
He doesn’t break his lip-lock, but waves me off with one hand while skillfully sliding a fifty-dollar bill into the girl’s g string. And they say they aren’t prostitutes.
I down the dregs of my beer, throw some cash on the table, and head for the door. The club is busy for a Tuesday night, and the bar is three-deep, standing room only. People move out of my way a little quicker than usual, probably due to the don’t-fuck-with-me look this headache is giving my face.
Shoving through the club’s front door, I’m hit with desert air and cigarette smoke. The flashing neon sign makes everyone’s skin look pink. I scan the parking lot and consider bolting. Maybe a hot shower and good night’s sleep are all I need.
Just then, a small hand grabs my elbow. Too late. The stripper looks up at me from under her eyelashes. She licks her lips and presses her tits against my arm. She slides her hand into my palm and laces her fingers with mine. “I hope you’re ready for some fun. One night with me and you’ll be begging—”
I pull my hand from hers. “Where’s your car? I’ll follow you.”
Her eyes flash with something that looks like disappointment.
Chicks and their inflated ideas about romance. This isn’t a date. This isn’t an all-night sexual rendezvous. This is simple: Itch. Scratch.
She nods her head in the direction of her car. Feeling a little bad for my brush off, I walk her to it. I’m not a complete asshole.
She settles in and turns the ignition. I take off to my truck, telling myself that going home with . . . Ah hell, I don’t even know her name.
Oh well. Won’t be the first time I bang a nameless face.
It’s a short drive to her apartment. I back my truck into a spot in the visitor’s section to ensure a quick departure. She waits for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m right up here.” She runs her hand down my chest hooking my jeans with her fingertips.
“Don’t.” I remove her hand.
Her eyes narrow before they soften into something more sexual. It’s as if she wants to be pissed at me, but doesn’t want to lose the prize.
“If control is your thing, sexy, just say the word.” She spins around and I follow her up to her place.
Once inside, she throws her bag on the couch and walks back to what I assume is her bedroom. I head towards the glowing clock in her kitchen. It’s almost midnight. Pulling a condom from my wallet, I vow to be home and in bed by one.