Stripped Bare(3)

By: Emma Hart


“I had ten minutes of relentless pounding that felt like he was trying to break into Fort Knox via my cervix,” she said dryly, grabbing her glass. “I was thirty seconds away from calling the FBI to report an attempted break-in when I clenched, yelled, and he finally came.”

“You’re all insane.” Allie sighed and ran her hand through her sleek, blond hair, messing it up.

Yep. She was getting drunk.

“If she’s messing up her hair already, does that mean she’s tipsy enough that we can go?” Lucie asked hopefully. “Because I’ve got a clutch full of ones ready and waiting.”

“No!” Jaz exclaimed. “Wait!” She grabbed her case and pulled out a hot-pink sash from the top. Then she shoved it in Allie’s direction, a big grin on her face. “You’ve gotta look the part.”

Allie’s eyes widened as she took in the bright pink satin sash. “No. I’m not wearing that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s pink.”

“And? Your cheeks are gonna be too the second one of these hunks grinds his butt in front of you.”

“She has a point.” I tipped my empty glass toward her. “You’re gonna blush like...well, a virgin when you go in there and see their erections.”

Allie froze. “They’re gonna have erections?”

“Obviously. No one wants to see a guy with a softie strip, do they?”

Several thoughts visibly flitted across her face. And, yep—she was definitely tipsy, because she actually looked like she was considering it.

Jesus. She was considering it. She was more than tipsy.

Allie pushed herself to standing, still clutching her empty glass in her hand. “Fuck it,” she announced, surprising me by not slurring her words in the slightest. “Let’s go!”

Well. I was ready.





She looked a little like...a virgin in a strip club.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

I had no idea what she’d expected to find, but I didn’t know if this was it. In fact, I was pretty sure it wasn’t it.

Rock Solid, the strip club of my choice, was nestled at the far end of the Strip. When I had been researching, I’d assumed that meant it’d be quieter than the ones in the middle, but I had been wrong.

So. Wrong.

The place was stupid busy, and it wasn’t hard to see why. We’d been there for a little over an hour. The drinks were great, the atmosphere was great, and the lighting was great. Our booth, with smooth, dark-brown leather seats, allowed us a ton of room, and the reserved sign that glared out at everyone walking past meant none of the ladies forced into standing up could take our space.

But really—who was paying attention to that?

Not me.

The stage, which generously allowed us a flawless view of some of the most perfect men I’d ever seen in my goddamn life, stretched almost entirely through the center of the club. At least fifteen feet wide and god knows how long, it was the only part of the club aside from the bathrooms that was completely lit. The strobe lights that flashed across it occasionally, in time with the pounding, wall-vibrating music, only lent a hand to its vibrancy.

And the ripped, defined men dancing on the stage in various stages of undress, both against and between the poles, were the sole cause of the vibrant, electric atmosphere.

Jaz tapped the bottom of her cigarette packet on the table before opening it and drawing one out. “Hot. Damn.” She whistled appreciatively as a tall man wearing nothing but black dress pants approached our table with a bottle of champagne and four flutes balanced on a round, black tray.

“Your second bottle, ladies. Would you like me to pour it for you?” His smile was dazzling as he set everything out on the table and swept the table for our empty glasses and bottle.

“No, we’re good, thank you,” Lucie answered, passing Jaz a lighter.

“Perfect. Can I get you anything else?”

“Yes!” Allie clapped her hands. “One round of tequila shots, please.”

Oh, Jesus...

The server nodded, that same, hot smile plastered on his face. Then he disappeared.

Jaz blew smoke to the side and raised an eyebrow at Allie. “Al, the last time you had tequila shots, you threw up inside my shoes.”