Page 2 of Unmistakably Us

Her sister carried way too much guilt over shit that was beyond her control. Shit she didn’t need to feel guilty for in the first place. Gus had lived her life, nothing more. But every time her sister’s gaze held hers, January could see it clear as day. She was determined to assuage that guilt before she went home to face the life laid out for her. A life she didn’t want to live, but a life she would all the same.

January had been a Thorne all her life, and even if others didn’t understand what that meant, she did. Most people couldn’t even begin to comprehend in this day and age how a grown, educated woman could just lie down and follow the plan of her parents. She couldn’t even comprehend it most of the time. It was so unlike her to not stand up and say no, but she just couldn’t. She laughed at the irony of it all. If anyone else were to try to control her, she’d likely end up in jail for fighting back. No one else had their leverage, so when it came to her parents, she always maintained proper decorum as she was taught. Obey your parents.

So, January would enjoy her time here with her sister. She would savor the freedom of dancing, even if it was topless. The freedom of the open road, laughter, and maybe even a fling, but she would convince Gus she was going back to a life she wanted. She would ensure her sister released the guilt she was clinging to about it, and they would all live happily ever after. Well, everyone else will, I’ll simply exist. I’ll bear children for a man I could never love, be obedient for parents who never understood how to love, and never feel what it’s like to truly be loved.

“Do you want me to walk you out, Domino?” The bouncer’s voice pulled her from her depressing thoughts.

“No thanks, Ruger. My bike’s right here.”

His chuckle was deep and rich. Ruger was a big man—a plus in a bouncer—named for his guns, and not the kind that fired bullets. As big as he was, he was a teddy bear. A complete sweetheart who looked out for all the girls at Pole Position. “I know, but just because you’re cute, tiny dancer, doesn’t make the sidewalk motorcycle parking. But, I’ll look the other way just this once. You be safe now, and text me when you get home.”

It was the same every night. Ruger joked, but he didn’t mind her using the sidewalk to park; he never did. “Will do, goodnight.”

January stepped out into the humid early morning weather and took a deep, cleansing breath. She was going to miss the scent of salt. After strapping her Coach bag to the sissy bar, she donned her helmet, fired up the tunes, and rocketed out of the lot and down the road.

While Volbeat blared in her ears, she let the rumble between her thighs soothe her soul. This was an experience that had a shelf life, and it was fast approaching its expiration date. When it went sour, so would her life. No “Heaven Nor Hell”, no dancing, no hot Logan offering her a sample of a physical experience she would never know, no…nothing.

No freedom.

* * *

“Fuck!”Logan chided himself once again. He seemed to do that a whole hell of a lot since coming here. He was always fucking up something. Of course, I am, it’s in my messed up fucking DNA.

He was too socially awkward to even consider this. He should cut his losses and head out of here and forget everything and everyone associated with this God-forsaken place.

Michael and John, their job at the airfield, January and this second-rate strip club…the whole lot of them. What did he need with them, anyway? Logan Chotke...No! I will never honor that man. Logan Chapman was doing just fine without them, had been for decades.

As the thoughts flapped chaotically through his mind, he stalled a bit on the second-rate strip club part. Why was a girl like that dancing here, anyway? It was obvious she had never even seen the inside of the free clinic or food stamp office. Why was she shaking that perfect fucking ass at this sports-themed trailer park of strip clubs?

At first, he thought it was to piss her sister off, but that was before he had met most of the Reid clan, including Augusta. There was another driving force behind her choice, and for some inexplicable reason, Logan genuinely wanted to know what it was. He’d hinted at it a few times, but he tried to keep the strip club separate from their friendship.

January’s dance skills were way beyond any of the daytime level strippers Pole Position featured. She’d talked about her ballet and gymnastics lessons less than enthusiastically. Another question he added to the list of things he wanted to know.

"Domino" was mesmerizing when she took the stage. Her moves were purely hypnotic, and not just because she had the best pair of tits he’d ever laid eyes on, either. It was something else, something deeper. It was the story she conveyed with every sway of her hips and roll of her head.

Yes, she shook her ass like a naughty fucking schoolgirl, but it was more, every movement was a verse, a line, a chorus. No effort was wasted on meaningless actions. She flowed with an indescribable, yet haunting, mobility. Logan wasn't the type to wax poetic so if he thought she was honestly poetry in motion, she sure as hell was.

Although, when she wrapped her thighs around that pole, the poem got real dirty, real fast. A raunchy rhyme it felt like only he could read. More times than he could count, he imagined those thighs tightening around his head to the verge of pain as he feasted on her, dreaming of how they’d quiver against his cheeks as she crested. Or the delicious friction they’d cause to his flanks as he pounded into her.

Just thinking about the naughty fucking schoolgirl get-up had him adjusting his cock in his pants. Plaid barely-there skirt, knee-high socks, and sucking a fucking lollipop. Damn. But the topper on that cock-hardening sundae? Pigtails, fucking braided pigtails with cute, little disheveled ribbon bows trailing down her breasts.

More than once, he pictured those ribbons around her wrists and her pigtails wound tight in his fists—like reins he’d use to ride her ass to the finish line. He always knew when that outfit was coming, because Gene Simmons’ voice filled the stale atmosphere of the club.

The spotlight would flash after he said, “It goes like this.” And there she would be at the back of the runway, twirling gum around her finger or sucking on a Blow Pop.

He knew the song and the routine by heart. She’d snap her hips at the end of each line and freeze, the lights mimicking her and highlighting every motion. The first time they sang “Domino,” she’d toss the sucker or pop a bubble. After that, she’d twist her hips down at the end of a line, then back up at the next.

When the pace picked up, she’d drop to a full split, drag her legs sensually behind her and crawl a bit toward the pole. At “balls,” her long legs would rise up behind her, controlled and seemingly guided by the music, and land on the stage in front of her, and then, she’d be standing.

Even with the sensuality of her dress and the routine, her level of muscle control and coordination always fascinated Logan. That was one of the reasons it puzzled the fuck out of him why she was here instead of some upscale joint, a place he could never get into. She’d be making ten times what she made here.

That fascination always ended, or rather shifted, when she made her way to the pole. She’d grab the pole, hook a knee, and do a flirty spin, shedding her top with her free hand before a full rotation. After that, her pole work was a show of skill and power. Domino was in complete control of her body motion the whole time. When she gripped the pole with her thighs, Logan would groan. For a good minute, her hands never touched the pole, yet she never stopped moving.

Whereas most strippers used the pole as a crutch, let the pole work them, Domino worked the pole. Used it like an extension of herself and an accessory that enhanced instead of a main prop.

When it got toward the end of the song, where Gene was talking again, she bent over when he said “bends over,” and she’d shake her tight little ass, giving it a slap that seemed to echo in his ears, even above the music. The sound of flesh on flesh always revved him up.

The finale was a stripper staple, bent knees, spreading wide then closing. A sensual and roaming hand groped her tit and the other acted as a guide inside her knee. Both were caressing and offering. That would morph into sitting on her knees and twirling her pigtails and looking innocent as fuck.

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