Ultimate prize, p.1

Ultimate Prize, page 1


Ultimate Prize

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Ultimate Prize

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication


  Ultimate Prize

  ISBN 9781419923555


  Ultimate Prize Copyright © 2009 Lolita Lopez

  Edited by Kelli Collins

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book Publication July 2009

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Ultimate Prize

  Lolita Lopez

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Playboy: Playboy Enterprises International, Inc.

  Vogue: Advance, Magazine Publishers Inc.

  Chapter One

  Bored beyond belief, Zel Tesla dragged his gaze away from the gyrating, whip-cracking dancer entertaining the room. Heady cigar smoke melded with the faint aromas of aged rums and cognacs in the VIP room of Las Vegas’ hottest gentleman’s club. An invitation-only crowd of promoters, agents, fighters and hangers-on packed the darkened space.

  Smirking, Zel noticed his sparring partner, Gary, surreptitiously adjusting himself. A little farther down, Mace McCoy, his soon-to-be opponent, relaxed in his chair and sipped his beer. Stocky and heavily muscled, Mace had always reminded Zel of a bulldog. He even had the pronounced lower jaw and underbite. Their eyes met briefly across the darkness. Even in the friendly atmosphere of the get-together, the spark of aggressiveness and competition reared its head. For the first time in quite a while, Zel was actually looking forward to a fight. Worthy opponents were few and far between.

  Zel’s gaze returned to the performer on the low dais at the front of the room. Dressed like a Gothic pixie, the young woman in shiny black latex panties and side-lacing red stiletto thigh-high boots danced seductively and swung her whip. Brittle streaks of red wax clung to her perky breasts.

  While her show appeared to enthrall the rest of the room, it did very little for Zel. She brought visions of flogging and boot-licking to his mind, neither of which he found particularly sexy. Luckily the two previous performers had appealed to him. For the most part, so far Troupe Eros, an infamous touring group of exotic dancers and burlesques, impressed him. For once the upper management of Lazzo Promotions, the parent company that promoted and profited from a trio of mixed martial arts leagues, had chosen a worthy entertainment for their mixer prior to the Caged World Championships.

  The curtain fell as the Gothic pixie’s dance ended. Hip-hop music filtered through the sound system, masking the sounds of the stage being struck and reset. Scantily clad waitresses roamed the room, offering alcoholic beverages and cigars. Zel dismissed a waitress by lifting his glass of ice water. Smiling understandingly, she moved along to the next patron. Curious as to the next performer, Zel picked up the glossy program resting on his lap and thumbed through the pages.

  Before he could find the right page, the lights dimmed and a soft, pulsing Latin beat began playing. The curtain lifted to reveal a bathroom and dressing area reminiscent of the art deco heydays of Miami. Black-and-white-checkered floor and subway tiles lent an air of realism to the set. A white clawfoot tub sat downstage, a black lacquered vanity and tufted chartreuse bench just to its right. An armoire stuffed with bright silks and satins and a dresser overflowing with lingerie rounded out the furniture props. A bottle of tequila, shot glass, saltshaker and bowl of limes perched atop the dresser. Gauzy white curtains framed a false balcony and billowed in a fake breeze. Potted palms gave the scene a South Beach feel.

  Brassy and bold, the salsa tune’s tempo and volume increased. Finally, a colorfully costumed young woman strutted onto the stage, her ample hips swiveling side to side in perfect rhythm with her music. Enthusiastic applause greeted Chula Rubens, the world-renowned BBW burlesque.

  The sight of the voluptuous beauty paralyzed Zel—he couldn’t even lift his hands to clap.

  When the stage lights fully illuminated her face, he recognized her as the sultry, curvaceous goddess gracing the billboard near his training center. In that photograph, her shiny black hair splayed wildly about her head as she reclined against a mound of pink pillows, her luscious figure barely covered in upscale lingerie. Seeing the real thing eclipsed the billboard he’d often lusted after. Zel swallowed hard and watched.

  Tonight Chula wore a strapless hot pink gown similar to Carmen Miranda’s gaudy getup. As she sensually danced toward the front of the stage, her gloved hands swished the diagonal ruffles of her lime green chiffon skirt. Because the skirt split at the top of her thighs, every swish provided the crowd with a tantalizing glimpse of caramel skin, pink garters and black stockings. She smiled mischievously and nipped the tip of a pink satin elbow-length glove. Twirling it overhead, she gave a hip-swiveling spin and tossed the glove into the crowd. She did the same with the other glove, spinning in the opposite direction this time.

  Chula shimmied to the front of the stage and flicked through the hidden hooks keeping her dress closed. As she danced in a circle, the dress fell to the floor. She sent it stage left with a playful kick. A pink satin cincher trimmed her thick waist, and a black bra adorned with pink beads and sequins enhanced her abundant bosom.

  Enthralled by her plump hourglass figure, Zel watched her sashay across the stage, her movements punctuated by the brassy trumpet notes. She made a show of pouring a tequila shot, licking the inside of her left wrist and applying salt. With a devilish smile, she swiped her tongue across the salt and kicked back the shot.

