Nanny for the Neighbors: Chapter 32

I make my way back to my table on shaky legs. Most of the guests are already in their seats, chattering, taking photos, sipping drinks. All of the dancers have left the seating area, and the stage has gone dark again.

Benny’s busy texting under the table. I slump into the seat next to him and grab the fresh drink sitting in my spot, stirring it with the straw.

“Did Antonio send a nude?” I ask, conversationally, taking a sip. The drink is cold and sweet, slipping down my throat and chilling my insides. I take another gulp, then just hook out an ice cube and stick it in my mouth. I need to cool down.

He sputters, almost dropping the phone. “What—no!” He looks up at me, and his eyes narrow. “What happened to you?”

I try to look innocent. “What do you mean?” I wipe some cold condensation off the glass and press it into the hollow of my throat.

“You’re bright red.” His eyes trail down my body, and I shift uncomfortably. “All over.”

Sometimes, I hate my white-freckly-ginger genes. I blush with my whole body. “I’m just hot,” I try.

His eyebrow lifts. “You look like you’ve got a fucking sunburn, Beth. What happened?”

“Nothing happened!” I protest. “I just, um—” I flounder for an excuse. “I….”

Luckily, before I have to follow through, the floor lights go down. I lean back in my seat, sighing in relief as the darkness hides my red cheeks. Unfortunately, I only have about two seconds to relax before the stage re-illuminates, and my heart starts to pound in double-time.

The men are all back in position, lined up in their identical suits. This time, though, they have props; each guy is sitting backwards on a black wooden chair, their arms draped over the backs, grinning out at us. My eyes are drawn to Cyrus like he’s magnetised. He’s looking right at me. As I watch, he blows me a kiss.

“I think that one on the end fancies me,” Benny whispers loudly.

The screams start up again as the announcer bounces back into the spotlight, his silver jacket shining. “Helloooo, ladies!” He calls. Everybody shouts back, and he grins. “I hope you’re all refreshed and ready for the second act. The boys are going to need some lovely assistants for this part of the show. Any takers?”

The crowd goes wild. There are women climbing on the tables, chanting and stamping and yelling. A group of girls near the stage yank up their shirts, flashing the guys.

“Remember,” the announcer calls. “Those Magic Dollars you purchased at the bar are your ticket to one of these first-class seats.” He smacks the chair Hunky Harry is leaning on. “So make it rain, girls!”

The lights flash, and ‘It’s Raining Men’ suddenly starts pounding through the speakers. The men all jump up from their chairs and start posing and dancing as banknotes rain down on them.

One guy struts towards the edge of the stage, encouraging women to stuff money down his pants. Another starts doing push-ups on the back of the chair. A third looks like he’s humping the floor.

Benny and I collapse into laughter. “Dude, this is so fuckin’ funny.” Benny shouts over the music, choking on his drink. “Bet you’re glad I got you a ticket now, huh?”

I can’t answer. I’m laughing too hard to breathe. I always thought a strip club would be kind of seedy and awkward—but this is crazy, and sexy, and funny. So much better than a regular club night.

The boys start picking out women and slipping off the stage to help them up. Most are from the front few rows; either the desperate fans tossing money at them, or the girls in the Bride-to-Be or Birthday Girl sashes. Quite a few are getting shoved forward by their very drunk friends. Cy ignores them all, jumping right off the stage and making a beeline through the tables. Women scream and reach for him, running their hands over his chest and tugging at his belt as he strides past. He walks through them as if they don’t even exist, his eyes locked on me.

“Holy shit,” Benny says. “Oh my God. Is he looking at you?”

“I would say so,” I squeak, clutching my drink like a lifeline.

He drops a hand to my knee. “Are you okay with this? You can say no.”

I know why he’s asking. This is not my thing at all. I don’t like being the centre of attention. I don’t like being touched by strange men. But Cyrus is hardly a stranger. I think we passed that point when I practically sucked his soul out of his dick.

“He’s Cyrus. My neighbor,” I whisper.

Benny’s eyes widen. “The guy that you—”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He’s frozen for a second. “Well, go get it, then!” He grabs the back of my chair and practically tips me out of it, just as Cyrus pulls up by our table. I fall right into his waiting arms.

