Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! This is my present to you.
So, since I'm kind of going insane with nothing to read here (and, in my experience, fandoms being this dead while new episodes are airing is generally a bad sign) and feeling bad about not contributing to it, I decided to post this. I originally wanted to wait until it was finished, but if that was true then, well, I wouldn't have many fics on this site, now would I? And apparently this is my 50th fic on the site, which is rather a shame since I don't think this is that special or anything, and I wanted 50 to be special. Oh well.
Anyway, I wrote this a while ago, like before the hiatus, before Catherine had ever come into the picture, so if there's anything off about her I apologize, but she's not really mentioned much or important to this story, so whatever... Anyway, I'm kinda gonna hate myself for this, but let me first begin by saying that this is intended to be a chapter fic, and I do actually have quite a bit of the next chapter written, and I don't see this being an especially long story, per se... but I don't know when I'm going to update it since this is a really busy and crazy and very writing-intensive semester for me, and I already have like, three other Ringer stories (including Getting to Know You, which I have a lot of but need to fill in some gaps in key areas) in various stages of completion, so it's probably best to think of this as a one-shot for now.
This story's AU, obviously, so pretty much none of the events on the show have happened except for the earlier Bridget/Siobhan flashbacks. Since we obviously don't know what went down with Bridget, Bodaway, and Shaylene, I can't get into all of that and don't entirely want to, but Bridget probably still sort of knows who Bodaway is, and obviously something, some kind of near-miss, happened to kind of scare her straight. She hasn't been arrested by the cops recently. Anyway, since Bridget doesn't have Bodaway and Machado all over her, she's been sober for a while but she's still taking methadone to sort of get off her heroin addiction, gradually reducing the dose. She's also managed to sort of turn her life around with a pretty well-paying job in one of the nicer gentlemen's clubs in Lake Tahoe, but just because she's mostly got her life on track doesn't mean she's all the way there yet. The Bridget in this story is a bit less settled and than the one on the show because she hasn't been sober quite as long and doesn't have much of a support system, even though she goes to meetings. Malcolm will possibly figure into her life somewhere.
As for Siobhan... Siobhan and Bridget are still estranged, though Bridget may or may not have written the letter to Siobhan. Bridget does know that Siobhan is married. Also, whatever nefarious plans Siobhan is cooking up on the show probably aren't going to come into play mostly due to a lack of caring on my part and the fact that I just find them incredibly poorly-planned and thought-out. Depending on what Bridget did to earn her sister's ire, I might include that too, but we'll see. Andrew and Siobhan are still married, and things between them are just about as bad as you'd expect... so he's unhappy, and she's still having an affair with Henry. Also, more importantly, like in the show at first, Andrew doesn't know Bridget exists.
Also, seriously, I MUST love you guys because I watched the WORST lap-dance videos ever. Like, comedically awful, in order to write this scene. And I apologize if it's repetitive or whatever, but it's the result of a lot of different things cobbled together to make a hopefully coherent whole. I'm sure stripper!Bridget on the show will be far better at this than I was. I also feel that I must say that this is not meant to be offensive in any way to strippers/exotic dancers/whatever you want to call them. I am not a stripper, nor do I pretend to be one, so I apologize if I don't know what I'm talking about. I did my best to do my research through the sleazy world of YouTube lap dance videos and stripper websites and message boards and ChaCha answers and whatnot. Also, just saying, I saw "Bridget" listed as a potential stripper name on some website for people who want to be strippers. Anyway, this story is just the product of an idea that wouldn't go away, about what might've happened if Andrew had met Bridget when she was a stripper, since, after all, he presumably met Siobhan in Tahoe too.
So I hope you enjoy it, and I would love, love, LOVE to hear from you if you liked it, hated it, or if you want to have its babies or whatever. And, as always, I am obligated to say that I don't own Ringer (though I do own Glen, but who'd want him?), but I think that's pretty obvious since I don't care for Henry quite so much as the writers do, and he and Siobhan would have maybe five minutes of screentime together, if I even let them still be together. But that is neither here nor there, and, without further ado, here's the story!
Looking back, Andrew even didn't know how he wound up in the club in the first place. It wasn't his scene. He was back in Tahoe for a few days, meeting with some business associates. It was also supposed to be some kind of vacation, not that he was even remotely enjoying himself here. Everything in Lake Tahoe reminded him of her, and it hurt, like a blister on the foot, rubbing against an open sore with every step. This was where they'd met, after all, where it had all begun, the chain of events his wife had set in motion that had led to his current misery.
It especially pained him to remember how happy they'd been, to look around and remember doing things with her here, back when she was a different woman and he too much the same man. He'd been so happy then, with her, that he'd never imagined it would come to this, him ruing her name (their name? Did they even share that much nowadays?). How had it come to this, anyway? They'd seemed so happy and then... one day, they weren't anymore. It seemed as if his wife had started hating him overnight, and no matter what he did, he couldn't change that. He only seemed to make things worse, and now she'd refused to even see him. "You'll do fine without me there, Andrew. You always do," she'd said a bit nastily over the phone.
