Read Online Hot Boyz by Marissa Monteilh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marissa Monteilh
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thong running down the crack of her ass. The bills disappeared into the depth of the dancer’s gluteus maximus.
Mènage decided to make an about face and break down to her knees, moving in toward Mercedes’s face with her round breasts.
Mercedes’s glance was more full on and deliberate than before. She took in a deep breath and blew her exhale through her mouth. The beer she was pouring dripped onto her hand along the outside of the glass. She stopped pouring but never looked down. She placed the bottle on the table and scooted her butt down into her seat, still managing to lean her torso forward at the same time.
Mercedes inhaled and smelled Mènage’s skin drenched with Champagne by Yves Saint Laurent. The words, “You smell great,” escaped from her lips without an ounce of knowledge from Mercedes.
“Thanks, sweetie. Is this your woman?” asked Manage, breaking for a half second to direct her inquiry to Mason.
“That’s my wife,” said Mason with a full-out hard-on.
“She’s pretty. You two look like Michael and Juanita Jordan up in here.”
“Compliments will get you everything,” replied Mason.
Mènage backed away from Mercedes and gave Mason a bit of breast action himself. “Actually, you look like Mason Wilson, the golfer,” she whispered.
“Even more complimentary,” he said with a grin.
Mènage moved back into Mercedes’s very existence, flipping her curly, jet-black hair over Mercedes’s hair for privacy and whispered in her ear, “Mrs. Wilson. How do you like it?” asked Mènage.
“My husband is the one who likes it. But I must say, you are very talented.”
Mènage backed away to make direct eye contact. “Can I straddle your husband later on with a lap dance?”
“Now you’re trying to take all my man’s money, huh.” Mercedes took her glass and guzzled a few swallows in one.
“This one would be on me,” Mènage said.
“I think I can fulfill that fantasy for him, but thanks.”
Mènage backed away farther with both eyes fixed upon Mercedes. She then made her way to the next group of high-profile patrons. Five hot, excited, loud men in business suits who owned a baseball team.
Mason told his woman, “I think she likes you.”
“I admire women who can shed their inhibitions and let it all hang out like that,” Mercedes replied as “Doin It” by LL Cool J played in the background.
“You know you could dance up there right along with them, baby. Your body is just as good as hers,” Mason complimented.
“Mason, please. Compliments are accepted, but I keep it real. Three small facts like having babies, fast approaching my forties, and about fifty pounds rule out any runway dancing for me.”
“That’s just my opinion.”
Mènage’s second song was over. She picked up her leather bra and scooped up her dollar bills, picking up quite a few next to Mason and Mercedes. Mercedes reached in her own purse and handed Mènage a fifty-dollar bill.
“You deserve this. Job well done,” Mercedes said with a hush.
“Thanks, baby. Turned on for the night?”
“My husband is,” Mercedes replied.
Mènage smiled at the couple and exited the stage as another dancer, wearing a rhinestone outfit that looked like dental floss, began bumping and grinding her way down the short runway.
“Girlfriend needs a little more meat on her bones,” Mason said, finishing off his juice.
Mercedes looked around the room. “Am I the only woman in here?”
“Tonight it looks like it. I thought we’d have a more private area.”
“Let’s go Mason. It’s time I gave you your own private dance.” Mercedes put her Prada purse under her arm and stood up.
Mason agreed. “We’re out,” he said as some of the men glanced their way.
They exited quietly and stood in line for their car.
Mercedes noticed a bright flash. “What was that?” she asked as the valet brought Mason’s Porsche around. Mason held the door open for her.
Mason commented. “Some damn paparazzi thinking
Mènage decided to make an about face and break down to her knees, moving in toward Mercedes’s face with her round breasts.
Mercedes’s glance was more full on and deliberate than before. She took in a deep breath and blew her exhale through her mouth. The beer she was pouring dripped onto her hand along the outside of the glass. She stopped pouring but never looked down. She placed the bottle on the table and scooted her butt down into her seat, still managing to lean her torso forward at the same time.
Mercedes inhaled and smelled Mènage’s skin drenched with Champagne by Yves Saint Laurent. The words, “You smell great,” escaped from her lips without an ounce of knowledge from Mercedes.
“Thanks, sweetie. Is this your woman?” asked Manage, breaking for a half second to direct her inquiry to Mason.
“That’s my wife,” said Mason with a full-out hard-on.
“She’s pretty. You two look like Michael and Juanita Jordan up in here.”
“Compliments will get you everything,” replied Mason.
Mènage backed away from Mercedes and gave Mason a bit of breast action himself. “Actually, you look like Mason Wilson, the golfer,” she whispered.
“Even more complimentary,” he said with a grin.
Mènage moved back into Mercedes’s very existence, flipping her curly, jet-black hair over Mercedes’s hair for privacy and whispered in her ear, “Mrs. Wilson. How do you like it?” asked Mènage.
“My husband is the one who likes it. But I must say, you are very talented.”
Mènage backed away to make direct eye contact. “Can I straddle your husband later on with a lap dance?”
“Now you’re trying to take all my man’s money, huh.” Mercedes took her glass and guzzled a few swallows in one.
“This one would be on me,” Mènage said.
“I think I can fulfill that fantasy for him, but thanks.”
Mènage backed away farther with both eyes fixed upon Mercedes. She then made her way to the next group of high-profile patrons. Five hot, excited, loud men in business suits who owned a baseball team.
Mason told his woman, “I think she likes you.”
“I admire women who can shed their inhibitions and let it all hang out like that,” Mercedes replied as “Doin It” by LL Cool J played in the background.
“You know you could dance up there right along with them, baby. Your body is just as good as hers,” Mason complimented.
“Mason, please. Compliments are accepted, but I keep it real. Three small facts like having babies, fast approaching my forties, and about fifty pounds rule out any runway dancing for me.”
“That’s just my opinion.”
Mènage’s second song was over. She picked up her leather bra and scooped up her dollar bills, picking up quite a few next to Mason and Mercedes. Mercedes reached in her own purse and handed Mènage a fifty-dollar bill.
“You deserve this. Job well done,” Mercedes said with a hush.
“Thanks, baby. Turned on for the night?”
“My husband is,” Mercedes replied.
Mènage smiled at the couple and exited the stage as another dancer, wearing a rhinestone outfit that looked like dental floss, began bumping and grinding her way down the short runway.
“Girlfriend needs a little more meat on her bones,” Mason said, finishing off his juice.
Mercedes looked around the room. “Am I the only woman in here?”
“Tonight it looks like it. I thought we’d have a more private area.”
“Let’s go Mason. It’s time I gave you your own private dance.” Mercedes put her Prada purse under her arm and stood up.
Mason agreed. “We’re out,” he said as some of the men glanced their way.
They exited quietly and stood in line for their car.
Mercedes noticed a bright flash. “What was that?” she asked as the valet brought Mason’s Porsche around. Mason held the door open for her.
Mason commented. “Some damn paparazzi thinking
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