Grady Paulson spends his nights pleasing a lot of women.
The bump and grind of being a male stripper is
getting old for Grady, and when his cross-country tour takes him to New Orleans
everything changes. He meets Allison Wagner; a smart, successful woman who is
all wrong for him, but Grady just loves a challenge.
Sparks fly, and soon Allison has Grady
rethinking his future. He wants to get out of the stripping game and settle
down, but Allison is hiding a devastating secret that could threaten his plans.
Will Grady finally break free from his seedy,
sequined world or will her troubled past forever seal their fate?
On Bourbon Street, temptation is the name of
the game for all those who practice the art of sin.
Alexandrea Weis is
an advanced practice registered nurse who was born and raised in New Orleans.
Having been brought up in the motion picture industry, she learned to tell
stories from a different perspective and began writing at the age of eight.
Infusing the rich tapestry of her hometown into her award-winning novels, she
believes that creating vivid characters makes a story memorable. A
permitted/certified wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and
Fisheries, Weis rescues orphaned and injured wildlife.
She lives with her husband and pets in New Orleans.
The
screaming hit him first. Like the backwash from a jet engine, the screams
vibrated against his body. The women were packed against the edge of the stage,
and as he moved out from beneath the white lights, he got a better look at the
pit.
Matt had been right. The faces, the screams, the whistles, all
looked and sounded the same as every other town he had been in. He had hoped
this time it would be different. Why had he expected more?
Beginning his routine, he rolled his hips and occasionally made
eye contact with a few of the women, searching for his orgasm girl. A small
blonde, not far from the stage, caught his eye. She instantly reminded him of
Al. She had the same petite figure and pink lips, but her eyes were not as
sarcastic. Making a few spins, he checked out the other women, but kept coming
back to the blonde.
When he pulled his silver-sequined shirt open, the motion made the
pain from his broken right pinkie shoot up his arm. He kept his stage smile
plastered on his face, but he could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip.
To stop thinking about the pain, he shifted his attention back to the small
blonde. He pictured her being Al, watching him up on stage.
Grady
could almost see Al smirking at him from a table next to the stage. This was
good. It was helping him get through his routine. He focused on the blonde, all
the while thinking of Al, and soon he forgot about his discomfort.
Grady began to feel he was dancing only for the petite woman. He
could hear the other women in the crowd shouting for him to “take it all off,”
but he ignored them. He struggled getting his shirt off, and he saw the lithe
blonde smile when she explored his chest with her big eyes.
Grabbing at his clothing and doing a few of the acrobatic moves he
had in his dance routine almost made him see stars as the tormenting pain
returned. With only his pants to go, he went to the edge of the stage, ready to
bring up the blonde. When he pointed to her, as he seductively swung his hips,
the blush on her cheeks almost made him laugh out loud. Al would never have
blushed like that. No, Al would have scowled at him.
It took two of her friends to coax her to the stage, but when the
little blonde climbed the side steps, Grady was disappointed. Up close, she was
nothing like Al. Her features were plain and her mouth was bigger, her lips
thicker, and her eyes were brown and not like Al’s angry grey orbs. Giving her
some encouragement to have fun with him, he lifted her hands to his chest and rubbed
his hips against her.
The blonde squealed, covered her face, and did all the predictable
things he expected of his orgasm girl. After he had danced around her a few
times, ripped off his pants—damn near cursing as the pain tore through his
hand—he gave her a kiss on the cheek and showed her off the stage.
A few last struts, flashing his silver-sequined G-string, and he
was done. Snapping up his clothes from the floor with his left hand, he could
feel the sweat pouring off him. He quickly trotted off the stage and back
behind the curtains.
Out of the view of the audience, he bent over and very gently held
his sore pinkie.
“Son of a bitch,” he sighed. How was he going to survive a second
show?
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