The Screw Ball (Indianapolis Lightning Book 3) by Samantha Lind (the lemonade war series .TXT) 📕

The Screw Ball

Indianapolis Lightning Series Book 3

Samantha Lind

Samanthalind.com

The Screw Ball

Indianapolis Lightning Series Book 3

Copyright Samantha Lind 2021

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

Trademarked names appear throughout this novel. These names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intentional infringement of the trademark owner’s trademark(s).

The following story contains adult language and sexual situations and is intended for adult readers.

Cover Design by Jersey Girl Design

Cover image by FuriousFotog - Golden Czermak

Editing by Amy Briggs ~ Briggs Consulting LLC

Proofreading by Proof Before You Publish

Created with Vellum

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Coming Soon

Also by Samantha Lind

Acknowledgments

About the Author

One

Lucas

Titties, titties and more titties.

Every way I look, I see tits. Big ones, small ones, some with dusty nipples, and others with dark-ass ones that could take a man out. I’m not that picky; I like them all. Especially the pair that are inches away from my mouth as the stripper rolls her body to the beat of the music filling the room.

It isn’t easy, but I keep my hands to myself. House rules state I cannot touch the girls—pretty standard strip club rules—but they can touch me. The chick in my lap—Candy is what she told me her ‘name’ was—slides her barley-covered pussy against my hard cock as she pulls my face between her breasts. I can’t control myself and lick her skin where she’s got my head pinned.

“You like that, sugar?” she asks in what I imagine is the fake-ass sultry voice she uses to entice the guys she does this with on a nightly basis.

“You tell me.” I smirk up at her. She damn well can feel just how much I like what she’s doing to me.

“I get off in an hour,” she states, leaving the rest to my imagination.

“Is that so?” I lick her skin once again, needing another taste of her. I’d like to lick a few other places, but this will have to do for now.

“How much will it cost me for a private hour to finish out your night?” I ask.

“For you,” she says, trailing a finger down my chest as she leans back. Her ass is now firmly sitting on my lap with my cock pressed against her. “A grand,” she says, her eyes raking back up my body.

“Done,” I tell her as I reach into my pocket, pulling out another wad of cash. I watch as her eyes light up while I hand over the Benjamin’s. She could have told me it would be five grand, and I would have handed over the cash.

“Now, what did you have in mind?” she asks, tucking the bills inside her corset.

“Whatever you want to do to me. I’m all yours for the next hour.”

Candy gets up, strutting her fine-ass body around in front of me as she takes the small and private stage. She expertly swings her body around the pole, dancing to the beat of the music for most of our final hour together.

With about ten minutes to go before the night is over, she struts back over to where I’m sitting and gives me one last lap dance to close out the night.

“It takes me about thirty minutes to change and cash out, if you want to hang around outside for me,” she whispers into my ear before leaving my lap.

I drag my eyes up her body until they lock on hers. My cock has been hard for the last few hours, watching her tease the fuck out of me. Hell yeah, I’ll be waiting around for her to get off work so I can actually touch her without getting kicked out of the club.

“I’ll be waiting in my car,” I tell her, swiping my thumb across my bottom lip. “You live close by?” I ask as an afterthought.

“Yeah, just a few blocks away,” she answers before sauntering away. I gather my jacket and hat, sliding my hat on backward before making my way out of the club and to my car.

I slide into the driver’s seat and turn it on to blast the air for a few minutes to knock the temperature down a little bit. With the radio playing in the background, I pull my phone out while waiting on Candy to finish up her work night, and scroll through Instagram. I usually have a good amount of notifications; people like to tag me in the most random shit. But the amount tonight is a lot higher than it usually is, and I realize why as soon as I click on the first one.

Fuck.

Someone snapped multiple pictures of me while in the club getting lap dances, one with my head between her tits—damn, I miss being in that exact spot right now—but I don’t need this shit tonight. I’ve been trying, as much as the team’s PR rep thinks otherwise, to keep myself out of the press since I was called up to Indianapolis.

I flip through some of the comments on the posts. It’s a pretty even split of people encouraging me, and those that are disgusted by my actions. I’m a guy; I like tits, so sue me.

I at least am smart enough not to comment on any of the images. Not much I can do about them now that they’re out on social media.