Naughty Bits: Too Hot to Print Read Online Free Page A

shows a day, and backstage at Radio City was apparently a shitheap into the bargain.
    Maud’s, at least, had little separate dressing rooms for its acts, partly so that they could store all of their props. Evie’s mermaid tail, her pasties and body makeup, were already
in the cubbyhole that Natalie and Laura were using for the night. They passed Carrie On’s dressing room, which was so full of huge feather fans, glittering hula hoops, showgirl’s
headdresses, that Evie didn’t know how Carrie managed to wriggle her ample figure inside it. The next room was the opposite, just a few day clothes hanging on pegs, no props at all. Just a
giant, shaved, black man, sitting on a wooden stool, wearing only a tiny black jockstrap that barely contained his privates, a jumbo-sized bottle of baby oil in his hand, dripping its contents over
his body and working them in.
    Evie stopped dead. She couldn’t help it. No-one could. She had broken up with Lawrence, but she had only moved one floor down, to a room in the big apartment that Natalie, Laura and the
rest of the circus performers shared. So not only was there always the chance of seeing him – bumping into him on the stairs, on the sidewalk, in the subway – but the horrible idea that
he had taken up with Autumn, his roommate, who was dying to get in his pants. She had been working up the sexiest act of her entire life while, simultaneously, not getting any herself; she and
Lawrence had been hugely sexually compatible, had fucked like maniacs, and Evie was, frankly, burning up with the frustration of having him so close and not being able to – well, have
him.
    So it was naturally quite impossible for her to take her eyes off this huge, gorgeous, entirely-shaved, glistening slab of rich dark chocolate. His wide shoulders, his long muscled legs, his
pumped arms seemed to fill the entire dressing room; sensing her stare, he looked up, his slanting dark eyes widening with interest as he looked her up and down as thoroughly as she was surveying
him.
    Oh, thank God! she thought, smiling with relief. He’s straight! Gay guys outnumbered the straight ones in this branch of the performing arts; and especially with his lack of
self-consciousness at displaying his body, the statistical assumption about a man this handsome – and this oiled-up – was that he was very unlikely to be heterosexual.
    ‘Hi,’ he drawled, dripping more oil into his hand.
    ‘Hey,’ Evie said, leaning on the doorjamb. ‘Let me guess – you’re Jerome.’
    ‘How’d you know?’ he said, still rubbing baby oil into his stomach, which was so cut his abs were as ribbed as an old-fashioned radiator.
    ‘Sallie said Jerome gets the crowd hot and bothered,’ she answered, hooking her thumbs into the belt of her tight jeans. ‘I figured that had to be you.’
    ‘Damn right,’ he said, holding her gaze as his hand slid lower, to his groin area, where the narrow strip of black fabric slung around his hips held his fabric pouch in place. Its
contents stirred, stimulated by the sight of Evie in a form-fitting t-shirt and equally snug jeans, plus Jerome’s caressing hand slipping down to his inner thighs, anointing them with oil;
Evie bit her lip as her eyes dipped downwards, following Jerome’s huge hand as he dripped more baby oil onto his pink palm, his eyes never leaving her body as he stroked himself in slow
circles, working in the oil.
    In front of her, Sallie huffed out a laugh. ‘Jerome, this is Evie,’ she said. ‘She’s going on after you. Trying out for a slot.’
    ‘Hey, good luck,’ Jerome said to Evie. ‘I warn you, though.’ He sprawled back, spreading his legs, putting down the bottle of oil, wrapping both hands behind his head,
his body six foot six of lean, dark, nearly naked, masculine perfection, his lips curving in a come-hither smile. ‘I tend to get the crowd pretty worked up. You think you can handle
that?’
    ‘Oh,’ Evie said, the corners of her mouth