He does

A few whistles followed them into the hallway. Emily didn’t look back. She led the way down the corridor and toward the elevator, her hips swaying a little more than necessary. The thudding music faded behind them. The moment stretched. She could feel him behind her, could sense how tightly he was wound—nervous, unsure, but so deeply aroused he might burst from the tension alone.

In the elevator, she pressed the button for her floor. When the doors closed, they were alone in the soft silence.

“I’m not a stripper,” she said after a beat. “Not anymore.”

He blinked. “You were?”

She smiled faintly. “Through college. Made better money than waitressing. It’s been a while, but…” She looked him over. “You look like you could use a little professional attention.”

He flushed so deep she thought he might melt into the carpet.

Room 504 was cool when she opened the door, the bed made, curtains drawn, bathroom light still on from earlier. Emily stepped in, then turned to face him just inside the doorway.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, though his eyes had gone glassy, wide.

“Then sit,” she said, gesturing to the desk chair, a generic wooden one without any arms. “And don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”

He obeyed instantly.

Emily kicked off her shoes, then reached behind her back and began to untie the wrap holding her blouse together. It loosened, then slipped off her shoulders in one fluid motion, revealing a soft white bralette beneath that barely contained her full, round breasts. She could feel the weight of them, the way her nipples pushed against the thin cotton—she didn’t wear a padded bra tonight. Too much effort.

He stared. She saw his throat move as he swallowed.

Emily didn’t rush. She straddled his lap, her thighs spread wide around his, and leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching.

“You ever had a lap dance?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Good.”