He'd tried to cut back on the business trips, he really had, but it was never enough. He had no real incentive to stick around when it was clear that she didn't want him there. When they were together, when he was in her life, she looked at him as though he was just the plodding, clueless, useless husband she had to tolerate and put up with. He was always walking on eggshells, always stepping on land mines. He was always doing something wrong, always putting his foot in it. Nothing he did was ever enough for her, and it was maddening.
His life was slowly falling apart, and it had been like this for months... years if he was really being honest with himself. He'd thought meeting her and falling in love with her was the beginning of his life, that he hadn't really been living until she'd enlivened and brightened up his days, but she'd tricked him and cruelly snatched that light and life away from him. And now he understood that it was the end. It was becoming more unbearable by the day.
Andrew threw back what remained of his Scotch with an expression of distaste. It burned his throat a bit unpleasantly, not quite as subtly as a better brand might've. He preferred a more aged single malt, but this was the best they had, so he had to make do. He motioned to one of the waitresses, who wore little more than the scantily-clad girls up on stage, and she came over hurriedly. "Another," he muttered, handing her the empty glass. She scampered off, flashing him a flirtatious smile he didn't notice.
His business associates had said he needed to have a bit of fun, that he was always so gloomy and serious all the time, that he needed to lighten up. They were right, of course; Andrew could acknowledge that much about himself. He'd always been a serious man, rarely having the time or inclination for more frivolous pursuits. He'd always had goals, and his master plan did not include time or tolerance for such unnecessary ephemeral amusements. Though he knew he could certainly afford it, he rarely used his considerable wealth for such diversions.
Neither Siobhan nor Catherine before her would especially care if he took up with some slag, but Andrew really had very little desire to become such a cliché. He ought to just accept the fact that he only fell in love with and married difficult, vicious women who made him miserable and quickly turned love-filled unions into shams. What use would he have for some woman who actually made him happy? She'd doubtlessly just turn into some sort of closed-off mess just like the rest of the women in his life, and what was the point of getting himself entangled in another messy divorce and remarriage?
Anyway, his associates had dragged him to this strip club, no doubt curious as to how their stuffy British business partner who never talked about women around them would react to such a vulgar display. He was sure they were very amused to see him here, drinking and sulking. He, unlike his associates, was dreadfully bored with all of it. The show on stage interested him very little, and he would need to get a lot more drunk before he could even appreciate the half-naked women gyrating in front of him. If he thought about that for a moment, it was pretty pathetic that he needed to get himself drunk to appreciate the sight of a mostly-naked woman. He'd repressed his sex drive so much that it had all but died.
What little sex life he had, if he could call it that, consisted of an occasional wank in the shower or rare boringly predictable and unsatisfying sex with his wife. Sex with Siobhan had become perfunctory, usually a planned thing, once a week if he was lucky. It was done in the dark, always missionary position, with his wife lying on her back, stiff as a board, barely moving in response to his thrusts. He didn't particularly enjoy it either and usually had to think back to their honeymoon just to keep going. She half-heartedly pretended to enjoy herself, but she was dry to the bone inside. She wouldn't even let him touch her. They never kissed anymore, not even when he was inside of her. It felt like he was making a bank deposit, quite honestly. He knew she was just doing it so he couldn't claim a lack of sex as grounds for divorce. And no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to reach her, couldn't seem to get closer to her like he needed.
He glanced up morosely at the strippers. Maybe one of them could tell him what he was doing wrong. A bitter smile crossed his lips at the thought. Fortunately, the barmaid had returned with his drink. This one was more full than the last one. He accepted it, giving her a polite yet grateful smile and a healthy tip. He turned away before he could see her answering smile, starting in on the much-appreciated whiskey. He'd been at the club about an hour and a half, had been drinking more or less since he'd gotten there, and he wasn't even halfway drunk yet. It was rather unfortunate, since he at least wanted to be able to forget his troubles.
The drinking was, however, making him think about his wife even more, taking down the barriers that usually prevented him from being upset at her all-too-frequent dismissals. He shook his head; he shouldn't have to build up walls against his own wife, for God's sake!
One of his acquaintances, Glen Richards, a jolly bachelor who owned several casinos in Reno and who thought rather a lot of himself for someone who had less than ten million, clapped a hand on his shoulder. Andrew almost spilled his drink and glowered at the man in response. Glen was a bit too parvenu, really, throwing his money around and thinking they were all buddy-buddy just because Andrew took his money for investments. He'd take just about anyone's money to make a tidy profit off of it. "Honestly, man, you have got to relax! Look at where you are!" he exclaimed, gesturing around the strip club. Andrew gave him a look, but Glen didn't let up, giving him a look right back. "Come on, man," he urged, "You need a little fun. You need to get laid." Andrew's jaw tightened, and he looked away, irritated.
No matter how bad things were in his marriage, he'd learned five years ago that cheating did not go well for him, not that he would cheat on his wife with a bloody stripper. He at least respected her more than that. He'd felt sort of dirty after every moment he'd spent with Siobhan while he was still married, and he knew he'd feel even worse now if he cheated on her with some other woman. Glen wrapped his arm around Andrew's shoulder, leaning in so close to him that Andrew could smell the cheap liquor on his breath. He frowned in distaste. Andrew had recently been treated to the sight of his buddy getting a lap dance from a buxom brunette, which explained Glen's good mood. "Seriously, do you have any idea how many girls here have tried to flirt with you?" Andrew rolled his eyes, not amused or interested, throwing back about half the glass.
