evil woman

Backstage was chaos. A dozen girls crammed into the dressing room, neon light bouncing off cracked mirrors, the air thick with perfume, hairspray, and cigarette smoke from whoever ignored the no-smoking signs. Heels clattered on tile as someone cursed over a broken strap. Laughter, bickering, the zip of duffel bags. You tuned it all out, minding your own business.

Your spot at the mirror was littered with lashes, lip gloss tubes, and glitter dust. You leaned in close, checking your reflection under the unforgiving bulbs. Full glam, just like always - heavy lashes, smoky shadow, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips painted glossy. The mask that made you money.

Your outfit tonight was red - a bra that pushed your tits so high they looked ready to spill, a thong cut so small it barely counted as fabric. Every inch of your ass was on display, a scrap of lace the only thing between you and naked. You adjusted the straps, tugging the bra into place until the fit was perfect.

With a pop, you shoved a stick of gum into your mouth, chewing slow, the artificial sweetness cutting through the bitter taste of cheap lipstick. A quick once-over: hair teased, big hoop earrings, glitter shimmering across your chest. You looked like every man’s fantasy and you knew it.

The heels you strapped on were black, patent leather that caught the light when you moved. Sky-high, the kind that forced you to arch your back and strut with every step. You stood, the click-clack echoing through the dressing room.

You didn’t bother saying goodbye to the other girls. Just stepped out, hips swaying, strut already in place.

The hallway was narrow, walls painted black to hide the wear, but the smell gave it away - sweat, liquor, and perfume clinging thick to the air. The music grew louder with every step, bass thumping so hard you felt it in your ribs.

At the curtain, you paused. One manicured hand brushed the fabric aside, and you peeked out at the stage. The lights were blinding - red and blue strobing against chrome poles polished to a shine. The floor glittered under the spotlights, already speckled with bills.

Beyond that, the club stretched out into darkness. Tables crowded with men hunched over drinks, bills folded between fingers, hungry eyes fixed on the stage. Laughter cut through the music, bills slapped against thighs, voices hooted and hollered.

You took a breath, gum sweet on your tongue, and squared your shoulders. Another night, another crowd. Time to go make their money yours.

The curtain parted, and you stepped out. Heels bit into the stage floor, lights slamming down on you so bright it was like stepping into fire. You knew how to make an entrance - back arched, hips rolling, one hand trailing down your thigh as you strutted toward the chrome pole at center stage.

Some of the other girls were already moving - grinding low, climbing high, swinging lazy circles to the bass that thudded through the walls. Their skin glittered under the lights, dollar bills stuck to sweat-slick thighs.

You slid right into the rhythm, letting your body find the music. One hand wrapped around the pole, your back bowing as you arched into it, tits straining against the red lace of your bra. A whistle cut through the noise, then another.

Bills fluttered onto the stage - crumpled ones, crisp twenties, green paper catching in the fans. You smiled, lips parted just enough to glisten under the lights, and bent low, ass pushed out, thong riding high as you let your cheeks spread wide for the front row. The men erupted - hollering, tossing more cash.

The bass shifted, heavier now, and you stood, spinning back toward the pole. Your thighs wrapped the chrome, calves flexing as you lifted, grinding slow down its length. You were lost in it now - the noise, the lights, the eyes. You’d long stopped hearing the crude comments, the whistles, the begging. They all blurred together into fuel.

You spread your legs wide at the pole’s base, knees bent, back arched, one hand sliding down your stomach as if you were touching yourself. The crowd roared.

You knew the game. Tease, deny, give just enough. Your bra stayed on for now, tits bouncing in the push-up. The longer you held out, the more they paid.

Bills slapped the stage, some catching against your thighs as you rolled your hips. You smirked, scooping one up between two fingers, tucking it into your bra before throwing a wink back at the front row.

The track shifted, bass softening into something slower, hazier, smoke curling heavier in the air. You matched it without thinking, your body rolling into languid circles, spins around the pole drawn out, sensual. Your skin glistened under the lights, every move slow and steady.

That’s when the door opened.

Normally, you wouldn’t have noticed. Guys came and went all night, stumbling in from the street or slipping out for a smoke. But something about this one made your eyes cut that way. Just a flicker at first.

And it was like time slowed.

He stepped in tall - taller than anyone else in the room. Six-five easy. Thin but built, that wiry strength that stretched tight over muscle, every line of him sharp, taut. The plain t-shirt he wore only made it worse, clinging to a hard stomach, dipping low to show off that sharp v-line, hip bones cutting against the fabric. His arms were solid, veiny, biceps flexing as he moved. Dark hair framed his face, messy.

But it was his eyes.

You could’ve sworn he found you instantly. Not the stage. Not the other girls dancing, tits bouncing under the lights. You. The connection hit sharp, electric, like a spotlight had been thrown across the room just for you.

And he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause to look around, didn’t let the room distract him. His long stride cut straight toward your section, purposeful. Like he’d already decided where he belonged.

You forced yourself to keep moving - hands sliding down the pole, hips grinding slow, hair flipping across your shoulders. Professional. Like nothing was wrong. But your pulse thudded hot in your chest, and you risked another glance.

He was already there.

Front row. Closest to you.

Dropping into the seat like he owned it, spreading long legs comfortably, leaning back just enough for his shirt to pull across his abs. His eyes never left you, his mouth curled in the faintest, smug little smirk.

You kept moving, body rolling to the slow thrum of bass, your hands sliding up and down the pole in lazy strokes. Every so often you glanced at the crowd - sloppy grins, eyes darting from girl to girl, bills waving in the air.

But not him.

He didn’t even pretend to look anywhere else. His eyes were glued to you, steady, unblinking, following every sway of your hips, every twist of your body. A girl passed right in front of him, tits bare, bending low to set down his drink. Most men would’ve ogled, grabbed, at least let their eyes linger. He barely glanced her way. One flick of his gaze, and then he was back on you.

