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“Right. When he comes into town for his next quarterly schmooze, I’ll volunteer as tribute and go golfing with him for you. I’ll even do the dinner bit.”
I sit. Now I’m tempted. I don’t like Bill Rhodes. I like golfing even less. Spending twelve hours with the man is pure torture. “You’re mean.”
“I’m helpful,” he corrects.
“If you were helpful, you would have volunteered to deal with Bill without coercing me to stay.”
“I’m doing this for you. You’ll thank me later.”
Before I can ask how that’s possible, another act trots on stage, this one a heavy thirty-something comedian. He’s a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason back in the day. Speaks like the actor, too. I only know that because when I was growing up, Diana loved to watch reruns of The Honeymooners. He’s funny. I relax, finding him easy to enjoy.
A half hour later, the emcee who had appeared earlier in his red velvet tux now flits onstage in a green corset, full makeup, and crazy heels. Gotta say, it looks damn awkward with his handlebar mustache.
Sebastian laughs, then gives him a considering stare. “I’m kind of impressed.”
“Don’t think you’d look that good in a corset?”
“I’d look better,” Bas scoffs. “But I sure as fuck couldn’t walk on those heels.”
The man has a point. Neither could I.
“Now, for our grand finale this evening… The moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s give a big BBB welcome to the one, the only, the most beautiful goddess of burlesque, Precious Noire!”
The man backs off stage, and the curtains part. An African-American woman wearing a white sequin dress that hugs her body and covers her from head-to-toe waltzes into the spotlight, hair secured demurely at her crown. A mask covers most of her face, except for a pair of red-painted lips that do crazy things to my libido.
As the music turns bawdy, she slinks forward, the slit in her costume revealing her thigh and teasing me with a glimpse of her hip. With one hand, she flicks open a huge white feather fan and covers the tempting valley of her cleavage before she shoots a coy glance over her shoulder. I look to see a man following her wearing a pair of tights…and nothing else. He’s hard as hell and makes no move to hide it.
The ridiculously shredded and ripped male dancer approaches her from behind and wraps his pale hands around her dark shoulders, caressing his way down her arms. She gives a shiver and a wriggle. Then he finds the slit in her skirt and flares it wide, revealing her sleek thighs and a small red glitter-studded brief beneath.
Holy shit, she’s sex on stilettos. I feel myself start to sweat.
When she lifts her knee in front of her then slowly opens it to her side, the man behind her takes her thigh in hand and lowers his mouth to her exposed neck. She tosses her head back, lips parted. My cock responds immediately.
This woman is sensual in a way I’ve never seen, not in person. Sure, movies and whatever. But somehow being in the same room with her makes it real. Her sexuality is tangible; I feel it.
In that moment, I would gladly have walked on stage and offered that man a million dollars to give her to me.
Instead, I shift in my chair and find myself barely breathing as I wait for what comes next. They don’t keep me hanging for long.
The guy spins her to face him, anchors her thigh above his hip, then bends her back over his supporting arm. She arches, face upside down for the audience, as she throws her arms wide in total trust.
As I watch him touch her, I’m jealous. Which makes no sense.
But that gnawing envy only grows when he uses his free hand to unfasten the front of her dress. Slowly, slowly, he exposes a glittering red-and-white bra with dangling loops and feathers, all designed to snare a man’s attention. I can’t stop looking at her as he caresses her dress off one shoulder and nibbles at her flawless, gleaming skin.
When he raises her to face him again, she backs away as if she’s taunting him, but he grabs her dress by the other shoulder and gives it a tug. The garment falls away from her body, giving me a spectacular view of her ass, her plump, pert cheeks almost totally exposed. Her waist looks incredibly small above her lush hips. And when he thrusts his hands in her hair and unpins it, the mass of dark curls tumbles halfway down her back…drawing my eyes to a shape that suddenly looks familiar.
I zip a shocked stare over at Bas. “Is that Nia?”
“You figured it out quick. I’m impressed. It took me until Thursday night to be sure that’s her.”
Thursday night? When he saw her at my house? “Why then? What made it click for you?”
“Her ass. When I saw it in those gray pants…” He shrugs. “It’s unmistakable.”
He’s right. I want to be furious at his observation, but how can I fault him for identifying the copious beauty of her taut, juicy backside when it’s so obvious?
“Stop looking at her,” I bark, even as I realize my demand is ridiculous.