Cyrus smiles, pushing my hair out of my face. “This okay?” He asks quietly.

I take a deep breath, then nod. He rubs his freshly-shaven cheek against mine. “C’mon, Bethie,” he says, right in my ear. “I’ll take care of you.”

And then he tosses me over his shoulder. I gasp as the bright lights of the club whirl around me. He puts a hand on the backs of my bare thighs to steady me, and I cling to the collar of his shirt as he jogs back up to the stage.

The music is louder up here, the beat pounding through the walls and floor. Cy leads me to an empty chair, right in the middle of the stage, and gently drops me into it. His cheek brushes mine as he leans in. “Okay, love?”

I nod. I’m breathing hard; a mixture of adrenaline, nerves, and arousal. I’m so turned on. He smiles, pulling back so he’s standing in front of me, and takes my hand, kissing my knuckles. On either side of me, other dancers are doing the same, stepping back and taking their partner’s hands. The music changes to something slow and sensual and throbbing. The bright lights soften to a gentle pink. A hush falls over the crowd, like they’re holding their breath in anticipation.

“Now remember, ladies—” the announcer calls into the microphone. “You can look all you want. You can touch—” The beat thumps, and the lights flash red. Each man drags his partner’s hand down his chest. I gasp as I feel my fingers trailing over Cyrus’s heated muscles. I can feel them, hard and thrumming, even through the thin fabric of his shirt.

The announcer chuckles. “You can touch anything that your lovely gentleman lets you. But don’t grope our poor boys, okay? Or we’ll have to tie your hands down. You don’t want that, do you?” More screams.

“That rule doesn’t apply to you,” Cyrus murmurs, his dark eyes not leaving mine. “You can touch absolutely anything you like.”

I just look up at him, heat pounding through me. My stomach is squeezing. His expression flickers, pain flashing over his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I can’t help it,” I hiss back. “I’m dying.”

His lips twist, and he tightens his grip on my fingers as the dance finally starts. Beyonce’s ‘Drunk in Love’ starts to play, and my mouth goes dry as he guides my hand to his shirt, helping me slowly unbutton it. Inch by inch, his ripped, oiled-up chest is revealed.

Next, he unknots his tie, drawing it out slowly from under his collar. I watch as the slip of fabric slides against his bare throat. He leans forward and drapes it around my neck, smoothing the fabric over my hot, oversensitized skin. I take a deep breath as he walks around the chair, coming to stand behind me, running his hands down my arms. He bends and nuzzles the curve of my neck, then braces his hands on the back of the chair and pushes himself forward. I watch the ropes of muscle in his biceps tense as he flips elegantly over the back of the chair, straddling my lap smoothly and winding his arms around my neck.

Oh. My. God.

My thoughts stop altogether as he starts to grind his hips into me, matching the heavy tempo of the music. His stiff erection rubs between my legs, deep and firm. My mouth falls open as arousal rolls through me. He’s practically fucking me through our clothes. I can’t stop myself from pushing back into him, my hips jerking uncontrollably against his.

He groans, a low, deep sound, tipping his head back. Sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat, and I just barely keep myself from leaning forward and licking it up. In perfect synchronisation with the other dancers, he slides off the chair, grabs my hands again, and brings them to his waistband, hooking my fingers under his leather belt.

“TAKE IT OFF!” A girl screams.

“GET HIS KNOB OUT!” Another joins in.

I can barely breathe. I feel like I’m about to pass out. I look up at him. He’s breathing hard, his eyes unnaturally dark. The stage lights beam around us, trapping us in a bubble of light.

“You heard them,” he says, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Take it off.”

Swallowing hard, I unclasp the buckle, sliding the thick leather belt from his belt loops and letting it fall to the ground. He takes my hands again, stroking his thumbs against my sweaty palms. My blood pulses under my skin as he guides my fingers down his naked chest, between the ridges of his hot, sweaty abs, over the fine little happy trail of dark hair—and towards the waistband on his pants.

“Pull,” he orders.

I do, giving it a gentle tug.

“Harder.”

I pull harder. There’s the sound of ripping velcro, and his tight grey dress trousers fall away. My mouth falls open as I come face to face with his rock-hard erection.