He sat like he owned the place - long legs spread, shoulders slouched back in the chair, one arm draped lazily across it. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Almost bored, but in that smug way, like the whole show was for him and he knew it.

You let yourself drift forward, hips swaying, the click of your heels sharp against the stage. When you dropped into a squat at the edge, spreading your thighs wide, crotch inches from the front row, the crowd whooped.

But his smirk was different.

He leaned forward and slipped two crisp hundreds from his pocket. Without breaking eye contact, he tucked them into the waistband of your thong, fingers grazing your skin, warm against your hip. The bills stuck against the lace, green against red.

Your brows lifted, impressed. That was a generous start - more than most men threw all night. You gave him your practiced smile, cheeky and sweet all at once. “Thanks, sweetie.”

His lips curved just slightly, like he was in on a joke you didn’t know yet. His voice cut through the noise, low but clear enough to hear over the music:

“Ditch the bra.”

Then he leaned back again, settling into that spread-legged sprawl, like he’d said nothing at all.

Heat flickered under your skin, part annoyance, part thrill. You threw him a flirty look, smile tugging higher, letting him think you might play along. But not yet.

You turned away, caught the pole again, and lifted, legs wrapping chrome, your body sliding down in a slow grind. The crowd cheered, bills flying, but your moves were sharper now, more deliberate. Because you weren’t just performing for them anymore.

You were performing for him.

And his eyes never left yours. Not once. Even when his hand shifted casually to his crotch, adjusting himself through his jeans, he never broke eye contact.

As the song stretched, you finally gave them what they wanted. Fingers hooked into the red lace of your bra, pulling it down slow. The crowd erupted, hollers shaking the room, bills raining at your feet. You dropped the bra to the floor and let your tits bounce free, hands sliding over them, pinching, squeezing, your lips parted like you were moaning just for them.

The pole caught your weight as you bent back, grinding down its length, tits bouncing with each shift of your hips. Sweat slicked your skin, glitter catching in the lights. You played it up, dirty, raw, every move calculated.

When you made another round to the edge of the stage, you sank down low, knees apart, hands cupping your tits, squeezing them together as you looked up. And there he was.

The noise faded again, the whole room blurring until it was just you and him. His gaze burned into yours, lazy but sharp, that cocky smirk twisting into something darker as he leaned forward.

This time, it wasn’t hundreds.

It was five. Crisp, clean, five hundred-dollar bills fanned between his fingers. He dragged them slow across your tits, the paper brushing your nipples, and then shoved the stack deep into your thong, fingers grazing lower this time.

The crowd howled, jealous shouts echoing, but you only smiled, tilting your head like you already knew what he was. Cash machine. Dangerous, arrogant, but loaded.

You turned, giving him your ass, thong riding high as you spread your cheeks and shook it just for him. His smirk only widened, eyes glued to the show like he’d paid for it already.

The song wound down, lights dimming as the beat faded. You gave a final bow, tits still bare, scooping up a few stray bills from the stage.

Then you slipped off, heels clicking, sweat cooling on your skin. After every set came the floor - mingling, teasing, lap dances. And tonight, you already knew exactly who you were going to find.

Only in your thong now, tits bare, bra left forgotten, you drifted through the crowd, heels biting into the sticky floor, your smile painted on as you leaned here, bent there, gave a little attention to the men waving bills. Easy cash, mindless.

But your target was in sight.

And it was like he already knew. He didn’t bother to look around, didn’t scan the room for you. He just sat there, spread out in his seat, waiting. Like he’d felt you coming.

You slipped between his legs, the space already open for you, and looked down at him with a flirty grin. “Hello, handsome.”

His legs spread even further, his frame sinking back into the armchair. His eyes dragged up your body - from your heels, up the length of your legs, lingering on the red lace stretched across your pussy, then climbing higher until they locked on your tits.

You took the invitation without hesitation, lowering yourself into his lap. Your ass planted firmly on one of his thighs, the muscle hard and unyielding under you. You draped your arms around his neck, your hair brushing against his cheek as you leaned close. The smell of his cheap cologne hit you immediately.

His big hands found your thighs, palms broad and rough as they slid upward, slow. He wasn’t rushing. He was feeling. Supporting you, holding you there like you belonged.

When he spoke, his voice was dark, raspy, cutting through the noise around you like it was meant for your ears alone.

“You wear my favorite color just for me?”

Your eyes flicked down to the lace stretched over your hips, the red catching under the lights. You played along, smiling coy, tilting your head. “Uh-huh. Of course. You think it suits me?”

He chuckled - low, humorless, a sound that vibrated against your chest where you leaned into him. His gaze dropped again, settling on the red between your thighs, thoughtful, like he was weighing something.

Finally, his mouth curled. “Yeah… looks good on you. I’d paint this whole club red for you if you wanted me to.”

The words landed heavy. Odd, but not out of place in a club where men whispered filth in your ear for the price of a drink. You’d heard worse, weirder. You giggled lightly, brushing it off, your eyes sliding toward the crowd as if to share the joke with no one in particular.

Still, something about the way he said it lingered.

Like he wasn’t joking.

You tilted your head, lashes low, and let the question slip out. “So what do I call you, handsome?”

His eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and steady, that dangerous little smile tugging at his mouth. “Jeff.”

You let the name roll in your head a second, then smiled - flirty, playful, like it already suited him. “Mmm… Jeff. That’s a nice name.” Your voice was honey-sweet, practiced, but you meant it in some twisted way.

Your nails ghosted up, featherlight, combing through the mess of his dark hair. He let you, leaning into it barely, just enough to let you know he didn’t mind. His smirk deepened, eyes glinting like he already knew exactly how far he’d crawled under your skin.

