Free Stripped by Allie Juliette Mousseau

while accompanying me for the week will increase to fifty dollars per hour—twenty-four hours per day for seven days. That, along with the first three weeks at thirty dollars an hour, would come to about a cool $10,000 total.”
    Holy shit! Suddenly my palms feel clammy and I’m nervous as hell, as if this were the most important business transaction I’ve ever partnered in. In comparison, the first night I bared all at Foreplay was easier!
    “I have a question.”
    That’s not a no. “Shoot.”
    “What’s the timeframe between the LA audition and Vegas week?”
    “We’re the final stop in the national audition process, so it’s the following week.”
    She nods in understanding then counters, “You work in a dance studio that teaches ballet. Why don’t you ask one the instructors there?”
    “None of them are even close to your caliber,” I say truthfully. “Look around you—I like the best. I like it real and sexy and full of passion. You possess all of those qualities.”
    This is the part where I can’t help myself. I shift over, closing more of the gap between us and allow my fingers to reach behind the back of her head and work the band and hair pins that hold that long luxurious mane in an uptight bun.
    Time to set it free, I think then watch wistfully as waves of deep chestnut tumble about her neck and shoulders, cascading all the way to the curve of her breasts.
    “It’s so spectacular. You should only wear it in a bun that tight… mmm, never.” The scent of almonds and sugar make me heady. “You know, this proposition benefits you too. The credentials you’ve earned after so many tireless years of commitment to your craft are yours to use to your advantage. You were dealt a rough and nasty hand, now it’s time to stack the deck back in your favor.”
    I realize my hand has lingered. I’m wrapping silky curls around my fingers while grazing the length of her neck and stroking light fingertips behind her ear.
    “Dance with me, Em.”
     
    What happens next is the stuff of dreams—of fantasies really—very similar to those fantasies I’d started having since I had her body pinned under mine on the stage at Foreplay. Since she hadn’t meant to deliberately orgasm beneath me that night, I had at first felt guilty when the magical visions of the brunette ballerina goddess were the only thing I could think about during my every solo session. She’d been so fucking hot, so innocent, so goddamn needy. The way she exploded and nearly took me with her was volcanic. Very soon, the guilt was obliterated by my lusty, greedy appetite. She became my favorite fantasy, and the situation an unfinished quest, for which my brain went about merrily conjuring a variety of ultra-porn mini reel scenarios that my dick enjoyed thoroughly.
    Her thick dark lashes flutter together as a silken exhale slips out between her lips. “I’m thinking, because you chose me out of all those women at Foreplay to take me on the stage, you might find me attractive.”
    Is this a trick question? “Are you trying to catch me off guard, to see if my intentions and motives are pure? I can’t fake what I can’t fake, and I’m no liar. My motives will never be pure where it comes to you. Honest? Yes, absolutely. Pure? No fucking way—you make my dick too damn hard for that to ever be a possibility. The way I find you, Em, is heavenly, and tantalizing.”
    “Oh good.” She sighs, relieved. “Then you won’t mind if I sit here?”
    I nearly gasp in surprise and ecstasy as she hikes up her skirt and straddles my lap. She stays up on her knees, careful not to create pussy to cock contact.
    Holy shit! “What’s your plan, Em?” My eyes drift between us, and I watch her chest heave as if she can’t get enough air into her lungs.
    “Not sure, Aussie-man. I’m making it up as I go.”
    “My kind of girl.”
    Finally, she opens her eyes and meets mine. I can’t stop myself from smiling. She’s gorgeous and scared and sexy