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Strip Me
Strip Me
Strip Me
Ebook253 pages4 hours

Strip Me

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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About this ebook

This sizzling and passionate romance follows two men whose lives are turned upside down by their intense mutual attraction.

Sam Richmond is a workaholic in danger of becoming the very man he despises—his father. Stressed and sick with worry, he’s desperate to shake off the shackles that bind him to his current path and embark on a life lived only for himself.

His friends are determined to pull him out of his funk and decide to drag him to a strip club that caters to both men and women. Sam is shocked when he develops an attraction to the show’s male headliner: Rico McIntyre. The two men end up in a backroom for a private lap dance that ends up being a game-changer for them.

Because, despite the fact that they both identify themselves as heterosexual, they decide to explore their strange attraction for one another—if only for one night. But one night quickly becomes another and then another, until a misunderstanding tears the two apart. Both men attempt to forget about the other, only for life to unexpectedly reunite them.

Can Sam and Rico embark on a relationship and come to terms with their new understandings of themselves and who they love? Or are they doomed from the start?
LanguageEnglish
PublisherPocket Star
Release dateFeb 11, 2019
ISBN9781982106706
Author

Margay Leah Justice

Margay Leah Justice currently lives in Massachusetts with one of her daughters, a cat, and a myriad of characters who vie for her attention and demand that their own stories be told.

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Rating: 3.5588235294117645 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    2,6 stars

    My standards for romance aren't super high, but this was pretty bad. I listened to this on audio, which is probably the only reason I even finished it, because the narration was okay. This was just corny as hell, the conflict was completely based on miscommunication, the whole premise was completely unbelievable and the ending was so abrupt. The smut was average.

Book preview

Strip Me - Margay Leah Justice

1

Sam

You know those friends you have? The good-time Charlies. The class clowns. The party-’til-you-drop—out of college, in some cases—guys. The ones you wonder why you’re still friends with the next morning after a banging night, and yet you still manage to get dragged out (of your comfort zone) by them again. On repeat. Those friends?

It would appear all of my buddies—and I’m using the term loosely here—have morphed into those type of friends with this latest scheme to make Sam less boring. What can I say? I’m a busy guy with a high-pressure job. I don’t have the time—or the luxury—to party like we did in college. I have countless responsibilities at work. Deadlines to meet, clients to satisfy.

People rely on me. Some to get the job done, others for a paycheck. If I slack off in my responsibilities, people suffer. I know this better than anyone. Hell, it’s been drilled into me since I was a kid by a father who made no secret of where his priorities lay, and they weren’t at home with the wife and kids, that’s for shit sure. And he fully expects me to take right after him.

But my friends can’t relate because they weren’t raised by the emotionless, work-driven bastard that is my father, otherwise known as Samuel Carlton Richmond, the first.

What a fucking pretentious name. Too bad I’m the second—and he fully expects my firstborn son to be the third. Wonder what he’d think if I told him I’ve decided not to have kids. With him as a role model, I’d rather cut off his precious family line at my balls and save any unborn children the indignity of being reared by the man. And, seriously, who brands their kid with such a pretentious name and expects him to wear it with pride—like it’s a badge of honor or some such shit? So whatever you do, don’t ever triple-name me. Call me Sam and we’ll get along fine. A lesson all my buddies learned the hard way.

Here’s another lesson, my friends: this is not my idea of a fun way to unwind.

"You brought me to a fucking strip club? I demand when we first enter the building and I catch a glimpse of our playground for the night. On my birthday?"

Oh right, did I forget to mention that part? Today, I marked thirty-two years in the can with breakfast alone at my condo, lunch with some VIP clients, a conservative dinner with my family—hence my current attire of business formal in my favorite shade of navy—and now this.

I know what you’re thinking. How could I not have known where they were taking me once we arrived here, right? Well, let me tell you, the exterior of this place does not prepare one for what’s inside; it’s a nondescript building with a simple sign, in calligraphy, proclaiming it The Executive Suite. For all I knew it was an exclusive club catering to the needs of men of a certain demographic. Oh, it caters to men, all right. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday—when the women dance. Thursday and Friday, it’s all about the ladies with the men performing. What about the weekend? Well, according to the discreet sign on the wall in the lobby, Saturday is coed night with both sexes sharing the stage, and Sunday the club is closed—unless there’s an MMA event in the basement. So they cater to all types of needs here—sport and pleasure.