His drink sat barely touched on the table, condensation dripping down the glass. You plucked it up without asking, pressing it lightly to his lips as his hands roamed. One big palm gripped your ass, fingers sinking into the curve through the lace, while the other slid along your thigh, slow and possessive, tracing down toward your ankle. His gaze lingered on your heels, a smirk tugging at his lips like he was picturing something.

“Drink,” you urged softly, your voice coated in honey, knowing the game. Drunk customers were cash machines.

He smirked, the kind that said he knew exactly what you were up to, but he tilted his chin anyway and took a sip.

Up this close, the club lights caught his face in slivers - pale skin, dark hair falling into his eyes, and there… faint, healed lines along his cheeks. Like carved smiles, now faded scars, visible only when you were this close.

A chill rippled down your spine. You wondered, just for a second, what the hell kind of man he was. Junkie, criminal, both? The thought twisted sharp in your gut, but you swallowed it down. Questions didn’t make money. You were professional.

And he was handsome. Rough around the edges, eyes shadowed with sleepless bags, scars scattered along his arms where his t-shirt sleeves rode up. Dangerous, maybe. But handsome.

You tilted your head, batting your lashes, and let your lips brush his ear as you asked, “You gonna buy me a drink, Jeff?”

His chuckle was low, his hand squeezing your ass harder as he leaned back, fishing into his pocket. He pulled out a crisp hundred, waving it lazily in the air. Another dancer came over immediately, her tits spilling out of her bra, eager to serve.

“Most expensive bottle you got,” he rasped without even looking at her. Then he shoved the tip into her bra, his eyes still locked on yours, like she didn’t even exist.

Your brows lifted, impressed despite yourself. This man was spending serious money tonight.

The waitress disappeared with his order, and you shifted in his lap, your thighs spreading over his jean-clad legs. “Damn,” you teased lightly, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, “what are we celebrating?”

His hand flexed on your ass, and when he chuckled, it was low and rough, sending a shiver through your stomach. “Let’s just say…” His eyes narrowed slightly, something dark flickering behind them. “…I took care of some business tonight. Gotta treat myself for it.”

The words made your brows twitch. Business. The way he said it wasn’t like office work or closing some business deal. It sat heavier, dangerous, like he was talking about something shady. A chill edged your spine, but you swallowed it down. Questions didn’t make money.

Instead, you ran your fingers through his long dark hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and pressed a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw. His hand slid slow up your leg, starting at your ankle, tracing the curve of your calf, your thigh. He kept going until his palm spread across your stomach, then higher still until his rough fingers were pinching lazily at your bare nipples.

A soft giggle slipped from your throat despite yourself. You arched into his touch, brushing your tits against his chest as you cooed, “You a regular here, handsome? Haven’t seen you before.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, teeth flashing just faintly in the dim light. “Nah. My boys come sometimes. Private shows. VIP shit.” His thumb flicked over your nipple, making your breath hitch.

You tilted your head, biting lightly at his ear, your teeth catching the lobe. He didn’t even flinch, just smirked wider, like he enjoyed the little sting. “Those aren’t cheap services,” you murmured against his skin.

He shrugged like it was nothing, his free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “Not an issue for us.”

That single word - us - made something click in your head. The cash, the confidence, the look in his eyes. The way he carried himself like he was untouchable. He wasn’t some businessman slumming it here for fun. No Rolex, no ring, no pretense.

No, this guy was trouble. Probably running with a gang. Probably the kind of guy you shouldn’t even be in the lap of.

And yet… the thought only made your pussy tingle harder as his fingers toyed lazily with your tits.

You tilted your head, lashes lowering as you purred against his ear, “So… you want a private show too?”

His eyes glinted when he looked at you, his lips curving slow. “Maybe,” he rasped, voice scraping like gravel. “Depends on what’s included.”

You giggled, the sound soft and practiced but tinged with genuine heat. “Oh yeah? Whatever you like, baby.”

His hand suddenly pinched your nipple harder, making you gasp, your body jerking in his lap. “You think you can handle that?”

Instead of shying away, you arched up, pressing your tits closer to his face. His gaze flicked down, and he got the hint instantly. Big hands slid up your sides, holding you upright, steady, before his mouth closed around one stiff nipple.

The heat of his tongue made your breath catch, and when he sucked hard, you let out a sound too close to a moan. The scrape of his teeth followed, biting just sharp enough to make your thighs tense.

The server reappeared just then, tray balanced with a chilled bottle and two glasses. She caught sight of you perched in his lap, tits bare against his mouth, his hands gripping the meat of your ass like he owned it. Her brow quirked, but she didn’t miss a beat - she set the bottle down and popped the cork.

You glanced up at her, smirk tugging your lips as you winked - a silent little signal that things were going very well. Amused, she gave a knowing look before leaving the bottle open and slipping away.

Jeff didn’t even glance at her. His mouth moved to your other tit, sucking and biting until you brought the nipple closer for him. His hands dug deeper into your ass, fingers rough, possessive, squeezing until the lace of your thong cut against your skin.

And every flick of his tongue sent another pulse straight to your pussy.

You shifted in his lap with a playful grin. “Look, our bottle’s here.” Sliding off just enough to grab it, you wrapped your hand around the chilled glass and tipped it straight to your lips. A swig burned sweet down your throat, and you knew you should be careful - policy was clear, don’t drink too much. But the heat of him, the way your body tingled under his touch, had you carried away.

You handed the bottle to him, eyes locked on his throat as he lifted it. The muscles in his neck worked, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, and it made your pulse kick. You leaned forward, planting a kiss against the column of his throat before slipping fully off his lap.

Your ass brushed right past his face as you bent over, giving it a slow shake, grinding the lace of your thong against his lap.

