Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) Read Online Free PDF Page B

He stroked her over her panties, and she felt herself get wet. Thank God. If the hottest actor in Hollywood couldn’t get her going, she was in trouble.
    Violet looked at the green glow of the building in the distance and wanted nothing more than to lean over the railing and let him put his movie star cock inside of her.
    “Stop,” she said, pulling his hand away. He drew back, a questioning look on his face. She pulled off her boots and jeans, throwing her pants over the side of the stairs to the floor below. He looked at her standing in her tank top, thong, and combat boots. She knew what a great visual she was in that room, on those stairs, against that view. She knew what an amazing sight they would be together, fucking, hot on hot. It was a shame no one else would get to see it. For the first time, she understood the appeal of doing porn.
    He knelt down and licked her pussy over her underwear.
    “Follow me,” she said, leading him by the hand up to the mezzanine and planting him on a couch.
    Violet walked through the spacious bedroom, all neutral colors with cherry wood floors and a sleigh bed with pristine white linens. She couldn’t wait to dirty them.
    Next to the bed was an iPod in an iDock. She turned it on and scrolled through Kings of Leon, the Black Eyed Peas, and Duffy, wondering if she was getting a glimpse into Ryan’s musical taste or the whole thing was courtesy of a Rivington staffer. She clicked on Duffy.
    She grabbed the ice bucket from the bar, then indulged herself in a peek into the walk-in closet. Ryan’s jeans and shirt were in a pile on the floor. Good—he didn’t mind a bit of a mess.
    On to the bathroom.
    “Holy shit.” The bathroom was an entirely other level of spectacle—all Italian mosaic Bisazza tile, with glass shower and walls, and, best of all, a two-person Japanese-style soaking tub. She was tempted to jump in for a soak, but decided against it. Ryan would probably come looking for her and join her, and that wasn’t the direction she had planned for the evening.
    She looked through the Ren of London bath products, making a mental note to pocket a Moroccan Rose Otto Bath Oil before leaving. Then: down to business.
    She picked through the basket of bath products and pulled out the High Glide Cooling Shave Cream and a washcloth. In the shower, she retrieved Ryan’s Gillette. Then she filled the ice bucket halfway with water.
    She took off her tank top and and returned to the iPod to select her performance music. Nothing, nothing, nothing.... bingo: the song “Phone Call” by the Faint. She hoped the music was Ryan’s: guys who liked the Faint usually fucked well.
    Maybe she’d finally break her losing streak and come.
    She cranked the music loud enough to reach Ryan, grabbed the shaving cream, razor, and ice bucket, and made her way to the couch.
    Mr. Movie Star was messing around with his BlackBerry, but promptly dropped it when Violet appeared with her bare breasts and her props.
    Violet set the bucket of water, razor, washcloth, and shaving cream down on a beveled glass end table across from the couch.
    Ryan was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
    Violet swayed her hips, circled around slowly, dancing as if she was the only one in the room. She felt Ryan’s eyes on her but ignored him. When she was ready, she eased her thong off and kicked it aside. She ran her hand over her light pubic hair, just an inch-wide “landing strip,” as if wondering how it got there. She glanced at Ryan, and she would have sworn he was already breathing heavily. She loved when the guys in the audience looked at her like that, like they could come just from the sight of her. It made her want to start fingering herself, not for his benefit, but because that blatant adoration was the best aphrodisiac, and she felt it most intensely at the beginning of a performance. Once she got too far into the zone, she tuned out and was almost numb. But to stop now would ruin the rhythm of the