  As she sucked the lime juice from the green wedge clamped between her lips, Chula poured another shot. She placed the shot in the tight valley between her heaving breasts. Ass wiggling, Chula squeezed a fresh lime on the tan crest of her left breast. She sprinkled salt over the wet juice. A second lime wedge was tucked between the cup of her bra and her right breast.

  Zel anxiously devoured her buxom figure as she slowly danced her way down the steps of the dais. When she reached the small bare patch of floor in front of the seated crowd, her eyes scanned the room.

  Me. Pick me.

  As if hearing his silent plea, Chula moved in his direction. Zel’s stomach dropped as she stopped in front of him and winked. She gestured for him to take the shot. Throat dry and fingers trembling, Zel sat forward in his seat. His pulse clamored so loudly against his eardrums it drowned out the sound of music and the hooting crowd.

  When he swiped his flattened tongue along the salted curve of her breast, their gazes locked, his cobalt eyes clashing against her chocolate orbs. Savoring the salty lime flavor, he buried his nose between her soft cleavage and wrapped
his lips and teeth around the shot glass. Tilting his head back, he swallowed the burning liquid and removed the glass from his mouth. Glass in hand, he plucked the lime from her bra with his lips and squashed it between his teeth. Citrus juice trickled down his chin, and Chula, ever the temptress, trailed a fingertip along his wet skin and brought it to her mouth, sucking the juice from her finger.

  Smirking sexily, Chula danced back onto the stage. Hips rocking, she squatted and gave the crowd a full view of her frilly panties. Her nimble fingers unhooked the pink cincher. Swaying side to side, Chula stood and opened the cincher, revealing a pink diamond heart dangling from a navel piercing. She flung the cincher overhead and strutted to the vanity, her black pumps elongating her strides and tightening her calves.

  Sitting on the tufted bench, Chula crossed and uncrossed her legs. Zel’s heart raced with each glimpse of her inner thighs. Chula kicked off her shoes and removed the silver clasp holding her low chignon. With a wild shake, waves of black hair tumbled down her back. She unsnapped her garters and pulled the black stocking from her right leg, bending her knee until her heel touched her thigh. She tossed the stocking into the crowd and the men fought over it.

  Using the second stocking as a prop, Chula salsaed down to the crowd again, stretching her supple brown legs as she bobbed. She held the stocking tight against her chest and approached Pete Lazzo, the man who’d arranged tonight’s entertainment. For a man who worked with some of the most physically fit athletes in the world, Pete obviously hadn’t picked up any of their habits. He was a big bear of a man. His belly paunch sagged against his tailored shirt and overlapped the top of his pants. As always, he clamped a cigar between his teeth. As Chula approached, Pete snatched the unlit cigar from his mouth.

  Quite the saucy minx, she looped her stocking around Pete’s neck and used it to pull him close. Pete’s expression was one of embarrassment as she shook her breasts in his face. Laughing, Chula planted a kiss on his shiny crown and danced away, leaving her stocking draped around Pete’s shoulders and a bright red lip print on his head.

  Back onstage, Chula dropped her garter belt and turned her back on the crowd. Hungrily, Zel and the spectators watched her unhook her bra. She faced the crowd again but kept the bra pressed to her breasts. Zel pulsed with a desperate craving to see more of her naked flesh but she refused to alleviate his need. She continued sassily twisting and bending. Other strippers would have been completely naked by now and writhing raunchily. That Chula lengthened the tease made him crave her all the more.

  Zel fantasized about having her in his bed. God, what he would do with her! He imagined burying his face between those thick thighs or his cock sliding between her slicked tits. His dick leapt in his pants. He quickly checked to make sure no one noticed his bulging erection. He was safe. Every eye in the room trained on Chula.

  The room erupted with wild whistling and hollering as Chula threw her bra into the crowd and exposed her black and hot pink nipple tassels. The music crescendoed as Chula jumped up and down on her toes. With every hop, her breasts jiggled wildly, the tassels whipping in fast circles. Zel flew to his feet, clapping and catcalling with the rest of his peers.

  Turning her back to the crowd, Chula slowed her body movements as the salsa music morphed into a sultry tune that conjured visions of a smoky cantina and frantic, sweaty table sex in Zel’s lust-heightened mind. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her round, tan globes. Heat surged through his belly as inch by delicious inch of her silky skin was revealed. A glittering rhinestone thong clung to her ass. Panties around her ankles, she slowly bent forward at the waist and shook the plump flesh to the delight of her fans.

  With a loud smack on her tush, Chula straightened and stepped out of her panties. Those too she flung into the audience. Yet another scuffle broke out among the men but Zel was oblivious. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gyrating goddess before him. Tongue against her teeth, she undulated like a belly dancer, one hand buried in her hair, the other brushing against her stomach. The tiny triangle of sequined fabric barely covered the hairless apex at the top of her thighs. He desperately prayed it would soon be removed.