Turning back to face him, you arched your back, tits pushed high, and let your nails trail down your own stomach, pretending you weren’t watching the way his eyes followed every move. “Mmm,” you teased, voice honey-sweet, “you like the view, Jeffy?”

His smirk curved sharper, chin tipping up as he spread his legs a little wider, lounging like a king on his throne. “C’mere.”

You pretended to hesitate, lips twitching into a playful pout, before giving him exactly what he wanted. You slid into his lap, slow and smooth, your thighs bracketing his hips, knees pressing into the armchair on either side now. Settling down on him, the thick heat of his cock pressed right against your thong, and your eyes widened at the sheer size of him.

His hands wasted no time, big palms gripping your thighs and dragging you closer until you were flush against him.

“Yeah,” he rasped, eyes dark and greedy, “that’s better.”

You ground down just a little, rolling your hips with a practiced tease. His hand gripped your ass roughly as the other tilted the bottle to your lips. Champagne poured cold into your mouth, bubbles fizzing as you swallowed it down.

You giggled against the bottle’s rim, droplets running from the corner of your lips, while his hand kneaded your ass with a bruising grip. He looked up at you through dark lashes, smirk curling dangerously, and you swore the heat between your thighs doubled on the spot.

You rolled your hips slower, arms looping around his neck as you ground down on his cock. The bottle clinked against the table as he set it aside, freeing both hands to grab your ass, guiding your movements, making you bounce and shake in his lap the way he wanted.

Your eyes caught his in the dim light, and before you could stop yourself, your finger lifted to trace the faint scars cutting along his cheeks. “You’ve got a nice smile,” you teased softly.

For a second, his lips tugged higher, pulling the scars upward with the motion. “Yeah? You think so?” His voice was rough, amused. His eyes glinted darkly as he added, “Made it myself.”

Your heartbeat skipped, a chill flickering sharp in your chest as your brain supplied the image - a blade pressed to skin, smiling through the blood. But you kept your face smooth, lips curving into a flirty smile. “Yeah,” you murmured, leaning in closer. “It’s real cute.”

The heat between you flared hotter - his hands gripping tighter, his cock heavy under his pants. Your head spun with it, his touch, his stare, the sheer size of him. Without thinking, you tilted closer, tongue flicking out to trace one scar, then the other.

The sound that ripped from his chest was a growl, deep and guttural. His hands clamped down, dragging your ass hard against his cock, grinding you down until you gasped. His smirk was gone now, replaced with something hungrier, darker, as his fingers dug into your flesh like he owned it.

You’d never felt this way at work before. Usually it was a routine - fake smiles, fake moans, fake interest. But with him? Your body wasn’t pretending. You wanted him. Every roll of your hips left your thong wetter, every look in his eyes made your head spin harder.

And it was like he could read your mind. That sharp little smirk curved his mouth as one big hand slid down your hip, fingers hooking beneath the lace of your thong. He didn’t hesitate, he pushed in, rough fingertips brushing your slit, finding you soaked.

A gasp slipped out before you could catch it. Any other customer trying this would’ve had security called in seconds. But instead of pulling away, you pressed into his hand, the heat of his touch making your pussy ache.

His smirk widened, eyes locked on yours as he dragged his slick fingers up and spread the wetness against your clit. “You’re soaked,” he rasped, smug, almost mocking. “All that grinding got you this wet, huh?”

Your face heated, but you bit back with a flirty giggle, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe,” you teased, voice low and coy. “What if it did?”

He chuckled, low in his chest, the sound vibrating against you. His fingers gave your clit one last stroke before slipping free, hand slick when he grabbed your ass again. His eyes burned into yours, dangerous and hungry.

“So,” he drawled, “you taking me to that private show or not?”

You slid off his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs trembling, your thong sticking damp against you. You turned to face him with a smile and a sway of your hips. “Yes, sir.”

You grabbed the chilled bottle off the table as he rose to his feet. He towered over you, adjusting the front of his jeans with no shame, the outline of his cock straining against the denim. Even in your sky-high heels, you had to tilt your chin up just to meet his eyes.

As you turned to lead him, you caught the subtle gesture - his knuckle brushing his nose, that familiar twitch of a cokehead. It didn’t surprise you. Not here. Not with him. You just smiled, tossed your hair, and kept walking.

The crowd parted around you, men hooting, strippers weaving between tables, bass thudding against your ribs. Jeff didn’t bother keeping his hands to himself. Instead, one finger slipped under the waistband of your thong, tugging it tight against your hip. He used it like a leash, keeping you close as you led him through the maze of tables.

Heat curled low in your stomach at the possessive pressure, the casual arrogance of him guiding you even while you walked him back. A thrill ran through you at the thought of every man in the room watching, seeing you tugged along by this guy.

At the hallway, a bouncer took one look and stepped aside. No questions asked. You didn’t even pause, just picked one of the rooms and pushed the door open.

Inside, the bass dulled to a muffled throb. Red lights washed over leather seating and mirrored walls, the faint smell of smoke and perfume clinging to the air. You stepped in first, bottle in hand, and let the door click shut behind you both.

The VIP room was set up like a fantasy - a wide bed draped in dark sheets, mirrors gleaming on every wall, and a polished chrome pole planted right at the foot. You twirled toward it with a playful grin, heels clicking as you caught the pole and gave it a slow spin. The bottle of champagne tilted to your lips mid-turn, bubbles fizzing sweet down your throat.

“This is our own bedroom, baby,” you teased, voice low and honeyed. You gave the pole one last shake, dropped into a squat, ass wiggling as you bounced up slow. “You like it? Red lights. Your favorite color.”

The line was flirty, practiced, but the second your eyes flicked to his, your breath caught. His demeanor had shifted - no lazy sprawl, no half-smirk. His gaze had gone low, dark, something sharp and hungry lurking there. Alone with you now, it was like a different set of rules applied.

