"You wanted to prove I couldn't resist," he rasped. "You did."
He shifted, hit that weakening spot.
"But you proved more."
His hand slipped to where we joined, thumb pressing the nub.
"You can't fucking resist me either."
Pleasure surged like waves; words gone, I clutched sheets, moaned brokenly.
"The way you look now," he stared, eyes terrifyingly dark, "even hotter than on stage."
"Know the difference?" He leaned close, whispered in my ear. "On stage, everyone sees. But this? Only I see."
Those words ignited; I tensed, then shattered, nothing left but mind-blowing ecstasy.
I heard myself cry out, felt him follow—a low roar, body collapsing, releasing inside me.
Morning light slippedthrough curtain gaps.
I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.
Memories flooded back.
Room 208. That man. Everything from last night.
My face heated, a mix of shame and sweetness twisting inside.
I turned—the bed's other side lay empty.
Just rumpled sheets, proof someone had been there.
He'd gone.
Why?
My stomach dropped, bad feeling sinking in.
My eyes scanned the room, landed on the nightstand.
A stack of bills, and a note.
I picked it up; one line.
"Good service. The extra's your tip."
Service. Tip.
Last night's tender kisses, heart-racing words—just bedroom sweet talk.
To him, I was just a stripper, a transaction.
Huh, that fucking piece of shit!
Fuck!
I stared at the note, crumpled it, tossed it with the cash into the trash, then grabbed my clothes.