Glen sighed, a bit annoyed with Andrew's ability to spoil his good time, no doubt. Not that Andrew particularly cared. "Pick a girl, Martin," he said authoritatively, "I'm paying." Andrew just barely fought down the sneer. Oh, yes, his lack of interest was clearly money-motivated. Quite frankly, Andrew found the whole thing rather demoralizing and degrading, the thought of paying for a person. Didn't Glen realize that he and the rest of them were just dollar signs to the pretty girls they objectified? Andrew had enough problems wondering if people liked him for his wealth or who he was as a person without actually encouraging people to see him that way. Glen pulled on Andrew's shoulder, forcibly turning him towards the stage. "What about that one, eh?" he said, gesturing to a blonde who was wrapping herself around a pole. Andrew thought she was doing some rather impressive acrobatics but said nothing. "She looks a bit like your wife, doesn't she, 'Drew?" Glen observed as the woman flipped the hair out of her face.
Andrew hated being called Drew. The only thing he hated being called more was Andy. But Glen had a point, he noted, getting a glimpse at the woman's face in profile. She sort of did look like his wife with the long blonde hair, light eyes, and birthmark on her arm. She also possessed the same kind of refinement his wife did, though she didn't hold herself quite as high as Siobhan did, obviously. He tore his eyes away from her. The more he looked at her, the more he was reminded of his wife, and the more he didn't like it. Glen smirked to himself, clapping Andrew on the shoulder once again to be rewarded with another expression of distaste. "I see we have a winner. I knew you went for blondes, 'Drew. She'll be over soon," he proclaimed, signaling to the girl, who saw and nodded before taking a breath and executing a particularly difficult maneuver.
Andrew'd caught a bit of her theatrics and was impressed at the strength of her thigh muscles. Maybe he was a bit interested in her, if only because she really did resemble his wife. And Glen was right about his type being blondes. He sipped his Scotch, casting occasional glances at her but trying not to get caught watching her. He felt dirty staring at her, really, but she even seemed to have his wife's beautifully-toned body (though perhaps her muscles were a bit tighter than his wife's), which he hadn't seen properly in about two years. He missed her a lot, the Siobhan he'd married, and it was starting to get to him.
He gives the blonde winding around him instead of the pole only a passing thought. It'd be entertaining but ultimately not worth it; Siobhan and he had both learned from the dissolution of his last marriage, and they had an infidelity clause in their prenuptial agreement. The song wound to a close, and other men stuffed money in the blonde's g-string and bra. She smiled at them gratefully, but he could sense the revulsion when some of the hands came a little too close. She ducked behind the curtain with a shy smile that might've been directed towards him, and then he didn't think of her anymore.
However, he was surprised when the same girl emerged from the backstage area a few minutes later, still a bit sweaty, but freshly made-up and wearing a bit more clothing, a very clingy cherry red negligee and lingerie set. He raised a brow when she actually made a beeline for their group. He'd wondered what she'd done with all the money she'd earned. He might've tipped her out of respect for her skills if she hadn't been so far away. She stopped in front of Glen, an expectant and inviting look on her face. Andrew wondered if he was the only one who could tell that faking all those smiles wore on her, or if he was just more attuned to it, seeing that he had more experience playing a role than other men.
"Hi," she said coyly. "Enjoying the show?" she asked, glancing briefly up at the stage. The syrup in her voice made Andrew feel a bit sick. In all honesty, strippers disgusted him a little... that they didn't think they were worth more than that sort of life, that they were content removing their clothes for money and being dehumanized by leering eyes. "How can I help you?" she continued in the same voice. Glancing at her, Andrew imagined her gritting her teeth on the inside. Glen wasn't exactly a dreamboat.
Glen was eating the attention up, of course, but he enjoyed making Andrew sweat a bit more than that. He smiled pleasantly at the girl. Glen patted Andrew's shoulder with a familiarity that made Andrew grimace like he'd swallowed something nasty. The girl's lips turned up at the corners, and he heard a faint giggle issue from her lips like she understood the unwanted touch. And of course she would, wouldn't she? Andrew glanced up at her up-close for the first time and froze, staring at her. She didn't just resemble his wife; she looked exactly the same as Siobhan.
"Hi. Actually, Miss, I think you can help my friend more than me," Glen began, throwing Andrew a bemused look. He squeezed Andrew's shoulder. Andrew tried to shrug out of Glen's grasp, but Glen was a bear of a man, and he couldn't shake him. The girl's eyes were bright, silently laughing at him. Those were Siobhan's eyes, all right. "He's no fun, and he needs to loosen up... and I think a lap dance would perk him right up, don't you?" Glen suggested, motioning to Andrew. Their companions roared with laughter, and Andrew glared at all of them fiercely. The only reason he hadn't verbally upbraided anyone was because they were mostly investors, and he received a portion of their income.