The room felt smaller, hotter. Like something dangerous had followed you inside and locked the door.

“Lay down,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “On the bed.”

You forced a giggle, the sound a little thinner than usual, but you nodded all the same. You handed him the bottle and stepped back, hips swaying as you crossed to the bed. You sprawled across the sheets, hair spilling, tits bare and glistening under the red wash of light.

“Just like that,” he muttered, watching you with that dark, consuming stare that made your skin prickle.

You stretched back on the sheets, fingers teasing over your tits, legs spreading wide under the glow of red. “This VIP treatment’s pricey, baby,” you purred, voice laced with practiced sweetness. “Champagne alone isn’t gonna cut it.”

Jeff tilted the bottle up, taking a long swig, Adam’s apple bobbing hard as he drank. He lowered it slow, his eyes dragging over your body as your fingers toyed with your nipples, your thighs parting wider like an invitation. The smirk that tugged at his mouth was sharp, cruel.

“Hoes like you only got one thing on their mind, huh?” he rasped, his voice a low growl. “Cash or nothing.”

The words stung - not because they were new, but because they weren’t. You’d heard it before, from men who thought their money bought them the right to spit. It was the job. That was the game.

And yet… something about the way he said it, the way his eyes burned into you, made your pussy throb even harder.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick wallet, stuffed with bills. Without hesitation, he flipped it open and pulled out a stack.

“Make it rain on me,” you breathed, a teasing smile curving your lips as you arched up, tits thrust forward.

His smirk widened, condescending, like he was humoring you. Then the bills fluttered down, slapping against your bare skin, scattering across your thighs, your stomach, the curve of your tits.

You grabbed a handful, rubbing them against your body with a giggle, rolling your hips like the paper itself turned you on. The look on his face told you he liked it - or at least, he liked watching you debase yourself for it. 

You shifted on the bed, rolling onto your knees until you were in front of him, tits still bouncing slightly as you crawled closer. Your hands reached for the wallet in his grip, but Jeff yanked it back with a grin, keeping it just out of reach.

You laughed, playful, stretching forward until your tits brushed his chest. “C’mon, baby,” you teased, giggling when he tugged it away again.

It became a game - you reaching, him pulling it back, your giggles spilling into the low red-lit room. Finally, with a chuckle, he let you have it.

You flipped the wallet open. A thick wad of bills stared back at you, more than you’d seen in a long while. Your brows lifted, impressed. But tucked behind the cash was an ID - the corner of the card poking out. Curious, you slid it free.

The face staring back wasn’t Jeff’s.

An older man, balding, tired eyes, the name printed clear in block letters. You tilted the card up toward the red light, lips curving into a smirk as you raised a brow at him. “Mr. Smith? That doesn’t look like you.”

The realization twisted in your gut. All that cash. All that confidence. It wasn’t his. He must’ve robbed this poor guy and stolen his wallet. That made sense.

Jeff barked out a laugh, sharp and amused, before his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair. The sudden yank made your scalp sting, forcing your head back until your eyes met his. His smirk was wicked.

“Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance,” he rasped, his breath hot against your face. “But hey… at least he left behind a shitton of cash.”

Your chest rose and fell faster, heart pounding as you stared up at him. Blink once. Twice. Then, careful, steady, you asked, “What happened to Mr. Smith?”

Jeff ripped the wallet from your hands, tossing it onto the bed like it was worthless. His grip in your hair only tightened, pulling until your scalp burned.

“Take a guess.”

Your scalp burned under his grip, your heart hammering faster at the way his dark eyes bored into yours. Careful, careful - you knew better than to flinch. Instead, you wet your lips, tilted your head just slightly against the pull, and whispered, “…you robbed him?”

His smirk widened.

You rushed on, soft and sweet, voice dripping honey. “It’s okay, baby. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.”

That earned you something - the edge in his stare softened just enough, the dangerous amusement curling sharper. He let you lean forward again, his grip still tight in your hair as your fingers went to his belt.

The buckle clinked under your touch, his smirk heavy above you. “You good at keeping secrets, slut?” he rasped, voice low, taunting.

You looked up at him with wide, glittering eyes and nodded, lashes fluttering. “Mhm. Very good. Especially when my silence has already been paid for.” You giggled, cheeky, tugging the wallet back into view and tapping the thick wad of cash with one manicured finger. “We’re splitting Mr. Smith’s cash, sweetie.”

He shot you a look.

“Splitting it?” Jeff barked, his smirk turning cruel. “You’re just where the money’s going, you fucking bitch.”

Before you could even react, his free hand dug into his pocket - and when it came back up, the glint of steel caught the red light. A pocket knife.

Your blood went cold.

For a heartbeat, the whole room tilted. You cursed the lazy bouncers, cursed yourself for leading him back here, cursed the goddamn lock on the door. There was no outrunning him now, not with his grip in your hair like iron, yanking your scalp raw.

You tried to jerk back, heart hammering, but the knife was already there, flashing close enough that your breath caught sharp in your throat.

“Now shut the fuck up and behave,” he snarled, voice a growl that vibrated down your spine. The blade glinted inches from your cheek. “I’m not here to kill a whore. Just fuck one.”

Terror tangled with heat, and you nodded frantically, lips parting in a desperate gasp. “Y-yeah–okay–”

The knife stayed steady, the words sinking deep into you. Not here to kill. Just to fuck.

And God help you, your thighs squeezed together, slick heat spilling down as your pussy clenched hard. The danger, the humiliation, the way he owned you in this moment, it made you wetter than you wanted to admit.

You nodded again, desperate, hair tight in his fist, voice a broken whisper. “I’ll be good, I’ll behave.”

His dark eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

The cold kiss of steel pressed against your throat, just firm enough to make your pulse jump. Jeff leaned in, his voice a low rasp that scraped over your skin.

