Chapter Two
Ayla
Nerves fizz just beneath my skin as I get ready for work.
The hot shower feels like armor, washing away the day’s doubts, but my mind races anyway.
I choose my strawberries-and-cream body wash because it reminds me of summers before everything got complicated—innocence bottled up and set free for a few minutes.
The scent clings to me as I dust glitter through my hair, across my collarbones, and down my arms. I want to sparkle under the club lights, to be seen, even if it’s only for the version of me I put on for strangers.
My makeup is pure performance: bold lashes, glossy lips, just the right amount of blush to fake innocence even when I feel anything but.
I pull on sweats and a hoodie, turning myself invisible for the walk-in, hiding the heels and scraps of pink lace that mean survival.
As I pack my bag—five-inch clear heels, pink lacy bra, boa, a barely-there thong and mesh skirt—I remember how, when I was younger, I’d play dress-up and imagine being admired.
Now, the admiration is a currency, the costume a shield.
My thick, wavy brown hair tumbles down to my hips, nearly grazing my ass, the final touch before I spritz on perfume—something sweet, with a hint of danger.
I stare at myself for a beat too long, trying to spot the cracks in my own act.
One last look in the mirror and I attempt a smirk. "Alright, Ayla, it’s just another night, just more creepy men," I mutter, pep-talking myself with a bravado that feels paper-thin. "The more you pretend, the more they pay." Curtain up.
At Stoplight, I slip in through the back, the thump of bass vibrating through my chest before I even reach the floor. I peek through the curtain: the crowd’s thick, every table full, the front row already waving bills. Good. Rent is due. Maybe there’s enough here to cover a little hope, too.
In the locker room, Kyra and Stacie breeze in, laughter trailing behind them.
Kyra’s cheeks are still flushed from her last set, glitter sticking to her skin in all the right places.
“Hey girl,” Kyra calls, catching her breath.
“You should’ve seen the look on this one dude’s face when I wrapped my boa around him. He nearly fell out of his chair.”
Stacie snorts. “Please, that guy’s probably still drooling. Did you see the bachelor party? They’re like piranhas out there.”
Kyra grins. “Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget. Ayla, you up for a little friendly competition?”
I grin back, slipping into my pink costume. “Bring it on, ladies. Loser buys shots after shift.”
My turn comes. I step out into the lights, pink glitter catching every beat of the music.
The bass rattles the floor, some generic remix pumping the crowd.
I move with practiced grace, the pole steady in my grip, scanning the faces for anything interesting.
Usually, it’s all the same: groups of men shouting, waving bills, the bachelor party wild and half-drunk.
It’s a blur of noise, the kind of crowd where I can disappear inside the act.
I drop to my knees, grabbing a guy’s face and nestling him between my breasts—his friends howling, cash raining down.
I do a quick spin, clack my heels, toss my ass toward the bachelor party, teasing, flashing a glint of my piercing.
It’s routine, all smoke and mirrors. Their excitement is hollow.
I’m detached, counting down the seconds, wondering if there’s more to me than this stage version.
Then, as I’m wishing the set was over, someone throws more money from the far end.
I sashay over, expecting more empty flirtation—until I see him.
Alex. The air catches in my lungs, a jolt running through me.
I’m never shy up here, but his gaze makes me want to cover myself.
His smile is slow and deliberate, and suddenly I feel stripped bare in a way I never do with strangers. “Hey, darling.”
My heart skips. I recover fast, letting my sass take over.
“Hey, handsome,” I purr, voice practiced, but something shaky underneath.
I lean in, pressing my breasts to his face—but there’s a charge in the moment, a heat that’s more than just routine.
When his tongue discreetly traces a line up my sternum, it nearly knocks me out of character, and I have to fight not to gasp.
For once, I’m not bored—I’m alive. I want to know what he sees when he looks at me, if he sees the act or the girl beneath it.
I linger, flashing him every curve, daring him to look away.
When I move on, I force myself to dance for the next guy, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Alex’s stare—protective, almost possessive.
It annoys me that I like it, that I want to be seen by him.
I remind myself: men stare at me for a living.
This shouldn’t feel different. But it does.
After my dance, I slip offstage. The bachelor party howls, but honestly, they’re more interested in their drinks than conversation. I drift through the crowd, hunting for extras, and spot a group of younger guys—fresh-faced, awkward, here for a buddy’s birthday.
I slide into the booth, smile practiced but not quite as bright. “So whose big night is it, boys?”
One grins sheepishly. “That’s Tyler. It’s his 21st, so we dragged him out for some real entertainment.”
Tyler blushes, stammering, “I’ve never been to a place like this before.”
I laugh, twirling a lock of hair around my finger as I lean in, my voice lowering to a sultry purr.
“I promise to make it a night you’ll never forget.
Any fantasies I can make come true for you, birthday boy?
Lap dance that’ll leave your heart racing and your pants tight—but if you want something dirtier, you’ll have to tip extra.
” I let my gaze linger, smile slow and wicked, but the whole time, I’m half-listening for Alex’s voice in the crowd, half-hoping to spot him watching.
