When I finally slumped back, spent and satisfied, Chloe was still standing there—dance forgotten, face burning, thighs pressed together, eyes glassy with embarrassment… and unmistakable arousal.
I licked my lips, flashing her a dangerous, predatory grin.
Best fucking moment of my entire day.
Chloe
From that night on, my life flipped upside down.
First, the pay. No clue what Enzo told the new manager, but my check doubled. Then the work—I skipped peak-hour dances, switched to daytime bar help: mixing drinks, wiping glasses, tallying tabs.
New boss Drew acted weirdly polite.
But the biggest shift: nobody touched me anymore.
Those servers "accidentally" groping my ass when I bent for bottles, drunks leaning in too close, security whistling in halls—all vanished overnight. Eyes darted away when they saw me; some detoured.
I knew who caused it.
Every night after closing, the club turned from chaotic hell to empty void. Lights low, just the stage one on. Enzo appeared.
Always the same spot—booth front and center, whiskey on his right.
Then I'd dance for him.
No blaring music or slurred shouts. Just his dark eyes under the light. I was a grown woman; I knew what it meant.
This guy wanted me—steady, unrelenting.
I reminded myself to stay sharp. But twisting on that stage at night, catching his burning gaze on every move, a thrilling shiver shot up my spine, spreading to my fingertips. Like dancing on a cliff. One wrong step, shattered. But the danger made each step pulse with life.
Sometimes my body betrayed me. Bending low, glimpsing through my hair as his eyes devoured my dance and he touched himself—a heat flared in my belly, pooling between my thighs.
The outfit was thin; I felt the dampness in my panties. That thought burned my cheeks, but my body kept going, every sway bolder from the secret thrill.
I even started craving it. Days dragged as endless waits—washing glasses, stocking shelves, inventory in storage. Waiting for the door push. For lights dimming.
For the world shrinking to just us.
After each dance, Enzo raised his glass from the booth and invited me to the VIP room.
He said it casual, but we both knew: door closed meant one thing.
I never agreed, because I couldn't sort my head out.
This setup lasted a week.
Tonight, music stopped; I snatched up my fallen clothes fast. Drew's routines got racier—nearly nude, just short.
He wanted something to happen between Enzo and me badly. Probably benefited from it.
"You know why I come here every day, right?"
Enzo lounged in the seats, watching me dress piece by piece.
"I want to take you to the back room." His voice dropped low, just for us. "Strip you myself, pin you on the couch, kiss from your neck down."
I coughed hard twice; he didn't flinch.
