Free The Art of Sin by Alexandrea Weis Page B
Authors: Alexandrea Weis
her eyes were not as sarcastic. Making a few spins, he checked out the other women, but kept coming back to the blonde.
When he pulled his silver-sequined shirt open, the motion made the pain from his broken pinkie shoot up his arm. He kept his stage smile plastered on his face, but he could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip. To stop thinking about the pain, he focused his attention on the small blonde. He pictured her being Al, watching him up on stage. Grady could almost see Al smirking at him. This was good. It was helping him get through his routine. He focused on the blonde, all the while thinking of Al, and soon he forgot about his discomfort.
Grady began to feel he was dancing only for the petite woman. He could hear the other women in the crowd shouting for him to “take it all off,” but he ignored them. He struggled getting his shirt off, and he saw the lithe blonde smile when she feasted her big eyes on his chest.
Yeah, she’s my girl.
Grabbing at his clothing and doing a few of the acrobatic moves he had in his dance routine almost made him see stars as the tormenting pain returned. With only his pants to go, he went to the edge of the stage, ready to bring up the blonde. When he pointed to her, the blush on her cheeks almost made him laugh out loud. Al would never have blushed like that. No, Al would have scowled at him.
It took two of her friends to coax her to the stage, but when the little blonde climbed the side steps, Grady was disappointed. Up close, she was nothing like Al. Her features were plain: her mouth was bigger, her lips thicker, and her eyes were brown, not like Al’s angry gray orbs. Giving her some encouragement to have fun with him, he lifted her hands to his chest and rubbed his hips against her.
The blonde squealed, covered her face, and did all the predictable things he expected of his orgasm girl. After he had danced around her a few times, he ripped off his pants—damn near cursing as the pain tore through his hand—then he gave her a kiss on the cheek and showed her off the stage.
A few last struts, flashing his silver-sequined G-string, and he was done. Snapping up his clothes from the floor with his left hand, he could feel the sweat pouring off him. He quickly jogged off the stage and back behind the curtains.
Out of the view of the audience, he bent over and very gently held his sore pinkie.
“Son of a bitch,” he sighed. How was he going to survive a second show?
Hurrying to his dressing room, he grabbed for his towel and left his clothes in a heap on a chair by the door. As he stared at his trembling right hand, he yearned for a stiff shot of tequila. Instead, he reached for the bottle of Tylenol he had purchased from the nearby convenience store on his way into the club. He struggled to open the bottle with his left hand, and then tossed back four pills with a gulp from his bottle of water.
“You’re not popping pills, are you?” a slender, but well-proportioned, brown-eyed man asked from the doorway to his dressing room.
Wearing only his white satin G-string with white boots, and white angel wings secured to his back with a harness, the intruder was carrying a white robe and white pants in his arms. His brown, curly hair was still glistening from the silver glitter spray Grady had watched him apply before going on stage.
“Matt will shit if he finds you’re doing drugs,” the young man warned, coming up to Grady.
Grady held up the Tylenol bottle to him. “It’s Tylenol, Lewis,” he explained to the dancer that shared his dressing room. “I broke my finger this morning and had to take off the tape to dance.” Grady held up his swollen pinkie.
Lewis’s puppy-dog brown eyes examined his finger. “Yikes, that looks bad.”
“That’s why I need the Tylenol. Pulling off the breakaway clothes on
When he pulled his silver-sequined shirt open, the motion made the pain from his broken pinkie shoot up his arm. He kept his stage smile plastered on his face, but he could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip. To stop thinking about the pain, he focused his attention on the small blonde. He pictured her being Al, watching him up on stage. Grady could almost see Al smirking at him. This was good. It was helping him get through his routine. He focused on the blonde, all the while thinking of Al, and soon he forgot about his discomfort.
Grady began to feel he was dancing only for the petite woman. He could hear the other women in the crowd shouting for him to “take it all off,” but he ignored them. He struggled getting his shirt off, and he saw the lithe blonde smile when she feasted her big eyes on his chest.
Yeah, she’s my girl.
Grabbing at his clothing and doing a few of the acrobatic moves he had in his dance routine almost made him see stars as the tormenting pain returned. With only his pants to go, he went to the edge of the stage, ready to bring up the blonde. When he pointed to her, the blush on her cheeks almost made him laugh out loud. Al would never have blushed like that. No, Al would have scowled at him.
It took two of her friends to coax her to the stage, but when the little blonde climbed the side steps, Grady was disappointed. Up close, she was nothing like Al. Her features were plain: her mouth was bigger, her lips thicker, and her eyes were brown, not like Al’s angry gray orbs. Giving her some encouragement to have fun with him, he lifted her hands to his chest and rubbed his hips against her.
The blonde squealed, covered her face, and did all the predictable things he expected of his orgasm girl. After he had danced around her a few times, he ripped off his pants—damn near cursing as the pain tore through his hand—then he gave her a kiss on the cheek and showed her off the stage.
A few last struts, flashing his silver-sequined G-string, and he was done. Snapping up his clothes from the floor with his left hand, he could feel the sweat pouring off him. He quickly jogged off the stage and back behind the curtains.
Out of the view of the audience, he bent over and very gently held his sore pinkie.
“Son of a bitch,” he sighed. How was he going to survive a second show?
Hurrying to his dressing room, he grabbed for his towel and left his clothes in a heap on a chair by the door. As he stared at his trembling right hand, he yearned for a stiff shot of tequila. Instead, he reached for the bottle of Tylenol he had purchased from the nearby convenience store on his way into the club. He struggled to open the bottle with his left hand, and then tossed back four pills with a gulp from his bottle of water.
“You’re not popping pills, are you?” a slender, but well-proportioned, brown-eyed man asked from the doorway to his dressing room.
Wearing only his white satin G-string with white boots, and white angel wings secured to his back with a harness, the intruder was carrying a white robe and white pants in his arms. His brown, curly hair was still glistening from the silver glitter spray Grady had watched him apply before going on stage.
“Matt will shit if he finds you’re doing drugs,” the young man warned, coming up to Grady.
Grady held up the Tylenol bottle to him. “It’s Tylenol, Lewis,” he explained to the dancer that shared his dressing room. “I broke my finger this morning and had to take off the tape to dance.” Grady held up his swollen pinkie.
Lewis’s puppy-dog brown eyes examined his finger. “Yikes, that looks bad.”
“That’s why I need the Tylenol. Pulling off the breakaway clothes on