“Don’t scream. Don’t call for help. You do, and I’ll slit your throat. Got it?”

You nodded frantically, the motion jerking against the knife, breath shallow, body trembling. “Y-yeah,” you whispered, your voice shaky and small. Anything to keep him from snapping.

Your hands lifted slow, careful, until your fingers found his belt. You tugged at the leather strap, your whole body quivering as if you couldn’t stop yourself.

He chuckled, a cruel smirk curving his mouth. “Desperate little bitch.”

But he got the hint.

The grip in your hair finally loosened. He shifted the knife, sliding the handle between his teeth, holding it clenched there like a wolf with a bone. Both his hands dropped to his waist. The clink of the buckle echoed in the tight room, followed by the scrape of denim sliding down.

His boxers went with them.

And holy fuck.

Your breath caught, a shiver tearing through you. He was big. Thick and veiny, already hard, and the sight alone almost ripped a moan out of your throat.

Your thighs squeezed together helplessly. You couldn’t look away.

His dark eyes locked on you, that smirk still twisting cruel at the edges.

And without thinking, you found yourself sinking back on the bed, hair spilling across the sheets, hands tugging your thong down your thighs. You spread your legs, wetness glistening in the red light, like your body was offering itself up without your brain even catching up.

Your voice shook, but the words spilled out anyway, soft and awed as your eyes locked on his cock. “You’re… you’re so big.”

His smirk deepened, teeth flashing around the handle of the knife as he pulled it free to rasp, “Yeah? Gonna stretch that pussy out so fucking good.”

The promise made your whole body thrum. A moan slipped past you as you bit down on your swollen lip, hand sliding between your legs. All sense of danger, of survival, drowned under the heat flooding your veins. Your fingers found your clit, circling slow, the thought of his cock ruining you enough to make you shiver.

Jeff growled low in his chest, the sound animalistic. His eyes dropped to the sight of you spread open, glistening, already dripping for him.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head. Fabric hit the floor, forgotten.

You stared.

Lean, taut muscle stretched across his frame, every line sharp and cut. Scars littered his pale skin, ugly and beautiful, tracing history across a chest and stomach as hard as carved stone. His v-line dipped deep, the sharp points of his hipbones cutting shadows under the red light.

He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his cock bobbing heavy between his thighs. The knife never left his hand.

He knelt over you, spreading your knees wider with a rough push until your pussy was bared completely for him, glistening under his stare. He towered above you, scarred, muscular, cock thick and hard, knife gleaming in his fist like you were already his to ruin.

Slowly, he stroked himself, long fingers pumping that heavy length as his eyes raked over your body.

A cruel smirk cut across his face. “Look at you. Fucking stripper whore, spreading for anyone with cash. You make a living shaking your ass for drunks, and now you’re dripping for me like a bitch in heat.”

The words burned, meant to sting, but instead your pussy clenched harder. A whimper slipped from your throat as your fingers kept working your clit, rubbing faster, your thighs trembling. He was armed, his knife gleaming, and you knew better than to fight, but the degradation only seemed to make you wetter.

His growl rumbled deep as he reached forward, his rough hand clamping around your thigh and shoving it wider until you were spread indecently open for him. The gesture was commanding, humiliating, and it made your stomach flutter with heat.

Then he leaned forward, spit gathering on his tongue before he let it fall, thick and wet, straight onto your pussy. It landed on your clit, slicking you further, making you gasp and shiver.

Jeff gripped his cock tighter, guiding the thick head down between your folds. He rubbed himself along your slit once, twice, coating himself in your wetness, before he lined up at your entrance.

And then, without warning, he shoved forward.

The stretch was brutal, your walls straining to take him, your body arching off the sheets with a sharp cry. He was huge, every vein and ridge forcing its way inside you, no gentleness, no easing. Just a rough, claiming thrust that stole your breath.

“Fuck,” he snarled, knife flashing as he pressed your thigh down harder. “Tight little pussy. Gonna tear you open, your hear me?”

Your nails dug into his arm, desperate for something to hold onto as the thick length of him split you wide. The stretch was brutal, every inch forcing your walls to give, filling you so deep it felt like he was rearranging you. Your back arched off the sheets, a cry ripping out of your chest.

“O-oh my God, fuck–” you moaned, head tipping back, thighs trembling.

The cold press of steel returned to your throat. The blade bit just lightly, enough to make your pulse thunder against it. His dark eyes burned down at you.

“No mercy for you,” Jeff rasped, and then he slammed into you again, harder, deeper.

You learned quickly he meant it. Each thrust was rough, relentless, pounding into you with no rhythm except force. Your heartbeat hammered in your throat, right where the knife hovered, the alcohol fizzing hot in your veins. It was all too much - the danger, the sting, the stretch, the filthy thrill of him using you like nothing but an outlet for his bottled up rage.

You felt him in your belly, every brutal thrust punching the air out of your lungs. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you clawed at his arms, desperate and overwhelmed, moaning brokenly, “F-fuck–fuck–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, voice vibrating against your skin.

With his free hand, he grabbed a fistful of bills from the sheets, crumpled green fluttering everywhere. He shoved them hard against your mouth, forcing them between your lips until you were gagging on paper and spit.

“Choke on 'em, you fucking slut,” he snarled, cock slamming into you deep enough to make your stomach twist, knife still pressing steady at your throat.

The paper scratched at your tongue, crammed past your lips until you were gagging on the taste of ink and spit. Your muffled moans spilled out around the wad of cash, broken and desperate, each one drowned out by the brutal slap of his hips against yours.

Jeff looked down at you, eyes wild, hair falling messily into his face. He looked possessed, every vein in his neck standing taut as he fucked you deeper, harder. “Look at you,” he snarled. “Gagging on money like the whore you are. You like that?”

