Chapter 2
ELIJAH
The windshield wipers fight a losing battle against the rain, smearing light across the glass in quick silver strokes. If I’d known a storm was coming, I would’ve had Steven drive.
I coast to the curb where Napolitano’s waits. It’s nothing much to look at—just rusted red brick and a tired black awning. Inside, though, it’s another story. Warm lights, velvet drapes, that easy charm of a place that wants to feel like Broadway and almost pulls it off.
With a flick of my hand, I motion for Alex to get out. Valet parking isn’t available for this show, and God only knows how far I’ll have to drive before I find a decent spot.
He side-eyes me, unimpressed, while impatient drivers lay on their horns in typical New York fashion. With an exaggerated sigh, he glances out at the rain, then opens the door and makes a dash for the canopied entryway.
I can’t help but laugh. Honestly, I think he still expected me to take him to a strip club.
I’ll save that for next time… just to fuck with him.
Inching back into traffic, I spot a car about half a block ahead pulling out of a metered space.
Please, dear God, hold that spot for me.
I cross my fingers and hold my breath until I finally reach it—and wouldn’t you know, it must be my lucky day.
I slip right into the narrow space with surprising ease and let out a long breath of relief.
Even the rain has stopped—a miracle in itself—so I skip the umbrella and head up the sidewalk toward the venue.
In the distance, I spot Alex skeptically eyeing the guests arriving for tonight’s show.
The crowd is a nice mix—straight, gay, trans—a living patchwork of the city that warms my heart.
And the fashions on display don’t disappoint: bold, tailored, unapologetic.
I’m certain Alex’s interest is piqued by that alone; he lives and breathes style.
My smile only broadens as I watch him take in his surroundings.
Judging by his expression, he’s still trying to make sense of the fascination with pole dancing.
He makes me laugh, and I love that I managed to surprise him with this date night—even if there’s a bit of a hidden agenda behind our little rendezvous.
“I can see you, Elijah,” he snickers, hazel eyes narrowing as I slip out of the shadows. I swear, it’s impossible to sneak up on him. Ana’s mastered the art of spying, but apparently, I still have some work to do.
Shaking my head, I take his hand and lead him out of the cold, into the dimly lit foyer, where impeccably dressed ushers in sharp bow ties greet us. They take our tickets and politely escort us to our seats—an intimate corner tucked away in the balcony’s reserved section.
“I’m impressed,” Alex murmurs, taking in the view as he slips off his navy-blue sports jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. He looks incredible in cream-colored linen pants and an athletic-fit pullover—cream with navy accents and a deep V-neck that hints just enough.
“Were you expecting anything less than the best?” I toss back, flashing him a grin.
He smirks. “Honestly? I was still half expecting a strip joint.”
Yeah, that much was obvious. I chuckle, hang my blazer next to his, and slide into the seat beside him. I catch the waiter’s eye and signal for two top-shelf bourbons, already tagged to our section. Then I reach over, thread our fingers together, and toss him a wink.
“I fucking love you,” he says, finally letting himself relax, his shoulders dropping as he sinks into the plush leather seat.
Grinning, I turn my attention to the stage.
The layout is simple, yet undeniably elegant.
Rich hickory-toned hardwood stretches across the floor, with three stainless-steel poles staggered at the center.
A backdrop of satiny black fabric moves ever so slightly in the shifting air, catching the light in a way that’s both seductive and chic.
Our drinks arrive just as the overhead lights dim and soft music hums through the concealed speakers. Pale-pink twinkle lights sweep across the stage, casting a gentle glow on the polished poles, as six dancers pirouette and leap with effortless grace.
“I knew this was ballet,” Alex mutters under his breath.
I lean in, smirking. “Pretty sure you said you were expecting strippers.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh but keeps his eyes on the stage. I smile and do the same—watching the dancers, yes, but also stealing glances at him.
ALEX
Okay, so maybe I was wrong. This isn’t ballet, but whatever this is… It’s stunning.
I set my drink aside, completely absorbed by the performance unfolding before me.
Six pole dancers—three men, three women—spin, slide, and contort their bodies around stainless-steel poles with jaw-dropping grace.
They move in perfect unison, their core strength unbelievable, their flexibility mesmerizing.
It’s hypnotic—athleticism and artistry woven into one fluid motion. I can’t help but be impressed.
