Chapter 2 Adrian #2
Vince doesn’t move at all, but his eyes darken, storm brewing heavier, that measured breathing becoming more labored.
One night, I think, leaning into the moment, into the fire. If Vince thinks he can stare me down, he’s got another thing coming.
The living room lights are dimmed, chairs pushed back to make space, and someone, probably Lance, has staged a single chair in the middle of the room like it’s a prop in a damn off-Broadway production of Magic Mike: Bachelor Party Edition.
I queue up the songs on my phone after connecting it to the hotel speaker, the opening guitar riff of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasts from the speakers, pure eighties strip-anthem energy.
Trevor bursts out laughing, the kind of laugh that says, of course this is the song.
“You’re not gonna forget this,” I flash a wicked smile, strutting to the imaginary spotlight like I was born in Vegas.
The boys holler, already a little drunk but wide-eyed with anticipation.
I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and remind myself of that one time I’d watched Magic Mike XXL three times in a row, obsessing over the body rolls and precision.
Thank you, Joe Manganiello. Thank you, all the guys who made body rolls an art form.
I start with the plastic badge, unpinned with a flourish and flicked toward George, who catches it with not-so-surprising reflexes.
I straddle the chair backward, facing the boys, and start slow. A sway of the hips. A roll of my spine. The plastic baton becomes my prop, twirling it between my fingers before dragging it slowly down my chest.
Trevor leans forward, mouth parted in a half-smile, his usual composure completely abandoned. Lance lets out a low whistle, curiosity flickering into something darker, more primal. George sips his beer and says, “Oh,” with the appreciation of someone who recognizes skill when he sees it.
The laughter is playful at first. They expected something silly, ridiculous even. I can tell they have the energy of hot-blooded alpha males who think they’re so secure in their masculinity that they can find this nothing more than entertaining.
I give them that. A few air humps with the baton, exaggerated like a parody. I slap my ass once for the drama. The room echoes with playful laughter and genuine amusement.
But then I pivot.
I grip the chair, my thighs planted. I roll my hips in undulating circles, fluid and intentional, like I mean it.
My fingers work the cheap buttons of my cop shirt, each one popping open with theatrical precision.
I remember what I told them about these buttons being “reinforced plastic,” and I milk every single one for maximum effect.
The shirt hangs open now, revealing the thin white tank top underneath that clings to every line of muscle.
They quiet, not completely, but just enough to hear their breathing shift.
I let the cop shirt slide off my shoulders and toss it toward Trevor, who fumbles it like it’s radioactive.
Then, I grab the tank top by the neckline, my fingers curling into the thin cotton.
With a dramatic tug, I rip it straight down the middle, pretty much how people see strippers do all the time.
The sound of tearing fabric cuts through the music, loud and exaggerated, before the shredded pieces fall to the floor.
Now my toned chest and abs are fully visible, skin gleaming with oil under the suite lights.
Trevor’s playful persona cracks completely, replaced by something raw. Lance’s composure falters as traces of want take over, pushing reason aside. George watches with the focused intensity of someone studying technique, his trained self-discipline struggling against genuine desire.
I stand, using the baton to hook the waistband of the police pants and let them slide further down my hips, revealing more skin but keeping things just decent enough.
The music switches, and Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” fills the room, dark and pulsing.
“Jesus,” George mutters, his restrained facade slipping entirely.
I kick off the boots with exaggerated authority, like I’m dismantling my entire law enforcement persona piece by piece. I work the belt of the police pants, letting them hang low on my hips.
I strut toward them, locking eyes with each man. But I’m building to him.
To Vince.
He says nothing, arms folded as he leans back on the edge of the couch like a statue, but I notice his jaw clenching, his hands flexing once, and his breathing growing shallow and labored.
I turn to him, the chair standing between us, and the air thick in the room.
I sit backward on it again, legs spread, and lean forward until we’re nearly eye-level. I sway my hips to the beat in deep, hypnotic arcs, like I’m not dancing for him, but at him.
“This is for you,” I say quietly.
His gaze drops to my chest, then lower. He doesn’t look away. His breathing hitches, just once, but I catch it.
I reach behind me, arch again, and drag my pants just a bit further down my hips, still technically decent, but barely.
He shifts in his seat but says nothing. The storm in his eyes is building, judgment and hunger creating a volatile mix.
I place one hand on the chair back, the other running from my neck down my stomach. Vince’s eyes track it like he’s starving, like he’s angry at himself for wanting it. He exhales, sharp and rough, his restraint fracturing just enough for me to see the want underneath.
I rise from the chair and hover over him, still dancing and moving, slow like syrup. I turn around, my back to him, and bend low, giving him the full view. Then, cruelly, I walk away.
The spell breaks like a crack of lightning, and the others realize I’m back.
Trevor reaches for my hand with a wide smile.
I spin around him, tugging Lance from the couch, his interest transforming into hands-on exploration.
I pull George into my orbit as I dance between them, his mask replaced by pure, unguarded desire.
The police pants stay low, clinging to half my ass, sweat glistening on my back.
They touch me now, tentatively at first, then bolder. Light brushes become lingering caresses. Palms on my waist, hip, and shoulder. We’re laughing again, but no one’s joking anymore. Each touch is a small rebellion against everything they thought they knew about themselves.
Lance snorts nervously. “Man, I don’t know if I’m turned on or having a crisis right now.”
Trevor moves to smell my neck and groans when I gasp at the closeness. George stands behind me, hands steady on my hips, finally giving in to want.
Suddenly, all these straight men are clinging to me like I’m their personal salvation, but I’m not. I can feel their certainties cracking, their conventional masculinity bending under the pressure of interest and desire.
But even with all of them around me, I feel his stare.
Vince is still seated and silent, but wound tight, buzzing like a live wire ready to snap. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth tight. That measured breathing is now completely abandoned as he watches me tempt his friends, making them want something they’d never imagined wanting.
I end the dance by dropping into the chair again, facing away from them this time. Legs spread, chest heaving, with every inch of me alive and vibrating.
The music fades, so does the moment, but not the tension.
The boys are flushed, restless now, like I’ve awakened something they can’t put back to sleep. And Vince hasn’t moved, but his eyes burn with a hunger that makes my skin feel electric.
“Shit,” George says, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Now I gotta jump in the ocean.”
Trevor laughs, but it’s breathless, uncertain. “That was…fuck.”
Lance hands me a towel and says, “You win. MVP of the goddamn year. But also, I think you broke something in my brain.”
I smirk, catching Vince’s eye.
He doesn’t smile back. But I see the tightness in his face, the tremor at his temple, and the heat in his gaze, all mixed with something that looks like fury directed at himself, at me, and at the situation.
Good.
Let him burn.
Because I’m already on fire, and I’m not done yet.