And this year my birthday just so happened to land on a . . . Saturday. Convenient, huh? Thank fuck it didn’t land on a Friday—I might’ve ended up here on an all-male night. I wouldn’t put it past these fuckers. They’ll do anything to shake me up or get a good laugh, and if it happens at the same time—all the better.

Still, there’s no getting around the fact that, at some point tonight, men will be getting just as naked as their female counterparts. And I’m going to be forced to watch it. Because I know, now that they finally got me here, there’s no chance in hell they’re letting me leave until they’ve shown me a proper good time. In other words, getting drunk on good booze and naked bodies.

Not my scene at all. So of course, I balk at this. Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me, I grumble as I start to turn back, desperate to get out of here. But my friends won’t let me.

Come on, Sammy, it’ll be fun, says my oldest friend from childhood, Parker Just call me Park Evanston. As he literally holds me back from leaving. The bastard. He even gives me that sideways smile he claims can get him anything he wants—from either gender, if he’s so inclined. But not from me. I’m too well acquainted with that smile to fall for its tricks. I’m also not susceptible to his Sinatra-blue eyes or golden-boy looks or charm. Sell it somewhere else, brother, I’m not buying.

To convey that message, I give Park my best I’m a Richmond, I look down on you glare, but it has no effect on him; the guy’s grown immune to it over the years of knowing me, just as I’ve grown immune to him. Most of the time. "In what lifetime did you think this—I jerk my head toward the sign behind the bouncer—would be fun for me? And on my fucking birthday—are you kidding me with this shit?"

Of all the friends I have, and I have quite a few, Park knows better than anyone else how I feel about things like this. Raised as I was by an absentee father with less sentiment than my smartphone and a mother so caught up in the struggle of raising a child with health issues—that’d be my much-younger sister, Lisa—she barely had time for me and my normal problems, I’m not exactly comfortable in situations like this. PDA? Keep it behind closed doors, please. Public nudity? Isn’t there a law about that? So me, in a strip club? On my birthday—the day infamous for putting you at the center of attention? Not in this lifetime, bud.

If only my friends felt the same way.

I push; they pull. I push harder. They just redouble their efforts, dragging me into a vast, low-lit room that can only be the location of the main attraction: the strippers. I mean, there’s the stage, at the end of the long, rectangular room that opens up to the right of the entrance. The stage is in the far-left corner. The empty stage. Of course we got here before the show started—my buddies wouldn’t want me to miss a damn thing, now would they? Assholes.

With a shake of my head, I hone in on the massive bar polished to a high sheen that takes up most of the back wall; only a doorway to a hallway separates it from the equally impressive stage. Since it’s still early yet, there’s plenty of real estate available at the massive structure—more than enough for five of us to inhabit for the night. Perfect. If I must mark my thirty-second year in a strip club, I’d prefer to do it as far away from the stage as possible within the confines of the building. I make a move in that direction.

But I barely make it two steps before my so-called friends grab me by the arms to drag me in the other direction—toward the stage. Of fucking course.

I can only imagine what a sight we must make. Me, in my Michael Kors business suit being manhandled by four guys who look like they wandered in off the set of the latest Boston-based crime movie: Park, with his carefully-styled, trying-to-hide-the-curls blond locks and his Men’s Wearhouse suit jacket over mismatched trousers and a blue-striped button-down; Marco, with his riot of dark curls and olive eyes proclaiming his Italian heritage, in a maroon Henley and back jeans; Dean, with his sandy-brown hair parted to the side and his blue-green eyes taking everything in, sporting a denim blazer over a polo shirt and jeans; and Quince, with his dark hair buzzed down to his scalp and his all-seeing gray eyes, so tall (he’s got to be over six-five) most of his clothes have to be custom-fit. Yeah, we look like a regular group of wiseguys, but all of us work well within the confines of the law. Well, maybe with the exception of Marco, who heads up his own PI firm; he hates it when we call it that—he likes to refer to it as an intelligence agency.

Yeah, so, there I am, being dragged through a strip club—on coed dancer night—by my motley crew of friends. And feeling more awkward, not to mention pissed off, the closer we get to our destination.

Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed about a minute later when we finally reach it: a table directly in front of the slightly elevated—it’s only about a foot off the ground—stage. With a reserved sign on it.

The fuckers reserved the table for us.

I didn’t even know you could do that.

And what’s worse: the table is decorated to fit the occasion, party hats and noisemakers included. Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. The reserved sign even states, For the Birthday Boy.

Fuck. Me.

There’s no getting out of this shit now.

