Chapter Four #2
Centered in the space was a single brass pole, fixed top and bottom, the metal warm in the amber wash from the industrial fixtures overhead. One chair, black leather, waited six feet from the pole. A bottle of Stoli on ice, one glass, a stack of clean napkins sat on a side table next to the chair.
Nothing else.
Iren set the bag down by the door, the first time he’d let go of it since we left the club. He did a slow half-turn, mouth open enough to show surprise, or admiration, or maybe just relief.
He looked at me, and I saw the calculation: how much was this worth, what was he supposed to do with it, what did it cost me to make it happen? The question hung between us, but I let it starve for oxygen.
I took off my suit jacket, draped it across the chair’s back. I sat down, knees wide, my pristine white shirt pulling tight across my shoulders. The leather was cold, but my body ran hotter than usual tonight. I poured two fingers of vodka, set the glass down untouched.
Iren watched all of it.
“You said you wanted a dance,” Iren said, voice tentative. “This is…not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I said.
He shook his head, a little smile on his lips. “A hotel room. Maybe a couch. Not—this.”
I looked around the room. The emptiness was by design. Nothing to distract, no exit except the elevator. No audience except me. “I want you to focus,” I said. “That’s all.”
He snorted, half-laugh, half-deflection. “No pressure.”
I gestured to the sound system on the far wall. “It’s ready. Just turn it on.”
He walked barefoot across the floor, leaving the shoes by the bag. His feet were small, arches high. The mesh shorts and tank top looked even more obscene in this light. The muscles in his calves worked with every step, and I catalogued the effort.
He turned the music on. First, static. Then a bass note, low enough to rattle the glass in the windows. I recognized the track: slow, no lyrics, just the suggestion of a heartbeat turned up to threatening. Not romantic. Not safe.
Iren closed his eyes. His spine settled.
He took a breath, then opened them and fixed on me.
He didn’t start with the pole. He started with his body, rolling his head to loosen the neck, then shifting weight from one foot to the other.
He let the rhythm build, then rolled his shoulders back, exposing the triangle of collarbones and the slick dip at his throat.
He circled the pole, slow, one hand skimming the metal but not gripping. He made a show of reluctance, but it was pure performance. When he finally touched the pole, it was with a flick of the wrist and a snap into motion—one clean, full-body twist, knees bent, ass out.
He grinned when he caught me noticing.
Good.
He climbed the pole, not with the slow tease most dancers used, but with a burst of athleticism that said, Watch me.
He held himself suspended, only the inside of his knee for support, and arched back so far I thought his spine would break. The tank top rode up, exposing his ribs, the sharp edge of hip bone, the smooth skin I’d been imagining for days.
He slid down, let himself hang upside down for a beat, then spun out and landed light. He bowed his head, arms overhead, fingers trailing down the length of his own chest as he dropped into a squat at the base.
He never broke eye contact. Not once. Every move was aimed at me. There was no crowd, no tips. Just the two of us and the vacuum between.
I sipped the vodka. The taste was harsher than usual. My cock was already hard, pressing against the zip of my pants, and I made no effort to hide it. Iren noticed. His eyes flicked down, then up again, and his smile widened.
He gripped the pole with one hand and let his body swing out, weightless for a second, then snapped back, feet planted. He rolled his hips, slow, and the shorts rode even higher, almost exposing the curve of his ass. He knew what he was doing. He was trying to push me. See how far he could go.
I didn’t break. I watched. I wanted to see what happened if I let him run the whole length of the leash.
He finished the orbit, then leaned back against the pole, both arms stretched overhead, letting the shirt fall open under its own weight. His chest was hairless, nipples already hard from the air.
He traced a finger down the center line, over the navel, and then slipped his hand inside the waistband of his shorts for half a second. He didn’t jerk off. He didn’t need to. He just let the hand rest there, a question I was supposed to answer.
I didn’t.
Instead, I waited for the next move.
He twisted off the pole, landed on both feet, then let his knees go loose and dropped to the floor in a controlled fall. He crawled toward me, one hand in front, hips moving with an exaggerated sashay, eyes never leaving mine. His hair was a seductive shield for his face.
I tensed, and the pleasure was in how conscious it made me of every cell in my body.
He stopped in front of the chair, just out of arm’s reach. He looked up at me, green eyes wide, face flushed, breathing hard. I looked down at him. My hand gripped the glass so tight it left a wet ring on my palm.
Iren waited. He wanted me to give the next order. To tell him to come closer, or to stop.
I did neither.
I wanted him to make the choice.
He smiled, barely. “Is this what you wanted?” he said, quiet.
I nodded. My throat felt raw.
He edged forward, knees against my shoes. He spread his hands hovering above my knees, then waited again.
I exhaled, long and slow. “You can stop now.”
He laughed. It was the sound of a man at the edge of a rooftop, enjoying the wind before the fall. “I don’t want to.”
I set the glass down. My hands were shaking, and I hated that he could see it. I clenched them tight, then let go. I didn’t touch him. Not yet. I just watched.
I wanted to see what happened next.