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“Floor’s fine,” I said. “Let’s start there.”
“Cheapskate.” But she said it fondly, and she stood up, took my hand and walked me to a low chair at the side of the stage.
Out on the main floor everything was visible. Other men in other chairs, other girls in other laps. Scarlett didn’t seem to care. She put one heel on the chair between my legs, right against my crotch, and pressed down just enough to make me suck in a breath.
“Hands on the armrests,” she said. “That’s the rule. You touch, Dez throws you out.”
Dez turned out to be the wardrobe on the door. He gave me a long look across the room. I put my hands on the armrests.
She danced. God, she danced. Slow, close, her lace-covered tits sliding up my chest, her hair falling across my face. She turned and sank down into my lap and ground back against me, arching her back, letting me feel exactly how soft and warm she was.
One song became three. Sixty quid. I didn’t care.
“You’ve got a nice face when you’re trying not to come,” she murmured over her shoulder.
“Is that a thing you can see?”
“It’s my job to see it.” She stood up, flushed and grinning, and tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. “So. Do I get a tip, or do I get to keep you company till close?”
The way she said it, either option sounded like a promise.