I cast another murderous glare at my friends that goes unnoticed—or should I say, unacknowledged—as we take our places at the table, me closest to the stage, of course. Hello, birthday boy here.

That’s it. Next year, I’m going to Cabo for the weeks before and after my birthday—alone. No way I’m getting sucked into something like this again.

That decided, I settle into the comfortable sofa-like seat that curves around a bistro table in a semicircle of hard wood and black microfiber. Nice. A casual glance around at my surprisingly sophisticated surroundings—it almost looks like the inside of a fancy country club with its low lighting and semiprivate seating; I can see many business deals going down at these tables—puts me more at ease. Quite a few tables boast small groups of men among our rowdier female counterparts.

For some reason, that makes me relax a little more, and when the drinks start to freely flow my way—I guess there are some perks to being the birthday boy, after all—I let down my guard a bit. Even start to enjoy myself despite being so close to the center of attention, with the performers catering to me when they realize it’s my birthday. What can I say? The booze is top shelf, the music hypnotic, and the dancers are, well, actual dancers—not just some toned bodies wrapping themselves around stripper poles and calling it art. They actually know how to dance and they’re good at it. Even the men.

Wait—fuck—the men.

I didn’t mean to watch them. Once I realized what the set-up was—how they alternate, every other dance, between genders—I figured I’d ignore the stage while the male dancers were performing. At least that was my intention. But a drink or three in, my plan is shot to shit when a certain performer snags my attention—and holds it.

I try to look away.

But I can’t.

There’s just something about the way the Zorro-masked dancer, Rocco Starr, undulates onstage that’s sensual as fuck. I may not swing that way, but hell, even I can appreciate it. As evidenced by the semi I sprout watching him move across the glossy platform. Fucking hell.

What can I say? The guy is mesmerizing. The way he rolls his oil-slicked body and bucks his leather-clad—fucking leather—hips; it’s like he’s emulating fucking up there.

And now I’m thinking about getting laid.

While watching a dude dance.

What the fuck? I’m not even bi-curious, let alone gay, but I’m intrigued about this guy? Shit. How much did I have to drink?

Fuck, he’s doing it again. The undulating thing. Does he buck his hips like that when he thrusts into his partner?

Shit, why am I thinking about this?

Are his movements slow and sensuous, like they are to this song? Or does he move hard and fast?

Why can’t I stop thinking about this?

Or maybe he does a combination of both. Ahh, fuuuck.

Why am I so interested in this? In him? It’s not like I’m ever going to be there to see him in action. Hell, after this night, I’ll never see him again, period. This is a one-shot deal, so . . . why not make the most of it? It’s my birthday, after all; I can do whatever I want on this day and file it under birthday perks or some shit, no worries about repercussions—kind of like that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas rule. Yeah, that’s it.

Besides, it can’t hurt to watch . . . and wonder. No harm in that. I bet I’m not the only one here doing it, men included. This guy is just that good. He’s got everyone’s attention, and all of them, right down to the very last dick in the house, are enthralled by his sensuous motions up on that stage. Hell, at least I’m in good company tonight.

So I fantasize as I watch the dude dance. Imagine what he’s like in bed—not hard to do when he pairs up with a female dancer and they all but burn up the stage with their dirty moves. It’s so damn hot, I find myself shifting in my seat to ease—and hide—my growing erection. And I’m not the only one. All around me, I notice guys, my friends included, doing the same. And the women? They’re about out of their fucking minds, literally screaming for release as they fan themselves with whatever’s handy. All throughout the room, it’s one big fucking orgasm waiting to happen.

And it’s sexy as fuck.

Shit, a few more drinks and a few less clothes and inhibitions, and we could have ourselves one hell of an orgy right here. Hell, we practically are already. And I’m . . . okay with that. More than okay—and I’m not even into that shit. Issues with PDA, remember? But the idea of it is mind-blowing. I almost want to try it. Almost.

Just like I almost want to take that woman’s place onstage with Mr. Rocco Starr.

Where’d that thought come from?

The mind can’t be trusted when it’s soaked in alcohol, especially alcohol of this quality. So I can’t be held responsible for what I think tonight, right? Or how my cock responds to a certain dancer.

But the thing is, I don’t feel drunk—at least not on booze. I know my limits, a hard-learned lesson in college, and I haven’t yet reached them. I’m not even close to the point of no return, so this is all on me. This drunk feeling I’m experiencing? It’s not from booze; it’s pure adrenaline. I’m high on the fantasy of watching another man fuck, something I never really got off on—until tonight.

What. The. Fuck.

