While the effect of jostling feathers stuck to what looked like a rhinestoned thong was the stuff of wet dreams, he was missing most of the action back there. He needed to see her delicious and oh so delectable apple bottom. "Take that off," he commanded.
His suggestion couldn't have come at a better time. The bottom of her costume was tight as hell, giving her an unbearable wedgie. The majority of her rhinestones had popped off and were lining the floor, a casualty of a thirty-five year old booty forced into an outfit from her twenties. Once she was free of that bottom part, Kyle's tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth. Harlow was his very own Victoria's Secret model, but the only difference was she could dance. She kept doing this thing where her legs were opening and closing at the same time her butt was rotating in a whole 'nother rhythm, and she was able to keep going all the way to the floor and back up. There were parts on her body that he didn't even realize could move. It was belly dancing and Hawaiian hula dancing taken to the sensual extreme. Every part of her twitched and bounced and poked out while she kept a smile on her face like there was nothing to it. Then she dramatically stopped all the action, making him hold his breath in wonderment.
"Can you . . . will you dance like that on top of me?"
"Yuh wat meh boomsie," she motioned toward her butt. "Or meh nanny?"
The sound he made wasn't human . . .