His Father’s Addction
The spit in my throat has dried up from swallowing so hard.
She crossed to where I was sitting, planted both hands on my shoulders, swung one leg over and sat directly on my lap, facing me, her legs wrapping around my waist with ease.
"I could do a lap dance," she said, tilting her head. "Or you could just ask me to get up. Your choice."
I looked at her.
"Don't get up. Do whatever you want with me; I’m burning."
She moved.
No music, but her waist was moving in its own rhythm, slow and circular. I’ve seen her dance and know she is a fantastic belly dancer, but the movement of her waist is like that of someone with one of her ribs removed to enhance her flexibility, if that’s even a term.