As I mentioned about a month ago, I am reading the Anita Blake series by Laurell K. Hamilton, which starts with Guilty Pleasures. I’m reading about 175 pages a week. Each week, I’ll be bringing you two posts: a review of the book and a related kinky post. This is a sexy story!
Guilty Pleasures (Chapters 1-23)
There’s nothing kinky going on (yet). From what I recall in my previous read-throughs, there’s more sex the further into the series we get. So still light on the sex. There’s definitely a bit of sexual tension throughout the book so far, and there’s a strip scene!
I haven’t been to a strip club in a long time, but I can imagine that vampire strippers would be a fun thing.
It’s dark. So dark. I strain my eyes, but it doesn’t make them adjust to the darkness any faster. The pulse of music comes from that darkness, and the press of bodies behind me pushes me in faster than I’m comfortable moving in the dark, and I stumble. If it weren’t for the strong arm that grabs me, I know I would have ended up falling. Instead, I find myself in the arms of a man who doesn’t look particularly muscular, but he’s holding me with no effort.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his breath on my skin.
I nod, my voice lost.
He pulls me away from the pulsing crowd deeper into the club. “Are you meeting someone?”
I nod again.
“Do you see them?”
I look around but shake my head. I think I’m the first to arrive. There’s a pause, and I can feel my heart racing. I want to know what he’s thinking. Is he thinking that I would make a tasty snack? He must be a vampire, after all. He might not be super muscular, but he’s very sexy, and we’re in a vampire strip club. He’s wearing faux leather pants and a matching vest. I want to run my tongue along the cut of his abs. He’s sleek and svelte. I want to touch him. But a voice in the back of my mind reminds me that you don’t touch the strippers, though his hands are still holding me up.
“Let’s get you a table then,” he says, and he guides me toward a special table that says RESERVED in large black letters on a white card.
“I don’t think–”
“This is my table,” he says. “I can give it to anyone I want.”
I nod, “Thank you,” I say. The table is certainly large enough for my three friends and me. Where are they anyway?
“What can I get you to drink?” he asks, and then it dawns on me. He isn’t a stripper. He’s a server. And he’s going to be stopping by my table all night. I feel my cheeks redden, and I am so glad that I’m sitting down now because my knees are suddenly very weak.
J R Vincente 