Chapter 2
TWO
CHANCE
I’m so not in the fucking mood to dance tonight, much less do a one-on-one sesh with some horny, middle-aged woman who’ll probably angle for sex afterward.
Normally, I’d be all over that shit. Hooking up with clients is one of the bennies of being a stripper-for-hire.
I dance and make their panties wet, then they do the same to my dick. It’s a win-win.
People might think less of me for having that attitude, but the way I see it, it’s no different than hooking up with someone in a club. Did I say “in” a club? I meant from a club. But I’ve done it in a club, too. I’m not too particular on the when and where, and I’m sure as hell not shy.
Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m some kind of gigolo, though.
The money I get as a private stripper is strictly for my stripping services, not for any extracurricular activities that might happen afterward.
That’s something different entirely. The guys who work for me at Playboys 4 Hire refer to them as “bonus dances.” Bonus for the women, and definitely a bonus for us.
But tonight, I’m just not feeling it. For probably the first time since I started P4H with my best friends Roman Reeves and Austin Massey during our days as college students up at UW Madison, I’d rather be nursing a beer or six while playing Call of Duty than get groped as someone shoves money into my Tommy Hilfigers.
My head’s not in the game. It’s wrapped up in some issues I have with my other company—the construction company I’ve grown over the last several years using the knowledge I gained with my expensive-as-hell business degree.
I have a huge contract currently stalled by the city, bound up with more fucking red tape than I could cut through with a Sawzall.
Now we’re way behind on schedule, and it’s got me on edge.
Not a great mood to be in when you have to seduce a woman, whether it’s real or fantasy.
I pause in front of the apartment number I was given and do a quick mental dump. I need to get in the right head space if I’m going to pull off the job without the client realizing I have shit on my mind other than dry humping her into next week.
Showtime. Rolling my shoulders back in my navy-blue handyman coveralls, I raise my fist, knock on the door, and wait for my client to let me in.
“Yes?” a feminine voice calls through the door.
I notice the absence of a peephole and frown. The place is old, but there’s no excuse for not updating the apartments with some basic safety features. Still, she is expecting me, and clients enjoy the fantasy right from the start.
“Ms. Wendall, I’m the handyman,” I say. “I’m here to give you a hand with whatever you need.”
I expect the door to whip open. Instead, there’s a long pause. “That’s awfully vague.” Her tone sounds suspicious. “What were you called for specifically?”
Smart girl, making me prove I’m her expected guest without making me break character.
When she called earlier, she’d said she “needed a handyman to fix her pipes.” Sometimes clients prefer to give us storylines to follow.
None of us mind—after all, it’s our job to sell them the fantasy, whatever that may be.
“To fix your pipes,” I answer. “But I won’t do you any good with this door”—I hear the lock roll through its tumbler a second before the door swings open—“between us,” I finish absently as I try to process what I’m seeing.
What I’d expected—or rather who I’d expected—was a woman wearing lust like a heavy fur coat that practically swallows her whole. A woman with very little clothing, who would eye-fuck the shit out of me before moving aside to finally let me in so we can get on with my reason for being here.
What I got is a woman wearing yoga pants, fuzzy slipper socks, and a zipped-up Loyola University hoodie.
Long brown hair is tied up in some messy knot thing on her head.
To complete her at-home-don’t-care look, she’s wearing rectangular dark-rimmed glasses and no makeup.
Or at least, none that I can tell from the brief look I get at her face.
She hasn’t even glanced up from the thick hardcover book in her hands before she turns away and walks farther into the apartment, leaving me standing in the hallway like an idiot with my dick in my hands.
Shaking off the initial surprise, I step inside, closing and locking the door behind me. As she passes it, she points down a hallway that branches off of the tiny dining area next to the kitchen. “The bathroom is that way. Just let me know if you need me for anything.”
Suddenly, it clicks. Jane Wendall (that’s the name she’d given on the phone, even though the one on the credit card was Addison Paige) wants to be seduced.
She wants to be that unsuspecting, naive girl seduced by the handyman who has other things on his mind than the “problem” she’d called him about.
Damn, I’d almost blown it by asking her what she wanted me to do.
“Sure thing,” I say as I cross to the dining table, keeping a discreet eye on her. She’s doing an excellent job of ignoring me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she really wasn’t interested in what I’m doing.
I set down my old red toolbox and open it up.
It doesn’t hold the kind of tools one would typically find, but rather the tools of this trade.
A few bottles of water (for drinking and/or pouring over my body), a fresh can of whipped cream I picked up on the way, a change of clothes, a portable speaker that’s synced with the playlists on my phone, and for the occasional “bonus dances,” some flavored lube and a box of condoms.
Intuition says I probably only need the speaker and a bottle of water to drink afterward for this one.
Though, if I’m being honest, something about Jane/Addison is seriously doing it for me.
I hope she’s just feigning disinterest, and maybe, if things click between us like I think they might, we can explore things on a more real level after I dance for her.
Tonight actually has the potential to not suck.
