“Well,” Ash said, folding his arms, “if it isn’t my number one fan.”
Slade’s voice came low and rough. “We need to talk.”
Ash raised a brow. “So you thought you’d crash backstage? Men had been kicked out for less.”
Slade stared at him like he was trying to see through him. Like he already had.
Ash leaned against the vanity, gripping the table behind him. The scowl on his face said irritation, but the beat of his heart said something else. Because some part of him—some traitorous, stupid part—likedthat Slade had come. His voice dropped, allhoney and thorns. “What’s the problem, Detective? Didn’t get your money’s worth?”
“I didn’t come here to play games.”
Ash turned, grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder like a shield. “You sure picked the wrong venue, then.”
Slade moved closer. “Would you prefer I haul your ass back to the station?”
“Fuck you,” Ash spat out. “You have no grounds to arrest me.”
The detective took a deep breath, trying to get his temper in check. When he spoke again, he sounded calmer, softer. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
Tempting. “I’m done for the night, Slade.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out a billfold, and held it up. “What if I’m paying?”
Ash snorted. “You couldn’t afford me.”
Slade’s mouth was a tight line. “One dance.”
Ash tilted his head, studying him. He let his gaze travel down the man’s figure: the suit jacket stretched across broad shoulders, tie loose, shirt clinging to the solid shape of his chest, tension burning off him like heat haze. Clean-shaven, dapper. But there was something raw under all that restraint and anger. Desperation, maybe. Or need. Ash’s mouth twitched. The offer wasn’t about the money. It never was. This was about power. Control. Leverage.
Before he could respond, the door burst open again—this time with fists and fury, as Nino stormed in, face tight. “All right, pal,” he barked, hand already on his baton, “you got about two seconds to turn your ass around before I drag you out the old-fashioned way. Cop or not.”
Slade pivoted fast, body coiled, jaw clenched like one wrong word would set him swinging.
Ash stepped between them, one hand raised. “It’s fine, Nino.”
The bouncer hesitated, eyes darting from Ash to Slade and back. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Ash said, with a tight smile. “Go play with your brother.”
Nino gave Slade one last glare, promising consequences, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Ash stood near enough to smell the sweat on Slade’s skin, near enough to hear the man wasn’t breathing easy. He met his eyes, voice low. “Looks like you got yourself a dance, Detective.”
He slipped out of the dressing room without a word, knowing Slade would follow. Down the velvet-lined corridors, Ash moved without a sound, every sway of his hips deliberate, every step a riddle in the dark. He could feel the man behind him, a tall shadow of heat, his footfalls too heavy for the hush surrounding them. The cop moved like a man out of his depth but too stubborn to admit it—spine stiff, tension roiling beneath his skin.
The VIP lounge lay tucked at the back of the club like a sin no one wanted to confess. Smoke hung in the air, curling in lazy ghosts above low, red lights. The music from the main hall bled past the walls, muffled bass and distant piano, loud enough to sway to, but soft enough for secrets. Mirrors framed in tarnished brass lined the walls, catching warped reflections of bodies in motion. Gauzy curtains fluttered between crescent-shaped alcoves, giving the illusion of privacy without the lie of it. Two booths down, a dancer writhed in a client’s lap, his silhouette rippling to the tune. Another knelt between a businessman’s thighs, lips doing more than hands could. No one looked up.
Ash led Slade to a booth at the far end. Wide sofa wrapped around a smoked-glass table, a curtain drawn half-shut. He tossed his jacket onto the cushions and gestured.
Slade hesitated at the edge like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He looked wrong here, too large, too hard, agladiator strayed into a fever dream he didn’t trust. Still, he went in and sat.
Ash didn’t give him time to settle. He climbed into his lap in one sinuous motion, thighs straddling his hips, chest hovering just out of reach. He could feel the hitch in Slade’s breath, faint but sharp, the first tremor before an earthquake. Ash peeled off his hoodie and let it drop to the floor, bare skin gleaming in the low light. He rolled his hips once, fluid and smooth, just to test the water.
Slade’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He was getting hard—Ash could feel it, thick swelling beneath the wool of Slade’s slacks.
He smiled, pleased. “Relax, Detective. You paid for this, remember?”
Slade didn’t answer. His throat bobbed, but his gaze never wavered.
