For a split second, alarm flashes across her face, but she covers it quickly. The space between us feels charged. I’m testing her, pushing to see if she’ll run or rise to the challenge.
She takes a breath and rolls her shoulders back. “It’s not a problem as long as you understand the rules. No touching, and I’d like to start right here.”
She gestures toward the pole, making it clear she’s doing this her way.
My cock twitches at the challenge in her tone, as if she has any leverage here. I’m used to compliance. To people saying yes before I finish asking. But I like a woman who pushes back.
I stand, taking my time shrugging out of my suit jacket, letting the fabric slide off me before tossing it onto the couch.
My fingers move to my collar, working the top three buttons open to reveal the black ink that sprawls across my collarbone and down my chest. Then I roll my sleeves to my elbows, baring the veins that rope down my forearms. Her gaze tracks my every movement, her throat working as she swallows.
I sit back down, reclaiming my position. "You have five minutes."
She taps her screen, changing the track. This time a sultry beat fills the space.
Evelina closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, a new determination hardens her gaze.
One hand wraps around the pole as she starts to sway with the rhythm. The movement is careful, hypnotic, her body syncing to the beat.
Her head tilts back, exposing the long line of her throat, and I want to taste the pulse hammering under her skin.
This isn't the polished, mechanical seduction I've seen a thousand times before. This is raw. Unfiltered.
Like she's dancing for herself and I happen to be watching.
She spins on the pole, one hand gripping high while her body bows backward, hair sweeping across the floor as she tips her head back, spine curved in a perfect arch.
Then she pulls herself upright with surprising strength, wrapping her legs around the chrome and spiraling down slowly, heat pooling low in my gut.
The tension coiling my shoulders finally loosens. Weeks of paranoia and sleepless nights fade into background noise.
Right now, there’s only her moving like sin and my blood rushing south.
When her feet touch the ground, she drops to her hands and knees and crawls toward me. Fucking hell.
I eat my words from earlier. She’s as good as she claimed to be.
Her back arches like a cat as she moves, hair falling forward over one shoulder. She’s taking her time, hips swaying with every inch forward.
When she reaches me, her hands slide up my shins, over my knees, gripping my thighs as she crawls up my body.
Her touch sends blood straight to my cock. By the time her face is level with mine, every muscle is coiled tight.
She swings one leg over my lap, straddling me as her hands settle on my shoulders. We’re face-to-face. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel irises.
Her breath ghosts across my lips as her nails dig into my skin, and her sweet scent surrounds me.
I lock my jaw and curl my fingers into the leather seat. The lap dance has barely started, and I'm already fighting the urge to break the no-touching rule, fighting the urge to grab her hips and grind her down against my hard length.
I’ve had plenty of dances in my day, but I’ve never been affected like this. It’s like she’s crawled under my skin and set fire to every nerve ending.
Up close, we stare at each other, the music floating around us. The moment stretches, taut as a wire, neither of us willing tobreak first. Then she gives me a wicked smile and starts to move. Her body rolls over mine in slow, deliberate waves.
Her palms slide down to my chest, palm warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. Her skirt is hiked up, and there’s nothing but the thin lace of her panties between us.
My cock is granite-hard, and every torturous grind makes pre-cum leak into my briefs. Fuck me, I’m seconds from losing it completely. Doesn’t help that it’s been weeks since I’ve gotten laid.
Even before the Ghost situation consumed my life, the usual rotation of models, escorts, the occasional socialite, stopped appealing.