You choked out another moan, tears streaking down your cheeks, the humiliation sparking heat low in your belly. Your hands flew up without thinking, tangling in his hair, yanking helplessly.

The move only made him growl. His grip on the knife shifted, pressing the cold steel harder to your throat until you swore you could feel your pulse beating right against the blade.

Your thoughts scattered, heart hammering in your ears. The alcohol buzzing in your blood, the weight of him inside you, the danger hovering inches from your skin, it all tangled together until it was too much.

You couldn’t even control the orgasm that tore through you.

Your body arched violently against him, legs shaking, a sharp cry muffled by the bills crammed in your mouth. Blackness flickered at the edges of your vision as your release hit you, brutal and overwhelming. Your whole body shook, trembling uncontrollably, pussy clenching down tight around his cock.

His pace finally slowed, the brutal snap of his hips melting into a deep grind that dragged every inch of him against your raw, pulsing walls. You were trembling, pussy still spasming around him, your whole body shuddering through the aftershocks of release.

Speechless, breathless, you could only gasp for air, chest rising unevenly. You tried to spit the bills out, your lips wet and swollen, and he finally pulled the knife away, tossing it aside like the threat had never happened.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, dazed.

Jeff dragged the back of his wrist across his forehead, sweat slicking his skin. His smirk curved sharp, smug, almost bored, even though his chest heaved with heavy breaths. He looked down at you like you were some conquered thing, ruined too fast for his liking.

“Too much?” he mocked, voice rough with exertion, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “I thought you could handle it.”

You shook your head slowly, lips curving into a faint, shaky smile. No way in hell were you letting him walk away thinking he’d broken you. This was your job. You made men remember you. And goddamn it, despite everything, you found him attractive.

You steadied your breathing, licking your lips as you leaned up closer. “Lay back,” you said softly, low and steady, like a command.

For a moment, he just stared. Then he barked out a laugh, sharp and mocking. “Ohh, you’re the one in charge now? Gonna put on a little show for me again?”

But the smirk didn’t fade, and he obeyed anyway. He slipped out of you slow, your body clenching at the loss, and stretched out across the wide bed like he owned it, scars on full display, cock still heavy and glistening. His hands laced lazily behind his head, his smirk smug as ever.

“Alright,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, remind yourself who you were. You were a dancer. A pro. This was your job, and this guy was just another customer, a loaded one. Maybe, just maybe, you could turn this wreckage into more cash.

Gathering yourself, you pushed up onto your knees, hair tumbling down your back as you shifted around on the bed. Slowly, you turned until your ass was facing him, right near where his cock lay heavy against his stomach.

You arched your back, giving him the full view, then began to roll your hips in practiced, sensual waves. Your ass brushed against him, the slick heat of your folds dragging along his length. You ground against him with purpose, skill in every twist, your voice lilting, breathy: “Mmm… you fucked me so good. You’re so big, Jeffy.”

Jeff’s chuckle rumbled low, dark and amused, vibrating up through his chest. His broad hands came up without hesitation, clamping down on your hips. He guided your movements, pulling you tighter against him, dragging your ass over his cock exactly how he wanted it.

You giggled lightly, playful, taking the hint. You let him guide you, then shifted further back, scooting up until your ass hovered right over his face. With another coy little shake, you wiggled your hips, cheeks spreading, giving him the view.

“Like that, baby?” you teased, voice dripping honey as you bounced lightly, shaking your ass for him, every move as much a performance as it was an offering.

“Mhm,” he hummed against you, clearly entertained, lips curved into that smug little smirk as he watched you shake and roll like you were back on stage.

You let out a playful giggle, shifting again, turning in his lap until you straddled him fully. His cock pressed hot and hard against your slick folds, your tits brushing against his mouth. He didn’t waste a second - his lips closed around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking rough until you gasped.

You ground down on his length, teasing yourself on the heavy thickness of him, your clit dragging over his veins with every roll of your hips. Your hand snaked out blindly, fingers curling around the chilled champagne bottle. You lifted it to your lips and tipped it back, bubbles burning sweet down your throat.

You knew the rules. No getting drunk on the job. But fuck the rules - this was too much. You were scared and turned on, overwhelmed and needy, and the burn only added to the rush.

Jeff tilted his head back to look at you, dark eyes glinting with cruel amusement as his mouth left your tit. One hand came up to pinch and tug at your other nipple, rough enough to make you hiss, while the other gripped your thigh so tight it bordered on painful.

The bruising hold forced you down harder against him, his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. The hint was clear.

Your hand slipped lower, between your bodies, fingers curling around his thick shaft. You guided him toward your soaked pussy, breath hitching as the blunt head pressed at your opening.

You sank down on him slow, inch by inch, your walls stretching to take the thick length of him. He let you, leaning back against the headboard with that lazy, cocky sprawl, like he was giving you the illusion of control.

And you made it count.

Your hips rolled, steady, grinding down on his cock until you could feel him everywhere, until your tits bounced with every slow rise and fall. His big hands came up, rough palms grabbing your tits, squeezing, pinching, pulling at your nipples until you gasped and moaned above him.

The champagne bottle was still clutched in your hand, cold against your fingers. You tipped it back for another swig, bubbles burning down your throat, the sweetness coating your tongue. Then you brought it to his mouth.

“Drink,” you teased breathlessly, grinding down harder as you tilted it for him.

Jeff smirked and obeyed, his throat working as he swallowed a mouthful. Some of it spilled past his lips, running down his chin in glittering trails.

Without thinking, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lick it up, savoring the taste of champagne and him.

That was when he caught your mouth.

His lips crashed against yours, rough and hungry, teeth biting at your bottom lip until you whined into him. The kiss was messy, punishing, his tongue forcing its way past yours, his grip on your tits tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your body ground against his harder, caught between the brutal stretch of his cock and the fierce, biting kiss that made your head spin.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack. His chest heaved under you, slick with sweat, his cock still buried deep inside as your hips rolled lazily against him.

