Player Loves Curves Box Set #4-6 by Hope Ford
Hanna
I can’t believethat Carter Arnold is here. I’m backstage and still trying to recover from seeing him when Troy walks up beside me. I feel that I’m going to hyperventilate, and I’m bent over, sucking air, my hands on my knees. Troy doesn’t say anything, he just stands over me and waits for me to get myself together. “The first time’s always the hardest.”
I nod at him, but only because there’s no way I’m going to explain to him why I’m so messed up right now. I have two more dances tonight. Hopefully, I can do those, avoid Carter, and then go home.
When I stand up, Troy is staring at me worriedly. “You’ve been requested for a private lap dance…” I start to interrupt him, but he holds his hand up, flashing five one hundred dollar bills at me. “He’s a regular. The price is never this high, but he’s a good customer.”
“I don’t, I can’t…” I’m staring at the money and even now I know I’m not going to say no. I’m not in any condition to turn down money like that. “Who is it?” I ask him instead.
“Some pro baseball player. He’s harmless. And you are monitored the whole time. One dance is all he asked for.” And already Troy is leading me out of the backstage area and out into the bar.
I follow behind him, knowing I’m not ready for this. He says that Carter is harmless—at least I’m assuming it’s Carter, but who knows? A lot of ballplayers could have been here tonight, as far as I know. But the pit in my stomach is telling me it’s definitely him… and I’m about to face him.
I follow Troy, and he stops at a door with a number three on the front of it. He pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll have your money for you after your last dance tonight. Just come see me.”
I nod and he walks away. I take three deep breaths, pull my shoulders back, and open the door to a very mad Carter on the other side.
He’s sitting in a chair and from the way his hard body is relaxed it looks like he’s calm and laid back. The only giveaway is the tight pull of his jaw. He doesn’t realize that I have everything about him memorized. I know the face he makes when he’s sad, confused, happy, and yes, even mad. And that’s what’s radiating off of him right now. He is mad. Anyone else might be scared of him, because just a glint in his eye makes him look dangerous, almost unhinged. But I know Carter. He would never hurt a woman, no matter how mad he gets.
I close the door behind me and put my hands on my hips. I wish I had been able to put more clothes on, but instead I’m standing here, half naked. His gaze goes up and down my body. I wait for disgust to show on his face because I don’t look anything like I did in high school. I was thin and now—well, there’s no other way to put it. I’m fat. I’ve packed on at least fifty pounds. My friends would agree with me, but then argue that all fifty pounds have gone to the right places. My waist may be a little thicker, but most of it is in my butt and breasts.
Impatient, because the way he’s looking at me makes me want to run and hide, I ask him, “What do you want?”
After the words come out, I realize I should tone it down. I mean, I spent a whole year trying to get exactly this, his undivided attention. Now that I have it, I need to play it somewhat smooth.
His voice is gruff, and he crosses his hands across his chest. “I want you to dance.”
God, can I do this? I spot the stereo in the corner and turn it on and instantly a steady beat comes through the speakers. I try to calm my nerves before I turn back to him. When our eyes meet, I can feel the hatred he has for me from that one single look, and it’s killing me.
I look over his shoulder, finding a place on the wall to stare at, and I start to dance. Slow at first, trying to get lost in the music, but unable to.
After a few minutes, his voice, commanding, raises over the music. “Look at me when you dance.”
I bring my eyes to his and start to dance. This whole thing is ludicrous. With our history, I shouldn’t be dancing for him. I should be talking to him. But I can’t. Even though I’ve had two years to prepare for this moment, I don’t even know where to start.
I move my hips, running my hands down my sides, up my stomach, and across my breasts. He adjusts himself in the chair. “I paid for a lap dance.”
Fuck, my mind screams. I can’t touch him. I can’t. I’ll lose the last ounce of control I have if I touch him. “You can’t touch me,” I tell him.
He gives me one nod, as if he’s agreeing to my terms, and I move over to him. My leg grazes against his, and I pull it back jerkily.
He puts his hands on the back of his neck. “It’s a lap dance, Hanna. You’re going to have to touch me, no matter how much you don’t want to.”
Emotions well up inside me, but I do my best to tamp them down. Hearing him say my name, after all this time, brings me back to our past and how good it was. Damn, it was so good. But he’s got it wrong. He thinks I don’t want to touch him, but right now I’d give anything to curl up in his lap to feel his big, strong arms around me.
I slide in between his legs, my back to his front, and give him what he wants. I grind on his lap and he doesn’t even try to hide his massive erection from me. I can feel it every time I glide across his lap.
“Face me,” he says.
I turn around and he slides his legs together so that I’m straddling him. The chair is low, and I’m able to rotate my hips over top of him. He’s looking straight at me and I can’t look away. I’m moving my hips, but barely. I put my hands on the back of his chair because I don’t trust myself to touch his chest. With my breasts pressed against his chest, my nipples harden on contact, but I keep moving. He lifts his hips one time, and he hits me right at my core. My head falls back and a groan escapes me.
I ride his lap, over and over, seeking that release that only he can give me but also knowing I should stop. He’s looking straight in my eyes and emotion wells until I’m either going to come or I’m going to cry. His hands go to my hips, controlling my movements, and when I’m at the very edge, he stops me from going over and instead holds me steady, seated on his lap. He then has his hands on my cheeks, pulling my lips down to his. He kisses me deeply, thoroughly. Everything is so familiar, but also so new. Our tongues stroke across each other, and he’s devouring me, but I’m doing the same to him. I never let myself believe that I would be kissing him again, and fuck if I don’t want it to last. When he pulls away, we’re both gasping for breath and his hands tighten on my face.
He looks devastated with hurt darkening his eyes. He’s searching my face as if he’s looking for answers, and I cover his hands with my own. He leans his forehead against mine. “I can’t forget you, Hanna. I’ve fucking tried. I need to forget you. I need to move on. You destroyed me and I hate you for it.”
I gasp and pull away from him, scrambling to get up. I knew he probably hated me. I know he probably blames me for the way he’s been acting. I follow him on the news, and I know that is not the same Carter I knew. And he’s probably right. It’s all my fault.
I go to the door and walk out of it without even looking back. I have so much to say to him, but I can’t. Not now. Right now, I have to pull myself together and somehow make it through the rest of the night.