The girl nodded, letting out a bell-like laugh and tossing her wavy hair. It was one of two or three differences he could see between her and Siobhan: she wore her hair loose and wavy, she was thinner, and she wore a lot more eyeliner, which made her look younger than his wife but a bit trashier. It also made her eyes stand out more. She had the same golden-green eyes of his wife. "I think I could arrange that," she told Glen with a smile, taking two small steps over to Andrew so that she now stood in front of him. Her smile turned wry as she met his gaze, jerking her head in his direction. "You up for it, handsome?" she asked suggestively, raising her eyebrows at him, standing over him.
Someone else chuckled and said he would be soon. Glen, however, nudged the utterly silent Andrew, who managed a nod, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that she looked like his wife, the love of his life and his greatest critic, that made him somehow nervous. Still, he didn't think he would've agreed if she didn't look so very much like his wife; he'd refused several earlier offers for lap dances, hadn't even engaged the women in conversation.
He downed the rest of his Scotch in a swallow, setting it back on the table a bit hastily. He was an intensely private person and didn't exactly want all the guys seeing a woman grind up on him with the purpose of arousing him, nor did he want to share any piece of himself with this temporary woman with her feigned interest. She seemed to sense that he was ill at ease because she bent down and slowly placed her hands on his shoulders, fingers kneading the all-too-tense muscles there. Her eyes glittered the same way his wife's often did but more flirtatiously. "I'm Bridget," she murmured, leaning into his ear, giving him a dazzling smile.
He couldn't remember the last time anyone had smiled at him like that. Andrew wasn't naïve; he knew his presence didn't exactly inspire smiles or goodwill. All the same, though, it softened him a little bit.
He felt her breath on the side of his neck, and he felt hot all over. He was probably the color of her negligee by now. Her full breasts were almost level with his face. It was enough to make his mouth water a little. He removed her right hand from his shoulder, taking it in his and shaking it solemnly. "I'm Andrew. Pleased to meet you," he said a bit more shakily than he'd intended. Her grip was firm and gentle, though a bit surprised, and, oddly enough, sweaty. All of his companions laughed raucously at the sight of him shaking hands with a stripper, as if he were conducting a business deal, but she merely smiled and didn't say a word.
Bridget had the strange feeling that, for whatever reason, she was supposed to know who this man in front of her was, that he was somehow important in her life. He seemed somewhat familiar, but she couldn't think of a single Andrew she'd ever met who was even remotely like the man in front of her. Either way, he was certainly not her usual sleazebag client. Some girls would call him a whale. He was refined, disinterested, aloof, uptight, confident, and clearly above the likes of her, yet he was consenting to this dance. She was also aware that he was substantially more attractive and wealthier than her usual mark, but something about her seemed to have interested him. She felt the rare current of attraction pulling at her. "The pleasure is all mine," she whispered, patting him on the shoulder and bringing her hands down his arms, casting them to the side.
She didn't usually enjoy her job. She enjoys the money, enjoyed the free drinks when she wasn't on the wagon, enjoys dancing and the flexibility... but she generally didn't enjoy the men. Not when they're always staring, always on her, always wanting more than she can give. Sometimes she feels bad for them, and that's almost bearable, and rarely they're attractive or she isn't disgusted by them, but these men are few and far between. Bridget knew from the way Andrew squirmed, that she was going to enjoy it just a bit too much. She knew from taking one look at him that he was the sort of man who always had to be in control. He was uncomfortable with her touching him, and a part of her relished having that sort of power over him, the precise sort of man who'd always had control over her, always made her do things she didn't want to do. It didn't hurt that he was cute either.
Bridget lightly planted her hands on his knees, bending down and coaxing his surprisingly unwilling legs wider apart. Andrew's breathing sped up minutely. It had been a long time since someone had touched him there, so lightly. He was wound up already, and she hadn't even done anything sexual. Their eyes met, and she saw that his eyes were dark and unyielding. "Afraid I'm going to steal your virtue?" she teased, lips curling into an amused smile. She arched her back, bending forward to give him an even better view of her breasts, and then she lightly dragged her nails up his thighs, teasing him. Her touch turned him to jello below the waist, tensing and shaking just a little but looking forward to every moment.
Her hands continued their path up his chest, warm palms pressing firmly into his shirt. His breathing approached raggedness. Bridget smiled to herself, enjoying the feeling of a warm, strong man under her hands, yet a man who trembles minutely when she touches him. Her thumbs traced the lines of his abdominal muscles, muscles that tensed and contracted under her touch. Andrew tried to clench his jaw and pretend he was unaffected, but she outmaneuvered him, hands rubbing his shoulder blades with an unexpected and painful tenderness. His wife would never touch him like that again, not if she could help it.
She twisted towards him, rolling her body so that her breasts almost brushed against his face. Once more, she leaned in close enough so that her lips almost brushed his ear. He could sense her tongue in the air by the shell of his ear. "That's a sexy accent you've got. Where're you from, Andrew?" she asked in a low liquid voice that made something inside of him burn. Her fingers fleetingly touched the back of his neck before she turned away abruptly, her hair hitting his face. Her hands found his knees once more, pushing his legs further apart. She rocked her hips rhythmically from side to side and up and down like an infinity sign, providing him with better and better views of her perfectly-formed ass and waist.