I lose all sense of time, so transfixed that I jolt slightly when four of the dancers twirl offstage to a sudden eruption of applause. Snapped out of my trance, I quickly join the cheers, glancing over at Elijah, who looks just as awestruck as I am.
Turning back to the stage, I see two men remain—one pole standing between them. I uncross my legs and stretch out, just as brilliant white lights begin to swirl around them. Their arms move with fluid precision, reaching—first for the pole, then for each other.
Now we’re talking.
I’m vaguely aware of Elijah watching me, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the performance.
The music swirls from above like a canopy of birds in flight, and suddenly, I’m part of it.
My mind lifts, weightless, carried by the rhythm, moving in sync with every measured step, every slow, deliberate touch. I’m completely swept away.
Their leotards are the color of bare skin—and shiny, almost wet-looking, like liquid, or lube, poured over layers of smooth muscle.
Let’s go with lube. They move together like a single, living thing—fluid, taut, unbreakable.
A knot of limbs. A coil of arms and legs, turning endlessly, a ribbon of infinity.
There’s beauty in their struggle. Their bodies twist and stretch with aching precision, locked in a dance that’s half fight, half foreplay. They don’t just move around the pole—they seduce it, battle it, use it as the final barrier between them.
On the sly, I glance at Elijah. He, too, is caught up in the raw, hypnotic swirl of this sexual frenzy. I reach over and take his hand. He squeezes my fingers, and I squeeze back.
The lights flicker, and my attention snaps back to the stage, back to the dance, back to—
Glossy lips.
I gasp—audibly. My breath leaves my lungs is a whoosh. In fact, I completely forget about breathing altogether. Bright lights splash across his pretty face, and gold glitter rains over those irresistible pouty lips.
Noah.
I shift in my seat, spellbound by the way his body molds itself around the pole. Pressing, folding, and flowing like water over steel. My dick stretches against my thigh, reaching for him, wanting in on the dance.
I’d love to dance with you, Alex.
He wraps a leg around his partner’s waist… just like he had mine in the back alleyway of Gravity. My hips move with the motion of their seductive sway… their submission… their depiction of fucking.
I squeeze Elijah’s hand as Noah tightens his grip on the pole. Long, slender fingers wrap around its girth while his body undulates with a slow, sensual power, every movement charged with raw intensity.
Jesus Christ.
I squirm in my seat, unable to find a comfortable position. I’m very confident my dick could be used as a pole at this very moment.
Elijah leans into my shoulder.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
Beautiful doesn’t come close. Noah is fucking breathtaking—clear blue eyes, glittering lips, sandy-blond hair twisted into a French knot. Christ. He’s so damn pretty.
Then it hits me like a punch to the gut. Elijah’s comment throws me off completely. What was that about?
“Are you checking him out?” I snap, jealousy flaring before I can stop it.
He smirks, eyes sparkling. “Not quite. But I am checking you out, Alex.”
His gaze slides down my body, slow and deliberate, his thumb brushing my hand before he looks back toward the stage—leaving me burning with a heady mix of desire and doubt.
Relieved, I breathe out and let myself settle into the moment, matching his quiet stillness as the dance winds to a close. The pole sinks soundlessly into the floor, and at last, their bodies melt together in a tender embrace.
I reach down and adjust myself as the other man’s body falls over Noah’s—unmoving, satiated—curled around Noah’s limbs like a comma wrapped around a word in a sentence. Darkness sheaths the two dancers, and bright lights explode like snapping stars.
Elijah releases my hand and rises to his feet, joining the rest of the audience in a thunderous standing ovation. I, on the other hand, need a second to gather myself. It feels like I’ve just had the best sex of my life—without even being touched.
Finally, with legs that feel less than steady, I stand and add my applause to the roar as overhead lights flicker into strobe mode. The six pole dancers return to the stage, swinging effortlessly around the poles before lining up for their final bow.
But I only see one.
One pair of glossy lips.
One set of clear-blue eyes.
One impossibly graceful, devastatingly beautiful performer.
Noah.
My pretty dancer.
“Wait here,” Elijah says, pulling his jacket over his head before darting out into the rain to get the car. But before he can step off the curb, I grab him and pull him into a quick embrace.
“Thank you,” I murmur against the damp fabric of his jacket. “I had the best time.”
He turns, grinning—all perfect white teeth and mischief. “Still want to swing by a strip club?”