![The cover of Tantalizing You featuring a handsome male stripper in a firefighter's uniform being undressed by a beautiful young blond girl.](https://simonataylor.net/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/Tantalizing-You-final-cover-for-EPUB-179x300.jpg)
Fire, Fire!
Frankie
A male stripper at a baby shower? Who does that?
Well, me for one.
Over the top? Maybe. But hear me out.
The cake was sinfully good. I’d ordered a tiramisu shaped like a teddy bear, and despite its innocent appearance, it was soaked in alcohol and floating on a cloud of cream.
My brother Ben and his wife Callie were leaving for Haiti in a few days to bring home a five-month-old orphan, and we were all celebrating. Callie wasn’t yet thirty, but she and Ben couldn’t have kids.
I’d volunteered to plan the shower, and Ben had actually said yes. He shoulda known better.
Although they were bringing home a girl, I didn’t use any cheesy baby pink decorations for the party. Instead, I chose a deep, rich fuchsia contrasted with bright white. I used sparkling lights, flowers, cascades of satin ribbons, and clouds of balloons to transform our pool patio into a wonderland.
So far, I was batting two for two. The cake was amazing. The décor was perfect. But the third ball? Well, I hit that one right out of the park. Because the stripper, oh, he was divine.
Well, yeah, I guess hiring some random hot guy to shake what his daddy gave him was pushing it. But it wasn’t as if the baby was around yet.
Ben and a few of his friends were off night-fishing, leaving just us girls to get into trouble on our own. The baby shower posse comprised of me, Callie, a bunch of her girlfriends, and a couple of girls who, like me, had small businesses at the popular downtown mall called Palmetto Plaza. I spent most of my days there in my clothing design workshop. I was only just starting out, but I had hopes and dreams, and when you’ve got those, you’ve got everything.
Shelby Moser, who helped her dad in their family plumbing business, was passing out Jell-o shots. Another friend of ours, Myla Summerhill, owned a bakery. She was the one who had magicked up the cake. God bless her.
It was a typical early summer evening in Abyssinia, the small town where Ben and I lived. Light breezes swept down from the nearby mountains and picked up their warmth from the scraggly vegetation that surrounded us.
I stood on the deck of my brother’s gorgeous Spanish-style villa and admired my handiwork. There were garlands of frangipani and oleander everywhere, and pink and white lilies floated in the pool, surrounded by tiny tea lights in glass bowls. Above us, stars glittered in the dark sky, stretching over the expanse of Ben’s estate.
He owned and managed a mid-sized property development company that frequently won large private and state contracts. Along with his partner, Christopher Kane (a terrible playboy, but that’s another story), Ben was also a significant shareholder in Palmetto Plaza. The company had originally belonged to our parents, but when I was eleven they’d gone in a week-long hiking trek in the Peruvian mountains and … disappeared. Rescue crews had searched for them for months while Ben, then barely in his twenties, took charge. He consoled me while we waited for news, any news. When the government finally gave up and declared them dead, it was my brother who’d stepped in to take over the business—and to take care of me.
Up to a few years ago, Ben had been all I had. Then he met Callie. Love had done a number on those two, and my little family had grown. In a few days, when they flew home from the Caribbean with a bundle in their arms, it would be larger still.
I was swelling inside with happiness.
Callie came over, glowing as if she actually had a bun in the oven. Her long brown hair was entwined with strands of the same pink and white flowers, and her tanned skin warm in the light of the lamps. She wore a dress of butternut yellow, Ben’s favorite color. Her light brown eyes glittered with excitement and mimosas. She was on her third; I guess there’s something to be said for having a baby shower when you aren’t pregnant.
She threw her arms around me and squeezed the last gasp of air from my lungs. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie! I love you!”
“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t mess up my outfit, girl. You have any idea how long it took me to make this?”
She patted my butt, which was further proof that she and the wet bar had been on good terms all night. “Don’t want to wrinkle your designer duds,” she laughed.