It had been well over a year since he'd seen his wife's backside. Andrew tried not to think about his wife, but the comparisons were inevitable. The girl who stood in front of him was lithe and thinner than she probably ought to be. He could count her vertebrae and saw her ribs every time she stretched or twisted a bit too far. She didn't look fully healthy, but, then, she wasn't skin and bones either. She peered over her shoulder at him, giving him a coy smile, the kind his wife never gave him anymore. She gave him the same smile she gave everyone, the polite, fake smile that never reached her eyes. It felt foreign to speak, but he surprised himself by answering her. "Cardiff. Wales."
"Exotic." She raised her brows, as if this interested her, and she dropped to a squat, spreading her legs apart and more or less shaking her ass in his direction. Andrew tried to look away, uncomfortable with the display and its overt sexuality. His stomach had started twisting with some pain akin to longing or nausea. For what it was worth, Bridget really did think his accent was terribly sexy. It seemed as if she'd fallen into some sort of other world where sophisticated men like himself came to dives like this and let her dance for them. He was probably a big tipper too.
Then she started to rise back up to her full height, rolling her spine and arching her back toward him on her way back up. She cast him a sultry look over her shoulder, winking at him before turning away, hips swaying. Andrew found it impossible to filter out all the sounds and flashing track lights of the club, let alone the crude shouts and cheers of his business associates. He felt dirty, so he could only imagine how bad it must be for the stripper, who had to put up with such comments on a daily basis. He sat there stock-still, not quite turned on by the show but not wholly unaffected by it either; he was, at the very least, intrigued. He owed it to the poor girl to let her try her best, he supposed, given how hard she was working.
"Not very talkative, huh?" Chuckling to herself, Bridget backed up a bit, outstretching her arms and curving her back until her hands hit his thighs. He very nearly jumped; she felt his muscles tense up like he was going to buck her off and then settle. She didn't have to look back to see the embarrassed look on his face; she'd caught him off-guard, apparently. Andrew felt some of his blood drain south, though the rush of lightheadedness did chase Siobhan from his mind, at least temporarily. She gyrated towards him slowly, rotating her hips until the weight of her body was suspended tightly over his. "You like that?" she asked in a breathy voice, glancing back at him. Her hands squeezed his thigh muscles, causing him to elicit a faint grunt.
Bridget smiled to herself, pleased to finally get a reaction. She knew now that he liked it, even if he didn't say a damn thing. Her lips are so full and berry red; they twist wickedly and taunt him worse than even his wife's lips. She rubbed her fingers against his thighs, getting a feel for both the expensive, heavy fabric and the firm muscle beneath. Her hips moved in circles, like the orbit of a planet, body hovering just over his, just enough so that they aren't touching but that he can feel the coolness of the air circulating on his clothes. She kept moving in closer, coming in further and further until her back is pressing against his chest. She tilted her head just a little to the side, resting the side of her face against his and making the most wanton expression she could.
She'd meant to keep her eyes open and heavy-lidded, but her eyes closed the moment she'd pressed her cheek against his and felt a spark she hadn't expected. She tried to write it off as merely the shock of his stubble scratching her face, but his cheek is so much smoother than she expected. Honestly, she was surprised he hadn't recoiled from the touch, as uncomfortable as it was. Most men did, if she ever bothered to press her face against their faces; that kind of contact seemed to repulse them. It was nice to just relax a moment and enjoy an innocent touch, her hot cheek pressed against his cool jaw, to feel like she was a normal person. It was rare to get that sort of intimacy in the club.
Andrew had previously been watching her from the corners of his eyes, trying not to get caught up in it, but he'd wound up watching the expression on her face with rapt attention: eyes closed, head thrown back, hair falling into her face, lips parted. Logically, he knows she gets paid to look like that, to act like she's enjoying it (just like his wife, he supposes), but it has been so long since he's seen that expression on a woman's face, much less Siobhan's face, that he can't help but wonder if it's more. She was so close to him that the heathery smell of her hair was all around him, reminding him of the moors and heaths of his childhood. She was so close, in fact, that he could smell the scent rising off of her skin: musky and exotic, faintly floral yet with an edge.
One of her hands came off of his thigh, twining itself around the back of his neck, giving her a bit more leverage. He didn't start quite as much when he felt her hand on the back of his neck, fingers burrowing into his hair, coiling the short strands. Then her hips shifted to an up-and-down motion, drawing away and coming back down close enough that her ass almost brushed the front of his pants. So close yet so far away. His body strained to reach her, tensing to get closer, something he feels very ashamed about, but the hand on his thigh kept him pressed firmly down into his seat. He knew the club's rules about touching; he was powerless to do anything but sit there and take it.
His eyes closed briefly, enjoying the feeling of her back rubbing against his chest, wishing a bit traitorously that his shirt was a little more unbuttoned. It's been so long since he's felt someone's skin, someone's back against him. For one moment, he allowed himself to forget about the club's other patrons, to forget that this woman isn't his wife, that she isn't really interested in him. She scratched the back of his neck, and his eyes slowly opened to see the curtain of her hair separating them. "Who is she?" Bridget murmured, sensing his mind was elsewhere from the cloudy, unfocused look in his eyes. Andrew barely had time to blink before she continued, licking her lips, "The woman you're really thinking about."
