She ruled.
And the crowd? They obeyed.
My dick hardened instantly. I adjusted myself under the table and leaned forward, mesmerized.
She swung high, using nothing but the power of her legs and the strength of her core, wrapping herself around the pole and rolling down it slowly like a silk ribbon unraveling. Her pelvis arched out. One hand extended behind her head. The other gripped the pole as she let her body descend in a perfect drop and caught herself with the balls of her feet.
Then she climbed. Faster this time. Twisting. Arching. Inverting.
At the apex, she let go.
She flew.
The pole swung out across the crowd, gliding left to right as she flipped backward into a knee hook and let herself hang upside down, arms wide like a goddess at an altar.
The men below were groaning.
My blood burned.
After a few heartbeats, she righted herself, clenching the pole between her thighs, hair wild and chest heaving. She ran her hand from her navel to her throat, kindling lustful fantasies within every man’s imagination. Then she rotated into a series of aerial spins so fluid it looked like the air itself carried her.
I’d fucked dozens of women—models, dancers, spies, wives of men I hated. But it had always been cold, calculated, transactional. I’d never felt anything but friction and release.
But watching Lyla? This was something else.
It wasn’t about sex.
It was about sensuality.
About the way her body defied gravity. The way her chin tilted up like she owned every depraved eye in the room. The way she didn’t give herself away—she made the crowd beg for it. And she knew exactly what she was doing.
The tiara glinted again.
My queen.
The need to protect her and destroy anyone who even looked at her—that was new for me. Uncontrollable. Fucking savage.
I started to catalog the threats in the room. That man near the bar—the one with the fake Rolex and bloodshot eyes. The prick on the left snapped a photo with his phone. The drunk fucker pounding the stage.
My finger tapped the side of my glass.
One by one, they would all bleed.
When the music ended, she dropped into a perfect split at the bottom of the pole and rose like smoke. Her bow wasn’t submissive. It was wicked. Controlled. Erotic.
The crowd erupted. Bills flew onto the stage.
Men howled. Whistled. One screamed something obscene.
I flexed my jaw and had to swallow my rage.
“Another,” I said to the waitress, pushing my empty glass forward.
She flitted away.
Lyla had two more performances.
I had to calm the fuck down.