I smoothed the hem on my barely-there skirt. “These are Frankie Broussard originals, ya know,” I boasted. I was two years out of design school and one year post-apprenticeship, so I might have been tooting my horn too loudly, but a girl’s got to have ambition.
“I probably couldn’t afford them,” she teased.
“You could squeak by now,” I warned her, “so get it while the going’s good. In a few years, when my clothes are all the talk of New York and Paris, you’re gonna have to walk with some serious cash if you want to get into one of these.”
She wrapped her arm around my neck. “No family discount?”
“If your order’s big enough.” I relieved her of the mimosa, and downed it in one gulp. It coursed down my throat, joining the three or four others I’d already had. Which is probably why I was tempted to blame what happened over the next couple of hours on the champagne, rather than admitting it was my own damn fault.
A shriek pierced the night, slicing through the music. At first, I thought it was a woman’s scream. Had someone fallen into the pool? I ran there almost in a panic, but the flower-strewn surface of the water was placid and pink.
No, the sound came from outside the villa, near the gates, and it was getting louder. An emergency siren. The girls turned their heads toward the sound, chattering excitedly. Myla and Shelby clutched each other, their eyes wide.
A sliver Hummer skated on the pebbled driveway, a bright red light flashing on the roof. The door was thrown open. Before the dark shape inside could emerge, Ben’s purebred boxers, Ringo and Paul, were charging toward the car, more curious than challenging. The man exiting the car didn’t even hesitate, which shocked the hell out of me, since in my experience, the sight of 200 pounds of hurtling dogflesh should be enough to stop even the most determined interloper in his tracks.
“What’s that commotion about?” Callie asked, puzzled.
“No idea,” I said, although in fact I had a damn good idea. The dark, decidedly male shape advanced, and even from here I could tell that his legs were as long as all of summer.
“A guy at a baby shower?” Shelby mused, sidling up to us. “I thought this was a penis-free zone.”
Not if I can help it, I smirked to myself.
The dogs were still hot on the man’s tail, and in the semi-darkness I saw him hold out his hands to them, palms forward. They sniffed, moving from hands to crotch to heavy black boots—and then they wagged their tails. Traitors.
Assured that there’d be no mauling tonight, the man kept on moving, shifting from one pool of lamplight to the other. By now, women were gathering at the edge of the patio. Ice tinkled in their glasses, excited whispers traveling like lightning.
Then he was close enough for us to see he was a fireman in full gear. The reflective strips on his uniform flashed against the dark fabric as he stepped into the light. His expression was serious, his gait purposeful.
And he blew me away.
His brows were ridiculously thick, but neat, as if he groomed them. Vain bastard, I thought. Skin smooth and coffee-creamy, his dark irises so intense they made the whites glow. His mouth was a straight line, somber, all business, but it was full enough that I could tell a smile would change it as surely as the sun coming out could change a gray, miserable day.
He stood on the threshold of the patio, flanked by those two traitor dogs. “Mrs. Callie Broussard?” he queried. His eyes searched the expectant crowd, sliding from face to face, as if he was trying to guess his target.
Callie detached herself from my side and took two steps forward. “Yes?” There was a quiver in her voice and a wrinkle on her forehead. The arrival of a lone fireman on one’s doorstep was hardly an encouraging event. For ten seconds I felt sorry for inflicting even a moment’s anxiety upon her. I could hear her worry: Was Ben okay?
“Mrs. Broussard?” he confirmed, walking toward her. His uniform was pressed and new, buttons glinting.
Callie’s hand rose to her throat. “Is everything …?” She couldn’t finish the question.
The man read her thoughts, and, though his voice was still military-sober, a warm baritone rumble, there was a kinder edge to it. “Relax, ma’am, nobody’s been hurt.”
There was a collective sigh of relief, but it did little to comfort Callie. She didn’t even seem to notice that the man’s accent was clipped and British, which surprised even me.
“Is there a problem?” Callie asked. “Has there been … a fire?”
“I’m afraid there is a fire, madam.”
I wanted to step forward and hold Callie up; she looked about to faint.