  Zel’s eyes widened as she picked up a bottle of lotion from the short stand next to the tub. Across the pulsing throng of patrons, their eyes locked. Rather naughtily, she ran her fingers down the length of the pearly tube. Her pointed tongue flicked across the top. His cock throbbed as if she’d just licked the head. Rubbing the tube between her luscious breasts, she popped the lid and squeezed the bottle so hard, white lotion shot all over her breasts. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Zel or the rest of the clamoring crowd.

  Wearing that dreamy, sexy expression, Chula looked like a woman thoroughly debauched. She carelessly dropped the bottle and rubbed the creamy lotion down her gently curved belly. Ever so cautiously, she climbed into the bathtub. Armed with a dripping sponge, she dribbled water down her front before lathering the lotion covering her skin. As it foamed, Zel realized it was body wash.

  Quite indecently, Chula soaped her body. Zel imagined his hands roaming her slick skin, his fingers kneading those large breasts and slipping beneath that oh so tiny swatch of cloth covering her sex.

  All too soon, Chula lowered herself into the tub. Just as the music began to fade, she placed her toes against the rim of the tub and grasped the sides, arching her back as she lifted out of the bath, soapy water dripping from her glistening, gorgeous body. It was truly a sight to behold.

  And then the lights were snuffed and the curtain fell. Pandemonium ensued. Zel couldn’t whistle or hoot or clap. She’d left him absolutely breathless. He had to meet her.

  * * * * *

  Safe inside her dressing room, Yolanda Ramirez dropped the now-damp robe her assistant had thrust upon her as she left the stage. She unfurled one of the folded towels resting on her dressing table. As she pressed the towel to her neck, her legs trembled and belly quivered. Curious, she slipped a hand between her thighs, tucking the fingers under the rhinestone thong. Her fingers slid in the juices coating her dusky lips. Her clit throbbed.

  “Oh god,” she murmured, cupping her mound. Reluctantly, she removed her hand and wiped her fingers on the towel.

  In the four years she’d performed as Chula Rubens, never once had she been aroused by a patron. As a general rule, she offered the body shot to whomever had paid for the performance, but the second she’d clapped eyes on the blond Adonis in the front row, she’d decided to switch things up a bit. For the first time in a long time she’d been able to separate one face from the crowd. She’d danced as if doing a private show. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, they’d loved it.

  Fanning her face, Yolanda grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed an icy sip. You have to calm down! She couldn’t walk into her autograph and schmoozing session all hot and bothered. It wouldn’t be professional.

  Loud rapping at the door grabbed her attention. Expecting Lynn, her assistant, on the other side, she didn’t bother to grab her robe. Since Lynn helped her into her costumes, pasties and all, there wasn’t really a need for modesty.

  Nipple tassels tickling her skin, she wrenched open the door and recoiled with surprise. Instead of being eye to eye with a spunky brunette, Yolanda suddenly had an eyeful of a white poplin shirt and classic black blazer. She tilted her head back and recognized the handsome blond from the front row.

  Realizing her mistake, she gasped and fought the urge to slam the door. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen everything already.

  His icy blue eyes raked down her body. She seized the opportunity to size him up as well. With those broad shoulders and that angular jaw, he possessed the fierce look of a warrior. Even now, completely relaxed, he stood like a boxer, his lead foot planted just ahead of the toes of the other, his weight shifted back. And yet there was nothing aggressive about the stance.

  She imagined the rippled muscles hidden beneath his shirt and mustered tremendous control to keep her greed
y fingers still. He was so close she could smell the subtle cedar notes of his cologne. She inhaled discreetly and buzzed on his manly scent.

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped back from the doorway, obviously discomfited by her half-naked state. His accent—almost Russian but not quite—piqued her interest. “Should I come back later?”

  “Just hang on a sec.” She snatched her robe from the floor and slipped into it. Tying the sash, she reappeared in the doorway. “Come in?”

  With a nod, he accepted her invitation and entered the dressing room. She closed the door behind him. Smiling, he extended his hand. “Zel Tesla.”

  “Yoli Ramirez.” She clasped his warm, rough hand. Noticing the confusion wrinkling his forehead, she quickly explained, “Chula is just a stage name.”

  “I see.” He nervously cleared his throat. “So that was quite a show.”

  “I aim to please.” A playful smile curved her mouth as he fidgeted with the program clamped in his left hand. “Would you like an autograph?”

  Seemingly relieved, he nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.” She crossed to her dressing table and chose a marker from the cup Lynn had left. Glancing at the mirror mounted over the table, Yoli noticed Zel’s eyes trained on the outline of her ass through the clinging robe. Her tummy fluttered as she realized he hadn’t just come for an autograph. If that was all he’d wanted, he could have waited for the meet and greet.

  No, he’d come for something else…something she was more than willing to give.

  With a seductive swing of her hips, Yoli approached Zel and took the program from his hand, making sure to graze her fingertips against his skin. She smiled coquettishly and placed the program against his chest. The tip of the marker raced across the bottom of her vixenish pose.

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