Me: I just watched 12 minutes of Polish Chippendales stripping to Greased Lightning. I might require an intervention soon.
Besties: No way! There are Polish Chippendales? And they strip to Greased Lightning? Please share the wonder of this with us!!!
*side note: That last part may or may not have been a hallucination on my end. I was still under the mind-altering effects of Polish Chippendales air humping to classic Americana soundtracks.*
So I did as any good friend would do. I sucked them into the web of insanity with me. I think one of them might still be wandering the stripper wasteland of Youtube, lost and unable to find her way home. I should, uh, see if I can’t lure her back with I dunno, Aussie strippers or something.
The moral of this story? Don’t leave me alone with Youtube for more than half an hour. Possibly that’s 25 minutes too long. And also Greased Lightning actually makes a pretty good stripper tune. Who knew?
‘Tis the season to be naughty...
The only thing worse than the annual office Christmas party is attending the stinkin’ thing alone. Refusing to consign herself to that fate yet again, Marissa Wagner throws her normally sensible self aside and does what any newly adventurous—okay, desperate—woman in her shoes would do—she hires a male escort. But when he arrives for their pre-party introduction her situation goes from problem solved, to one holy whopper of a complication. Her paid-for dream man...is also her best friend’s brother.
Trig Campbell has been in the escorting biz long enough to realize there’s a risk of being set up with someone he knows. Never in a million years did he count on that person being Marissa. Out of all of Jane’s friends, Rissa’s always been the less wild of the bunch. Now that fate’s in his corner, he’s more than game to help her explore her bad girl side and play out every kinky fantasy they can. Getting past her doubts is no easy feat. Fortunately he knows a thing or two about cranking up the carnal heat, and soon he and Marissa embark on a week-long intensely erotic journey that leaves them both shaken and craving more.
As their time together draws closer to an end, Trig is haunted by a question he’d never expected to face. What possible future can a gigolo offer a woman like Marissa? And can he let her go when the time comes?
Warning: This book contains a player well-versed in the fine art of sin, a good girl who’s about to find out how delicious it is to be bad, enough kinky uses for a candy cane to make an elf blush, and verifiable proof that Santa does indeed come more than once a year.
*Side note #2, no Polish strippers were harmed in the making of this exclusive excerpt:
The velvet drapes lifted with a dramatic swoosh and the deafening cheers of the crowd nearly drowned out the opening bars to Santa Claus Needs Some Lovin’. Their excitement energized Trig, filling him with the heady rush he always experienced when he was in performance mode. In that moment, he was Kinky Claus.
Strutting to the center of the stage, he worked the ladies, teasing them with dirty hip rolls and promised flashes of skin he didn’t completely deliver on. The women ate it up, and several of the more rambunctious ones up front shook their tatas in encouragement. He’d been in plenty of strip clubs throughout his life, both as a performer and an occasional patron. He had to admit that women were hella more wild and crazy than his male counterparts.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Frank approaching one of the tables. Damn. He’d completely forgotten to check out Miss Five ahead of time. Not often he got the opportunity to do that before the female was hauled up onto the stage.
“Looks like we have our lucky lady.” The DJ’s announcement drifted over the cacophony of music and boisterous female chants of, “Kinky Claus! Kinky Claus! Kinky Claus!”
Taking that as his cue, Trig pivoted and claimed the chair set up to the left of him. In other routines he typically started off with the female seated, but this particular act initially called for a bit of role reversal. He glanced toward the stairs leading up to the stage, fully expecting to see Frank with the woman in tow. Nada.
Frowning, Trig peered toward the table to determine the holdup. Frank’s burly frame blocked most of the view, but from what Trig could detect, Frank was dealing with some reluctance from Miss Five. Occasionally they got a shy one. Not often, but it did happen. Usually everything worked out fine once they got up here and Trig put them at ease. Hell, half the time they ended up not wanting to leave the stage. It was always the quiet ones who surprised him the most and he had the best fun with.
The other women at Five joined in Frank’s efforts to coax their tablemate into abandoning her seat. Their encouragement must have done the trick, because Frank suddenly stepped aside with a pleased grin. That’s when Trig had his first unobstructed view of his soon-to-be lap partner. He stared at Marissa, shock punching him dead center in the solar plexus. Damn good thing he was sitting down, otherwise he’d be flat on the floor.
What the hell was she doing here?
Duh, you invited her, moron. Never in a million years would he have thought she’d take him up on it. Not after the way they ended things last night.
Shit. How was he going to get through this routine? All of the full-on body contact and suggestive grinding.
The candy cane.
Oh sweet Jesus. Not the candy cane.