He shrugged. She's caught his eye, meeting his stare and refusing to back down as few have managed, including those far more skilled and wealthy than she is. It made him feel more (un)comfortable than he expected, that a mere stripper could look at him like that, like she knows everything about him. His wife didn't even look at him like that anymore, if she ever had. He didn't want to say his wife's name though, just like he didn't want to admit that he'd been thinking about her more or less all day since she'd told him in an all-too-brief phone conversation that she wasn't coming. But something in her eyes compels him the way his wife's eyes don't (because even he knows she doesn't really care to know that much about him anymore), and he found himself answering her anyway. "My wife," he mumbled shortly, gritting his teeth.
Bridget saw the way his brow furrowed, the way his face tightened as if his wife was a sensitive and unpleasant subject for him. She winds up talking about men's wives a lot more than said wives would probably expect, in both this and the off-the-books jobs she's ashamed of taking. He looked as if he'd aged five years before her eyes just thinking about her, and Bridget found herself feeling sorry for him. She slid down against him slowly, taking her time until she'd seated herself in his lap.
Siobhan was far from Andrew's mind. His breaths had gotten just the slightest bit shallower. Bridget's fingers tapped along to the beat on the nape of his neck as she shifted her hips and rubbed her ass against him lightly with a deliberate slowness that set his blood on a low boil. The hand that remained on his thigh, searing through his suit, slipped down the inside of his thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. She smiled to herself, feeling him start and surge a little beneath her. Andrew groaned, biting down on his lip and terribly glad her hand was concealed from his "buddies'" sight. Her thumb rested a little too close to the joint where thigh met pelvis. "Enjoying yourself?" she inquired knowingly.
Andrew was swearing compulsively under his breath, irritated at the reaction he was having. He was a little annoyed that he wasn't above this, these cheap carnal temptations. He was also clenching his jaw and actually looked quite angry, a fact that hadn't escaped Bridget's notice. Her permanently-smiling lips turned down slightly at the corners. She rose from his lap, hips swirling, hair flying through the air, changing colors when different lights illuminated her body. She stood in front of him, bending to one side and then the other, fingers trailing down her own legs two at a time, teasing.
The only thing that was worse than having her in his lap was not having her in his lap. He was trying his best to hide the reaction he was having to her presence and proximity, but it was nearly impossible with her twisting and rolling in front of him like that, peeking over her shoulder to smirk at him. Their eyes met for an oddly intense moment, which was broken when her gaze dropped rather pointedly to his lap. Bridget's smile remained intact as she pivoted left on one foot, draping her right leg over his so one of his legs was wedged between both of hers. Her knee pressed against the seat of his chair, uncomfortably close to his groin.
She noticed his eyes running over her in a way they hadn't before, the way men's eyes usually did, and it kind of disappointed her, but she tried not to let it show. Andrew noticed the way the lingerie fit, the way the satin clung to her skin, the way the bright color highlighted the relative fairness of her skin. He liked that she looked like a real person, not disproportionate or unnatural as some of the others. Maybe it was because she seemed so tiny and delicate, or maybe it was because she looked like his wife, and he was extremely uncomfortable imagining his wife in a place like this, taking her clothes off for other men for money. Either way, she didn't belong here in a place like this. He was utterly certain of that.
Bridget played with the lace of the negligee, pulling it up over her hips, teasing him by flashing the bare skin of her stomach. Andrew stared at her knickers for longer than he'd intended, transfixed by the combination of satin and lace with the tiny little bow. She brought a hand across her stomach, shifting toward him. He tore his eyes away from her hips, feeling uncomfortable and ashamed at how quickly he was cataloging that his hands would span those hips just perfectly. Bridget dragged her breasts up and across his chest, pulling away quickly, as if she'd been burned. She'd felt him straining against the confines of the shirt, and she gave him a blazing look. His throat felt strangely dry as he stared longingly at the bared column of her neck.
She swiveled her hips, slowly twisting closer to his leg. Bridget leaned forward to play with the tie he'd loosened earlier, loosening it further and turning it in her fingers. She tugged on the tie, using it to pull him so close to her that their noses were nearly touching. There were less than two inches between them, and she found that he smelled like whiskey and a subtle but expensive cologne she'd always found particularly irresistible. His eyes were wide at the closeness, but he found that he was disturbingly at ease with his current position, especially when her hand caressed his cheek. He stunned himself by leaning into her touch instinctively, like a cat being stroked. It had to be that her resemblance to his wife and willingness to touch him was mixing him up.
Bridget smiled indulgently, keeping her cool hand on his cheek for a few moments than she probably needed. Then she slowly released his tie, smoothing it with her hands enough to make Andrew even more flustered. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks unbidden. Andrew hated blushing; it was one of those things he liked to pretend he didn't do, something he thought he'd gotten over once he'd escaped puberty. He hated feeling like a teenager with a crush. She hovered just above his leg for a few tantalizing moments, briefly caressing his cheek with her thumb. Andrew turned his head far enough so that his lips nearly caught her finger. He would have if she hadn't taken her hand away a second after he made contact.