My discomfort must be obvious despite my best efforts to hide it because, at one point during the night, Park leans over to me to ask, You okay there, buddy? He flicks his gaze down at my crotch. You know they can take care of that in a private room.

I nearly choke on my drink at his words. What? I lean closer to him so no one overhears what I say next. "They let you have sex in the club? With the dancers?"

"Well, not necessarily. But they will give you a private lap dance, and if you come, you come—they won’t charge you extra for it." He says this last with a little chuckle. A devious one. Fucker—he must know exactly what I was thinking. Want us to set that up for you? Consider it a birthday present.

No fucking way. Never mind the heat that suffuses my body at the idea. To cover my reaction, I hide behind my glass, muttering, Thanks, but I’m good.

And that is the end of that.

Or so I thought.

2

Rico

I’m not a difficult man to please.

Give me a cold beer with good friends, a nice bottle of white wine with a special lady, or any excuse to get together with my family and I’m a happy man.

Usually.

But lately, nothing seems to please me. I’m in what my kid sister would call a funk. In other words, I can’t get no satisfaction, to quote the legends of rock, otherwise known as the Rolling Stones.

Take dancing, for instance. I used to love this shit. Strutting around the stage like I owned it, working my body in ways that’d make even the saintliest of women drop their panties in gratitude, catering to their every fantasy—onstage, at least. Sure, it started out as a joke, a fun way to make some cash in high school (yeah, I might’ve lied to them about my age), and became a lifeline when things got tough in college. But the one constant always remained: I liked it. Who wouldn’t, with a ready supply of booze to drink, a banquet of willing pussy to tap, and fucking amazing tips for my efforts—this was the life. No matter what was going down in my life outside the club, I used to always be able to count on this, right here, to lighten my mood.

Used to. Past tense.

You see, this funk got me by the balls a few months ago and hasn’t let me go since. I can’t say if there was any specific thing that instigated it, but it is like that one annoying friend you have from childhood or college. You know the one. Obnoxious and clingy with no clear plans for the future. Shows up on your doorstep unannounced and quickly outstays its welcome. Yeah, that one. That’s this funk. It arrived one day and overtook my life.

I don’t know how to get out of it.

It’s. Just. There.

And in it’s path there’s this . . . restlessness. I’m all keyed up. Like I’m waiting for something monumental to happen, but it never does. It remains elusive, always just out of reach. And I’m left waiting. And wanting.

Wanting . . . something more.

I suppose it should come as no surprise that the first signs of restlessness started showing up around the same time as my impending thirtieth birthday. About three months back, the guys at the club—spearheaded by Roth and Brand, who live for this shit—started making plans to commemorate this special day.

Yeah, more like give me endless shit about becoming an old man.

Assholes—but they mean well. So I went along with it, let them get their jibes in figuring I’d get my shot with those who haven’t hit the big three-oh yet soon enough.

Today is my thirtieth birthday, and sometime tonight my boys are going to throw me an epic bash to mark my descent into old age—their words, not mine. Fuckers. Your time is coming.

So, yeah. I’m restless as shit, today is my thirtieth birthday, and my friends at the club have promised me the party of a lifetime. What could possibly go wrong?

Every. Fucking. Thing.

Starting with the surprise they left in my locker before the show tonight: a package of disposable underwear for men, pamphlets on erectile dysfunction and Viagra, an over-the-hill birthday card, and a bottle of Geritol—shit, I didn’t know you could still get that stuff. They got a good laugh out of that one.

Then came the old-age jokes, mostly offers to help me up on stage or rub me down with arthritis cream to loosen my joints so I could dance tonight. But the best one? Roth telling us he had a doctor on speed dial in case I break a hip doing a body roll. Yeah, yeah, real funny—but so is karma when she bitch-slaps you. Just saying. But, hey, I love these guys like they’re my brothers, so I take it in stride and let them have their fun—I’d do the same in their place.

Still, you’d think they’d grant me a reprieve when the show starts. It might not seem so from their antics tonight, but these guys are all professionals and take their work here at the club very seriously. So, yeah, you’d think they’d lighten up a bit, save the antics for after the show. But, no. I suppose it could be worse, though. When Colt turned thirty last year, they brought him up onstage for a special performance with a very special guest performer, and Colt was totally into it. Until the big reveal at the end when he discovered the special guest had a package to rival his own. Yeah, that’s right. They hired a dude to dress in drag—shit, if he didn’t have all of us fooled, he was that pretty—and give Colt a show he’d never forget. And this is one of

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