The guys joke about the birthday boy getting a dance he’ll never forget, and I tease and flirt, but I feel a pull, like there’s a thread tying me to the far side of the room. I’m locked in on the birthday boy when Alex appears, his presence cutting through the noise.
He doesn’t waste a second. “Dance for me?”
I raise a brow, unfazed. “Two hundred for an hour. Let’s go, babe.”
He doesn’t hesitate—just hands over the cash. Neither do I. I take him by the hand, leading him to the back, feeling the buzz of anticipation in my veins. For the first time all night, I wonder who’s really in control.
Alexander
The second I saw her on that stage, it was like a punch to the gut—instant want, mixed with a surge of jealousy so sharp it almost hurt, and I had no right.
Every move she made, every sway of her hips, was meant for the crowd, but it felt like a challenge aimed at me.
I want her—God, I fucking want her—but watching those drunk idiots ogle her, laughing and tossing cash, made my blood boil.
She’s been claimed. She just doesn’t know it yet.
When our eyes met, it felt like a dare. I crossed the room, ignoring the noise, not caring if I looked desperate.
I wanted her to see me—not just another guy.
When I reached her, I kept my voice low: “Dance for me.” No question, just certainty.
She took my hand, and electricity snapped between us.
The private room was dim, the door shutting out the rest of the world.
She slips into her performer’s mask, but her eyes are sharp as she purrs, “What can I do for you, handsome?”
I settle on the couch, legs spread, and motion for her to join me. “Sit.” She does. She starts to reach for her top, but I catch her wrist—gentle, but insistent. “I didn’t pay for that kind of show.”
She blinks, thrown. “Then what did you pay for?”
“My curiosity,” I say, letting my thumb circle her wrist. “You. I wanted to talk to you. The real you. Or as close as you’ll let me.”
She eyes me, lips twitching. “That’s dangerous in here. You sure you’re not just another guy with a fantasy?”
I grin. “Is that what I look like?”
She laughs. “You look like trouble. Or maybe someone who’s used to getting what he wants.”
“Not always,” I admit. “But I know what I want right now.”
She arches a brow. “And what’s that?”
“Conversation. Maybe your real laugh. You don’t have to take your clothes off for that.”
She surprises me with a genuine smile. “So you want small talk in a strip club?”
“I want to know if your favorite color is actually pink, or if that’s just for work.”
She snorts. “Pink’s for tips. My real favorite is green. The color of money, obviously.”
I laugh. “Smart.”
She relaxes a little, stretching her legs beside me. “What about you? What’s your vice?”
“Coffee. Bad hours. And lately, you.”
That earns me a playful shove. “That’s a line.”
I hold my hands up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I’ll give you this—you’re not boring.”
“Neither are you.” I let my hand rest on her thigh, needing to memorize the feel of her. “You’re electric, Ayla.”
She laughs, a little breathless. “Watch it, Alex. You say things like that, I might drop my guard.”
I lean in, voice low. “I want you to. I want to know you—not just the act.”
She holds my gaze, vulnerable for a heartbeat, then masks it with a smirk. “Careful what you wish for.”
Desire burns in my chest, slow and insistent, but so does something else—the urge to protect, to claim. I don’t just want her. I want everyone to know she’s with me.
“I’d buy you a drink after your shift,” I say, voice rough. “But honestly, I’d rather skip to the part where you’re mine.”
She rolls her eyes, cheeks flushed. “Possessive much?”
I shrug, not sorry. “Maybe. Maybe I just don’t like sharing.”
She laughs, but there’s an edge to it—like she likes the idea as much as she hates it. “Dinner first. Maybe.”
“Dinner, dessert, the whole damn menu. Please.” I grin, and when my thumb strokes the inside of her knee, she shivers.
We spend the rest of the hour wrapped in shameless flirtation, trading secrets and promises neither of us is quite ready to admit out loud.
Every time my hand drifts higher on her thigh, her breath catches.
When I lean in close to whisper in her ear, “You smell fucking amazing”, goosebumps erupt along her skin.
She tries to hide how much I affect her, but there’s a softness beneath her sass I want to discover—slowly, thoroughly, again and again.
She makes an easy two hundred, but I don’t regret a cent.
Before I leave, I press my number into her palm, my fingers lingering just a moment too long, searching her face for any sign this isn’t just an act.
But the way her eyes drop to the slip of paper—hesitant, hopeful—tells me I’m not the only one tangled up in something dangerous.
It’s hitting me all at once—this is more than wanting her.
It’s not just lust, not just curiosity. It’s starting to feel like obsession, something sharp and consuming that keeps tightening its hold.
I want more of her: the reckless way she laughs, the way she glances at me like she’s fighting whether to trust me, the scent of strawberries on her skin.
Every detail is burned into my mind. I can’t stop replaying the way she looked at me, like she saw straight through my bravado and might still let me in anyway.
I leave the club dizzy, half-wild, adrenaline still humming.
She’s under my skin—utterly intoxicating.
I want her everywhere and all at once. I imagine her fingers tracing my tattoos, her mouth pressed to mine, her laugh breaking open something in me I didn’t know was there.
I’d burn down the world for another night, another hour, another chance to make her mine.
Whatever this is, it’s only just begun, but it already feels dangerous—and I’m not sure I want it to stop.