“Where?” she managed to ask.
And with one big, strong hand, our dark fireman ripped open the front of his crisp uniform and tapped two fingers over his left nipple. “Here,” he told her. He grabbed her to him, one arm around her waist, and planted a long, hard kiss on her mouth.
Even from three feet away, I could hear Callie gasp.
It took several seconds for the crowd to realize what was going on. But when they did, a squeal went up, an excited cheer. The fireman reached down to the iPhone clipped to his belt, and it immediately synced to the Bluetooth player overhead, as I’d planned. Out boomed the hard-thumping sound of Common’s “Sex 4 Sugar”.
Callie staggered back, dazed, bracing herself against the patio rail. Our fireman’s jacket was open, and his sleek chest rippled as he pursued her. She had nowhere to go. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear as he sang along, his voice a husky rasp that even Common would be proud of.
Electricity is definitely there,
I got shocked when I touched your hair ….
Callie gave me an appalled look. “You did this?” she squeaked as hunka-hunka swept her up in his arms again and strode with her to the middle of the patio, where he set her down in a chair like she was a doll. And standing in front of her—no, gyrating in front of her—he wriggled out of his jacket like a boa constrictor shifting out of its skin.
“‘Fraid so,” I yelled, clapping in time to the music.
Now that the shock had passed, all misgivings gone, the other girls threw themselves into it, ogling without shame. Firefighter snatched the hard hat off his head, and a gasp went around when we saw the thick black ponytail uncoil itself. Another thrilled sound of delight left our mouths as he reached up with one hand and yanked the elastic from it, and that shiny, jet hair fell around his shoulders. Hair in his eyes, clinging to his lips, getting caught in his mouth as he sang, dancing for Callie.
Dancing for us.
Sex 4 sugar,
Sugar 4 sex ….
Four mimosas and the sweet night air made me giddy.
He gleamed. I ached. Pecs, biceps, everything bunched and moved. The jacket was on the floor. He kicked it away. Then came the boots. He was generous enough to allow Callie to remove the first one. By now, she’d given up all pretense of being outraged, and was into it, laughing. Myla happily removed the second boot, and took her own sweet time, I might add.
He placed the iPhone on the table, and the voice of Common, as rough and as charged as that of a man seconds from orgasm, continued to pour over us. Fireman yanked his belt from its loops and flicked it like a whip, used it like a lasso to hold Callie to her chair long enough for a second kiss. He looked around for another victim … and his eyes clicked with mine. His mouth—that mouth!—curved. There was a flash of white teeth. He strolled over to me, strutting his stuff. Proud of all the good Lord hath given him.
His belt-lasso was in his hands. With control worthy of Indiana Jones, he flicked it, and I was his prisoner. He yanked me against him, eyes locked with mine. “Got any sugar?” he whispered above the din.
“Don’t need any,” I countered. “I’m sweet enough.”
Common was done with his sex-for-sugar trade, and Fireman went even more old-school. Salt-N-Pepa were pushing it, and I was thinking naughty thoughts.
“Frankie,” he guessed.
“That’s me.” His fireman’s pants were rough against my bare legs. His belly taut against mine.
“Client gets a free dance,” he informed me. That oddly reserved British accent did a number on my blood pressure.
“Foxtrot? Bunny hop?” I challenged.
“Lap,” he shot back. And next thing I knew my feet were off the ground and he was balancing my butt on the porch railing. It wasn’t more than about four feet from the ground, but the idea of falling made me dizzy. I clung to his hard, bare arm.
“Don’t worry,” he soothed mockingly. “I got you.”
“You sure do,” I gasped. His arm didn’t leave my waist as he began to move. In some countries, the way he danced would get him arrested.
“You’re supposed to be stripping,” I reminded him.
“My arms are full. You’ll have to help.” With his other hand, he guided my fingers to the button on his waistband. “Pops right open,” he notified me.