She shook that hand as if she'd been burned before once again placing both hands on his chest. Bridget then ran both hands down his chest, going a bit lower than she probably should've, taking the time to feel his muscles flexing underneath the white starched fabric. "Feels nice," she observed in a breathy voice, lips just above his throat. Andrew was breathing heavier, and, concordantly, so was she. Bridget was probably a bit more turned on by the whole thing than was actually healthy. She let out a long breath, throwing her hair back and lowering herself all the way down onto his leg.
Her crotch rested on the middle of his thigh, burning a hole through his pants. Her hips kept circling, jerking from side to side and front to back. They began to twist and turn with a vengeance as she tightened her thigh's grip around his leg, closing out the others. Andrew bit down so hard on his bottom lip that he tasted iron. Bridget put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward and lifting her knee off of the chair to brush deliberately against his growing erection. He barely stifled a very loud groan as she grinned at him, lightly removing her knee from his lap. Andrew felt like a goddamned thirteen-year-old, no longer in control of his body, and he hated it. Even the stripper was like his wife, taking control away from him.
She was a little breathless herself. Rubbing against this stranger's leg was affecting her more than usual. Truthfully, she didn't normally touch her clients this much or this directly since it was a club with a no-touching rule, and it wasn't exactly something she was dying to do if she didn't have to. Bridget took a step back, reminding herself why getting too involved was a bad idea. All men, even regulars, get sick of the tease eventually, and they either take it too far or leave.
Andrew was trying very hard and very unsuccessfully to not think about her rubbing against him, trying not to strain those muscles to feel every minute motion of her slick hips, the way the smooth satin glides across his pants. He stilled when she stepped back and away from him, tossing her hair, chest heaving a little, face flushed. If he didn't know better, he'd almost swear she was blushing too. Bridget, for her part, regarded him with a bit of trepidation, chewing on her lip. She was getting a bit carried away, and she knew it. He was not for her.
Then, however, something flashed in his eyes, something primal and angry, and her entire insides tightened. She nudged his legs a bit closer together with her knees, looking him dead in the eyes as she straddled his lap. She ignored the hoots and hollers of his companions, draping her arms loosely around his neck and sliding forward gradually. Andrew's eyes closed briefly when he felt her breath on his face. Bridget edged forward on his lap inch by inch, dragging herself against him, twisting from side to side until her chest pressed against his. She laced her fingers together around the back of his neck, finding a better, more cozy position in his lap, locking her thighs around him. Andrew broke the stare then, unable to look at her when she was so close. He gazed blankly at some point over her shoulder, a guarded, unemotional expression on his face that didn't conceal the great effort that expression required of him.
Bridget sighed and moved closer still, almost embracing him. For a moment, she merely sat there in his lap, unmoving, getting used to the position. She was sitting just on top of his erection, and she almost felt him, hot and hard, through the layers of clothes. It pained her to think of how close they were. It pained Andrew for an entirely different reason, the feelings and the motions so familiar and yet... so different. Then she moved her hips, fitting over him like a bottle cap. She jerked her hips forward, deliberately rocking against him, feeling him swell further against his pants, against her. It felt pretty good, she thought, letting out a half-strangled noise that wasn't meant to come out at all because she wasn't actually supposed to be enjoying this.
Andrew stared at her in amazement. His wife had made noises just like that once upon a time, noises he only heard now in his dreams and memories. She smiled at him lazily, eyes half-lidded like she was actually enjoying it, grinding up on him faster and faster. She leaned forward, arching her back a bit more and rubbing her breasts against his chest once more. Bridget removed her hands from the back of his neck, hands skimming over his arms, lightly squeezing the taut muscles there until she was holding both of his hands in her own. She smiled at him softly, and then she pulled his hands forward and placed them on her waist, pressing her stomach flush against his.
She was still gyrating her pelvis against his, enjoying the way he shuddered just a little bit, the way he probably ached to move against her but refrained out of delicacy or respect or something else entirely. He held his hips down rigidly, even though she felt them jerk against her a bit. She groaned a bit at the momentary friction. His hands stayed on her waist, strengthening their grasp when she released them. His breathing was ragged but soft, so that she heard it only when she was facing him. He told himself it wasn't real, but... he wanted it to be, wanted it to be this easy with his actual wife, so badly he could taste it. Andrew turned his head to the side, resting his cheek against hers so he didn't have to look at her and know the truth. She pulled her head back, whipping her hair in his face, looking at him with those searing dark green eyes.
Bridget rocked her hips with an agonizing slowness, shifting backwards, curving her spine away from him so that he got a better view of her chest as she writhed, and she got some more air. Then she surged forward, looking up at him and sliding a hand into her hair. Andrew swallowed hard as she tossed her hair, running her other hand down his chest. She rolled her hips against his, jerking her hips down in circles, riding him, trying to get as close as possible. She seemed to be going in for a kiss up until she turned to the side a few inches shy of his face. His brain was so addled by lust that he probably would've let her kiss him if she'd wanted to. He felt the vibrations from her giggles on his neck. "So damn hot," she muttered, nuzzling his throat and meaning it. One of her lips touched the side of his throat for an instant, setting his every nerve ending on fire.