“Mind if I listen to some music?”
She glances up from her book, her glasses now dangling from the earpiece held between her teeth, and furrows her brow like she’s forgotten why I’m there. My cock must be on the fritz because her blatant disregard for my presence makes it twitch with interest.
“I know you’re reading, but music really helps me when I…” Pause for dramatic effect. “Work.”
Jane sets her glasses on her open book. A slow smile spreads over her face and gut-checks me like a hockey player.
It’s absolutely radiant, with straight white teeth and full pink lips that stretch into a perfect crescent.
I’d thought she was attractive in that captivating school nerd kind of way, but damn…
Her smile launches her to a level of sexiness I can’t even name.
“Sure,” she says. “I don’t mind. I can easily tune things out when I need to.”
Yeah, I’ve seen evidence of that already, and I don’t like it. Don’t like her tuning me out. I want her tuned in. To every move and every touch.
Eager to get started, I set the small speaker on the table, sync my favorite playlist, and look over to where she’s sitting tucked into the corner of her couch, already seemingly engrossed again in that damn book.
If she keeps this act going much longer, my ego will be in serious danger of deflating.
I saunter over, my steps instinctively matching the sultry beats of “Earned It” by The Weeknd as I let the music roll through me. I’ve always loved dancing; always been good at it. Dancing for horny women and making bank for a few hours of fun is a no-brainer.
Planting my feet in front of her, I wait for her to look up, which she does.
She starts eye-level at my thighs then gradually moves north.
The farther her gaze climbs, the wider her eyes get, until she reaches my face.
Gingerly, Jane—I’ve decided that’s what I’m calling her; I like it better, and something about it suits her—slides her glasses back on, and her mouth falls slack.
Fucking finally. I try to hide my smile at her reaction, but it probably comes off as a cocky smirk. That works, too, considering I’m playing the part of the cocky (pun intended) handyman about to ravish my unsuspecting client.
“Do you need something?” she asks, her voice cracking at the end.
“Yeah, I do. I need you to check out my pipe wrench. Make sure it’s in working order to your satisfaction.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, beautiful.” I toss her book to the side, pull her ass to the edge of the couch cushion, and then step between her legs. “I want your eyes on my big, hard tool.”
Before she’s able to get out a word of protest—and she is about to protest, choosing to play her role to the bitter end—I move my hips to the beat of the music and yank the front of my coveralls open, the sound of the metallic snaps popping like distant fireworks.
I shrug the top half from my shoulders to hang around my legs, revealing a skin-tight wife-beater that isn’t long for this world.
Grabbing both of her hands, I press them to my chest and almost groan at the warmth radiating from her soft skin.
I flex my pecs beneath her palms and then slide them slowly down and over the ridges of my abs.
I hear her quiet gasp, and it makes all the hard work of maintaining this kind of muscle definition damn worth it.
When our joined hands reach my hips, I start to twist them from side to side with fluid movements; letting her feel the beat of the music as it rolls through me, and she listens to my body make her the kind of promises whispered in the dark between sweat-dampened sheets.
Jane is clearly flustered, and it doesn’t even seem faked.
Maybe she’s more innocent than I’d assumed.
In fact, studying her reactions, I know exactly the kind of girl she is.
In a party of women where strippers are the entertainment, she’s the quiet one in the back hoping like hell none of the dancers notice her and blushing like crazy—like she is now—as she allows herself to fantasize about what it would be like to get fucked by a man like that.
What those girls don’t know is their shy and embarrassed nature is exactly what makes the dancers single them out. Nine times out of ten, a guy would rather dance for the shy girls than the ones trying to dry hump their junk.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” she says, freeing her hands and scuttling off the end of the couch. “I think there’s been a mistake. I’m sorry if I blinked weirdly earlier and you thought I was winking or whatever, but I wasn’t coming on to you, I promise. I just want my sink fixed.”
I advance with a couple of quick steps, crowding her back against the wall and forcing her to crane her head back to keep eye contact.
“Just your sink, huh? So that means you don’t want any of this?
” To demonstrate what “this” is, I undulate over her much smaller frame.
I have to widen my stance to make our heights work better, then I press my chest into hers and roll down from there.
Sternum to stomach to pelvis, and holy Christ, I can feel the heat from her pussy radiating through her thin pants.
“Oh my God. Um… I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Squeezing her eyes shut briefly, she clears her throat. “No, thank you. Just unclogging the sink would be great.”
Perplexed, I take a step back and stare hard at her, trying to find traces of excitement in her expression that belie the words coming from her mouth.
Finally, I decide it’s better to err on the side of caution than wind up with a sexual harassment suit for Roman to deal with. Time to break character.
“Ms. Paige, maybe you have a different idea of what a Handyman Special is. It’d help out a lot if I understood what exactly you want from me.”
“Ms. Paige? No, I’m not…” She appears confused for all of two seconds before she hides her face with her hands and whispers, “Oh my God, I’m going to kill her. Absolutely kill her.”