Page 21 of Lie with Me
Whoops.
We step out of the car, and for the second time today, I’m left confused on the sidewalk.
“Is it an off-Broadway play?” I ask since we are definitely nowhere near Times Square.
“Sort of.” CJ assumes his customary position with hisfingers laced through mine and leads me down the sidewalk to an unnoticeable black steel door. He opens it to a stairwell lit with red lights. “Is there going to be a crushed velvet couch and one-way mirror during this show?”
CJ laughs animatedly. Glad he finds my inquiry so amusing.
“Not this time, shortcake, but close,” he enlightens me as we climb the stairs. At the top of the landing, a pretty, young blonde is sitting behind a hostess stand.
“Tickets?” she asks sweetly.
“Carmichael. I’m on the list.”
She checks a sheet of paper in front of her in the dim light.
“Christopher John?” she asks.
CJ sighs annoyed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I asked them to make the reservations under CJ though. Only my mother calls me that.”
Is it bad I had no idea what CJ stood for until now? I have been with this man twenty-seven different ways from Sunday, but if you’d asked me his real name, I wouldn’t have had a clue.
My gut tells me the less I know about CJ, the better. It’s safer for my heart that way. But my curiosity and desire are outweighing my good sense, and I find myself more invested in him than I should be. I have no business getting emotionally involved. This is a temporary thing. A fantasy weekend that will end when the clock strikes twelve and turns me back into the pumpkin I am.
I resign to worry about that when the time comes. I’ve walked away from CJ once; I’ll just have to be strong enough to do it again. I don’t have a choice in the matter, really. My life is more complicated than I let on. But that’s my cross to bear, and a worry for another day. Right now, I’m just going to dance at the ball with my naughty prince.
“Coats?” The hostess offers sweetly, and both CJ and I shrug ours off and hand them to her. When she returns, she hands CJ a ticket and shows us to our seat. It’s a small round table only big enough for two. The entire room is set with various sized tables draped with white tablecloths and decorated with tealightcandles. Both the walls and ceiling are a deep crimson with crystal chandeliers hanging directly overhead. The whole place has a vintage 1920’s feel. Directly in front of us sits a stage with a blood-red curtain pulled closed. By the looks of it, we have the best seats in the house. A waitress in a skimpy, black rhinestone two-piece takes our drink orders as the rest of the tables fill up. By the time she’s back with my Manhattan and CJ’s scotch, every seat is taken. When the lights dim, CJ pulls me close. So close I can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes and smell the sweetness of the alcohol on his breath.
Music suddenly kicks up and the curtains fly open. I gasp as strobe lights flash and several scantily clad women flaunt it across the stage.
“Burlesque!” I announce excitedly, immediately noticing the name of the show -FANTASY -glowing in purple over the dancing women’s heads.
“Something different,” CJ admits, speaking in my ear. “The name caught my eye while I was searching online.”
“It’s perfect,” I beam as I try to catch every movement on stage. The performers are amazing. So vibrant and sexy and alive.
“Have you ever seen a burlesque show before?”
“Does the movie count?” I ask glancing over at him.
“I don’t think it compares to the real thing.”
“Definitely not,” I respond, mesmerized by the flashy display unfolding directly in front of me.
CJ keeps his arm around my shoulders during the whole show as one beautiful woman after another graces the stage. Some are group performances, others are solo acts. The solo dancers performing tasteful strip teases on beds or chairs. I love every erotic, enticing second of it. CJ does too; he’s begun to grope me under the table and tickle my neck with kisses.
“Quit that.” I giggle.
“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re mine.” He slides his hand up the inside of my thigh and tickles my piercing.
“CJ!” I jump, the sensation setting off sparks.
“Easy.” He tightens his arm around me and lays off my clit, sinking a finger into me instead.
“CJ,” I murmur, tormented as he begins to tease me.
“Quiet, Tara. Watch the show.” He chastises while lazily moving his finger in and out. He said he was going to have me begging by the time this night was over. Right now, I’m close. I try to concentrate on the dancers, but CJ’s measured strokes have my vision going blurry. I breathe steadily trying not to draw attention, but there’s too much stimulation clouding around me. The man I can’t get enough of touching me while watching the most provocative performance of the night in front of me. A couple on stage, the man putting his hands all over a woman who’s chained to a pole. He pulls her clothing off a piece at a time. She pretends to hate it at first, then reluctantly embraces it as if he’s stripping away her reservations little by little to reveal her true self. Her true need. The barer she becomes, the more aggressive he becomes. My heart pounds harder and harder as the heat elevates on stage and between my legs.