Andrew was a lot closer than he would've liked, given that all of this was the result of a random woman who happened to look like an exact replica of his wife. He could probably take a bit more, but not a lot more of this personal attention, and he wanted to get away from the club's prying eyes so he could breathe and regain what was left of his sanity. He tried in vain to remember her name, but he'd forgotten it a while ago when he'd started mentally comparing her to his wife. He somehow found his voice as her hips crashed against his with a particular ferocity. "Is there some place... private... we can go?" he grunted, half panting, stilling her hips and leaning back a little to get a proper look at her.
The firmness of his hands on her hips took her by surprise. She stopped moving and smiled down at him beatifically, and the light hit her in such a way that she looked like an angel. It had been ages since Siobhan had looked at him so adoringly. She nodded slowly, running a hand through her hair, still breathless and a bit flustered. Bridget licked her dry lips. God, she was glad he'd said that. "Sure." She knew what going to a private room with him would mean, and she was perfectly prepared to accept that. This club had rules, unlike some of the other clubs she used to work at, but she was so wound up she'd probably jump him for free. She gestured beyond him, towards the back. "We've got VIP rooms back there, but it'll cost you," she told him with a wry smile.
Secretly, she hoped that her guess was correct, and money wasn't an issue for him, because she wanted some one-on-one time with him more than he probably wanted to be alone with her. Andrew nodded, feeling a bit of the bloodflow return to his brain. "That'll be fine," he mumbled distractedly, thinking that he would pay whatever sum, any sum she named, just to have his wife look at him like that again. He had no idea what would happen when he was alone with the woman, had no idea really what he even wanted to happen. He just knew he'd be content looking at her and pretending. Bridget's smile widened, and she slowly drew back from him, taking his hand.
She was beginning to extricate herself from Andrew's lap when she felt a tapping on her shoulder. She turned to face whomever it was, an irritated retort ready, when she saw that it was the gentleman friend who'd set this all up in the first place. Her lips formed into a tight, fake smile, something that Andrew noticed. He'd had to stifle a laugh seeing her look at Glen like she wished he'd just drop off the face of the planet. Glen gave her an indulgent, self-satisfied smile, taking out his wallet. Neither Bridget nor Andrew especially liked the way he was checking her out. "Thanks for helping my friend out," Glen said, holding out two fifty-dollar bills to her.
"Thank you," she replied politely, eying the money. He peered at her clothing a bit awkwardly, like he was trying to figure out where he should stick the bills, but Bridget smiled gratefully and snatched them right out of his hand, stuffing them in her bra before he could touch her. "No problem. It was my pleasure," Bridget drawled in a sultry voice, glancing down at the man whose lap she was still occupying, offering him a half-smile that lasted a few moments too long. Andrew sort of returned the smile, showing a dimple that made something inside of her give way. She patted Andrew's shirt, smoothing his clothes a bit maternally, enjoying being able to run her hands over his chest. "And his too, of course."
She snapped her attention back to Glen, who looked a bit put out by her distractedness. Bridget offered him a somewhat flirtatious smile, even though it repulsed her to do it. Then again, she'd done a lot of things that repulsed her in this life. She knew his type too. He was, unfortunately, a bit of a regular who made his rounds with the girls. Some of her friends had said she was next in his sights, and this seemed to be true. He always tried for more with the strippers. The only reason he hadn't been kicked out was because of his money. "He's lucky to have friends like you," she chirped in the most sugary tone she could muster.
Andrew snorted, but he actually did owe Glen for this one. He reached into his own suit pocket, finding his wallet before Glen could try any other bright ideas. Though Andrew did not typically carry large amounts of money on his person, as he didn't want to invite robbers, he'd made a bit of an exception for tonight. He folded up two hundreds and a fifty, brushing aside the mostly-transparent negligee and reaching up to slide the bills into the waistband of her panties. His fingers flicked against her warm skin and lingered a moment longer than they ought to against her skin, and Bridget glanced back at him, lips parted, eyes hungry. She managed a moment later to tear her eyes away from his to see how much money he'd slipped into her waistband. She raised her brows at the tip, unused to such generosity, and smiled at him, climbing off his lap very, very slowly. "Thank you, Andrew," she murmured softly, touching his arm lightly.
Glen looked between them, wondering what he was missing. "I've never seen him like this before," he remarked seemingly to Bridget, who paid him very little attention. She was staring at Andrew, grinning like an idiot, partially because she'd just received almost five hundred dollars for a ten-minute dance and was certain to receive more in a few minutes for doing something she was pretty damn sure she'd actually enjoy.
She tugged on his hand, pulling him up, watching him adjust himself and pick up his things wordlessly. Those of Andrew's business associates who weren't more pleasantly occupied were gaping at him in disbelief as he followed the smiling girl to one of the back rooms. It was so unlike the staid, by-the-book businessman they knew. "Man, Martin's got all the luck," Glen grumbled, half-regretting paying for the dance. Although he supposed it could be used against him for leverage or to make Andrew a more pleasant person to be around.
"Did you see that girl? She was so hot for him. He is so getting lucky," Charlie, one of Andrew's younger coworkers said, a bit in awe and a bit in envy, watching the door close behind the couple. He also had never seen this side of his boss, had never even known it existed, but it was comforting to see that even the great and terrifying Andrew Martin was a mere mortal, attracted to a pretty girl dancing on him same as the rest of them.