I could feel the sweat on his belly, his damp hairs, as I pulled the button loose. I was barely aware of the cheer that went up around us. It was a button fly, dammit, no zipper to send skating down. I had another button to deal with, and another. My fingers were near the dragon’s lair, and the heat rising from there melted the polish off my nails.
“There,” I gasped. “You’re open.”
He was enjoying the knowledge that he’d shaken me up. He lifted the leg that was wrapped around mine and eased off, his weight rising. Something inside me wanted to grab him around his sweaty waist and make him stay. I slid down off the patio railing, boneless.
And Fireman returned to the waiting circle of breathless women. Perfect ass, like a rock under those pants, but I was miffed. He’d turned his back on me, after dancing like that for me and me alone. I wanted to run to him, spin him around and tell him that nobody walked away from me. But he was moving again, and I was too punch-drunk to object.
Bare feet planted on the deck, he began to roll those hips, sliding his flameproof pants down, down, down. Stepping out of them. And holy Father, be merciful, he was wearing a leather thong.
A.
Leather.
Thong.
Mentally, I doubled his tip.
For the next half hour or so, my tantalizing Fireman kept on dancing. His energy was boundless. His grace inimitable. His glorious perfection almost otherworldly. His ass was so hard, you could have bounced a silver dollar off it and got back four quarters.
The girls weren’t shy about touching him. He wasn’t shy about letting them. They fed him champagne from their glasses. He passed maraschino cherries to them with his teeth. He posed for photos, was liberal with his kisses. When he was done dancing, he only put on his pants. The rest of his gear lay in a heap on a chair.
When the party wound down, he wrested the role of host from me, graciously taking each guest by the hand and leading her outside. Shelby and Myla called an Uber, leaving together as they had come, sending me broad suggestive winks before they disappeared. I guess when I saw them at the Plaza tomorrow, we’d have a long postmortem to get through.
Callie was giddy from fatigue, excitement, and mimosas. She threw her arms around Fireman and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, you rascal.”
“My pleasure,” he replied smoothly. “Congratulations on your little girl.” He added, “Your husband’s a lucky man.”
She beamed and blushed. Then she tried to fix me with a stern stare but her eyes went in and out of focus. “And you, lady. There are protocols involved in throwing baby showers, you know. They’re usually not that exciting.”
I grinned. “I know. Aren’t you glad I don’t give a shit about protocol?”
Callie returned my grin like a true conspirator. “All the same, we’ll keep this one under our hats, yeah? Not too sure if Ben would … you know … understand.” My brother was a bit older, protective to the point of stuffy. An oiled-up man in a thong gyrating on his patio probably wouldn’t have gone down well with him. Especially not with me as the instigator. Many a time he’d said with a resigned sigh that if there was trouble to be had, I’d likely be at the heart of it.
So I also hoped Ben didn’t find out.
Callie gave Fireman’s loose, glossy hair a friendly yank and weaved her way toward the villa. Hopefully, to sleep off the mimosas.
Fireman stood before me, hands at his side, posture still military, even though the charade was over. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
“Nice job,” I offered.
His face said, Damn right, it was, but his mouth said, “Thank you. Will that be all?”
Technically, it was all. I’d paid the agency for his services up front; cash never changed hands between client and performer. The deal was done, his contract fulfilled. And yet, the idea of him skating out of there in that silver Hummer, leaving me alone on the deck, filled me with dread.
The music was over. There was no sound except those of the night: owls, rustling leaves, and the wind. But still, I pushed my luck. “I’m not your client anymore,” I hedged.
“Technically, no,” he agreed. “Gig’s over.”
“But I was wondering ….”
He leaned forward as if to trap my next words before they escaped into the night. “Yes?”
Now or never, Frankie. I swallowed, overcome by shyness. Me, shy! “May I have another dance?”
Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket, to which the iPhone had been returned, and music filled the air again. No thumping this time. No grinding. The music was slow, sensuous, and heady. He grasped my hand in his, placing it against the small of his back, and drew me to him.
Again, those soul-stirring words fell from his lips, like satin against sand. “My pleasure.”
(208 pages including bonus chapters.)
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