Good.
That's it.
The shame was still there, but it started turning into something else—a sticky, addictive heat spreading up from my core. I told myself it was just the music, just the beat, just my body doing what it was trained to do. But the electric itch rising from my bones said it wasn't that simple.
I let my hips roll with the beat, bigger and bigger. The cheers got louder.
Under the spotlight, the air was thick. Tobacco, alcohol, sweat mixed with cologne, pressing down layer by layer. I raised my arms overhead, fingers wrapping around the pole, letting my body climb—arching my back, fabric pulling tight across my chest. The crowd gasped. Then exploded.
The fabric was damp now. Starting to cling. I knew what that meant. But I didn't pull at it.
I didn't pull at it.
That thought alone made my heart skip—not panic. Something stranger. Like standing at the edge of a height, legs weak, but eyes refusing to look away.
I let go of the pole. Slid down slowly, body pressed against the metal, inch by inch, until I crouched on the floor, leaning back, throat exposed to all those eyes. Someone cursed. I straightened slowly. The fabric slipped lower. The edge hovered at a dangerous point. I glanced down, let my fingers trace that edge. Didn't pull.
"Take it off!"
"Do it!"
"Come on, baby!"
I didn't.
I just looked up at them, smiled, then put my finger in my mouth and bit down gently on the tip. That "doing nothing" drove them crazier than if I'd actually stripped. I could hear it in their voices.
Everything ballet gave me started working in reverse—control of my waist, the lines of my legs, my body knowing how to balance at the limit. I arched back, hair touching the floor, fabric sliding down my chest, catching at the most dangerous edge. Held there.
Bills started raining down.
Someone nearly climbed on stage. Security pulled him back. His eyes were red, like he wanted to swallow me whole. I straightened, dodging the hands reaching out, but every time I pulled away, I let my body brush close—making them think they could touch, but they couldn't.
At some point, I realized: I was enjoying this.
Not the stares. The "can't touch." That control—I was here, but I chose to be here. No one could take what I didn't want to give.
That thought hit harder than the vodka I'd actually drunk.
I straightened, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling. The air was hot, sticky, buzzing. I floated in that noise, felt a little light—not drunk. Weightless. Like something was holding me up.
My gaze drifted across the crowd.
And then I saw him.
Not because he was shouting. The opposite. Because he wasn't.
Deep in the VIP section, smoke thicker there, dim yellow light falling, everyone leaning forward, yelling, throwing money. Except him.He leaned back, lazy, drink in hand, watching me with eyes that didn't match the room.
Contempt.
With a hint of curiosity, but not attraction. The kind you'd have watching something boring—like a goldfish circling in a glass bowl.
Oh.
I froze for half a second. The heat inside me cooled instantly.
Shame rushed back, fierce and flooding, burning from my face to my fingertips. I suddenly understood exactly what I was doing—half-naked, moving in front of a room full of men. And he was watching with that look. Like he was saying: This is all you are.