“You wanna know another secret?” he rasped, voice rough, eyes glittering.

Your breath hitched, your tits bouncing with every grind, the champagne bottle slipping from your fingers as you set it down. “Yeah,” you mumbled, dazed and breathless, eyes flicking between his lips and his stare.

His face inched closer, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your mouth, his hands tightening on your hips until the bruises would bloom. His lips brushed yours, the words spilling out like sin.

“I didn’t just rob the guy and steal his wallet,” he said, low and casual, “I killed him first.”

It was like your heart stopped.

Of course you’d thought it - you’d felt it in your gut the second you saw the scars, the attitude, the knife. But hearing him admit it so openly, while he was still inside you, while your pussy clenched around him? It was something else entirely.

Your pulse roared in your ears, but your body was drunk on him - his touch, his heat, his eyes. Your lips parted, trembling, and you whispered, “…really?”

That smirk sharpened. He pulled you flush against him, chest to chest, and started fucking up into you hard, brutal thrusts that drove his cock deeper. His hips snapped sharp, his smug amusement never faltering. “Mhm,” he grunted, nodding like it was nothing.

Your head tipped back, a broken moan spilling from your throat as your nails clawed down his shoulders. The brutal rhythm made your whole body quake, your pussy stretched to its limit as your vision blurred.

You leaned down, lips brushing his, your voice breathless but steady. “Like I said,” you whispered, a shiver running through you, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Something in your answer flipped a switch.

Jeff’s smirk sharpened into something darker, hungrier, his eyes blazing like you’d just handed him the key to unlock the ugliest part of himself. His hands clamped down on your hips, bruising hard, and in one sharp shift he bent his knees beneath you.

Then he drove up into you.

The sudden force knocked the air from your lungs, your body jolting as his cock slammed deep. Your little rhythm was gone, wiped out in an instant - now it was his, all his. Rough, merciless thrusts pounded you from below, each one forcing broken moans from your throat.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, voice sharp with cruel delight. “You like it, don’t you? Getting ruined by a fucking killer.”

You tried to answer, but it came out as a pathetic whimper, your head nodding frantically as your tits bounced with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Say it,” he snarled, slamming you down harder, your pussy clenching around him, slick squelching between you. “Say you like it.”

Your voice broke, choked moans tangled with desperate words. “Y-yes–fuck–I l-like it!”

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet, filthy, your body slapping against his with every thrust. He dragged you down onto his cock again and again, using you like a doll, sweat slicking both of you.

You clung to him helplessly, nails digging into his shoulders, moaning into his ear as your body shook. There was no control left - only him, fucking you open, taunting you for craving it, making you his in every brutal stroke.

His thrusts never faltered, brutal and relentless, when one big hand shot up to your face. His fingers dug into your cheeks, forcing your lips into a pout as he growled through gritted teeth,

“You don’t even care, do you? That every dollar I’ve given you’s got blood on it?”

The words cut sharp, heavy, but your body betrayed you. A broken whimper slipped past the wad of air in your throat, and you shook your head weakly before finally whispering, “N-no… I don’t care.”

His laugh was cruel, jagged, his hips slamming up harder. “Filthy fucking whore,” he snarled. “No better than me.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe you should’ve cared. But you couldn’t. Not with the way your pussy gripped him, not with the sweat dripping down his scarred chest, not with the knife nearby and his cock splitting you apart.

Your hands trembled as you reached up, fingertips brushing across the faint, carved smile scars at the corners of his mouth. A silent admission. A nod.

He growled, deep and feral, his hips snapping faster, harder, pounding into you until the bed shook. Then, just as suddenly, he slipped free, his cock wet and glistening.

“On all fours,” he ordered, voice sharp with command.

You scrambled off him on shaky legs, breath ragged, and fell forward onto your hands. Arching your back, you presented yourself - ass high in the air, pussy glistening, wiggling for him like an offering.

Jeff’s low chuckle rumbled behind you. A second later, his palm cracked against your ass, hard. The sting made you yelp, your body jerking, but you pushed back into it. Another smack. Then another, until your skin burned, heat radiating through you.

“Such a fucking slut,” he rasped, lining himself up.

And then he shoved inside in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, the force knocking your arms forward, your tits bouncing against the sheets. His fist tangled in your hair immediately, yanking your head back until your spine bowed, while his other hand clamped down on your hip hard enough to bruise.

He started pounding. No rhythm, no mercy, just rough, savage thrusts that drove you into the mattress, each one punching a helpless moan from your throat. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, loud, obscene, your pussy gushing around him.

“Take it, bitch,” he snarled, yanking your hair tighter, his hips slamming into your ass with bruising force. “All you’re good for is this dick.”

You couldn’t help it, your voice broke in desperate, needy cries, each one louder than the last, your whole body shuddering from the overwhelming sensation. His words, his mockery, only pushed you further toward the edge, every filthy degradation making your pussy clench tighter around him.

His fist stayed tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so every brutal thrust arched your spine sharper, drove him deeper. The sound of his hips slamming into your ass echoed in the room, wet, obscene, and relentless.

You couldn’t stop yourself. One trembling hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, circling frantically. The extra friction tore moans from your throat, high and needy, spilling into the sheets.

Jeff groaned at the sight, his voice low and jagged. “So fucking filthy... can’t even take dick without touching yourself.” His words hit you like gasoline on fire, only making you rub harder, desperate for more.

He snapped his hips faster, the headboard slamming the wall. His spit landed hot against your shoulder, sliding down your skin, his disdain dripping from every word. “Yeah, keep rubbing your little clit while I ruin you, you fucking whore.”

That mocking tone, the sting of his spit, the bruising grip of his hand on your hip, it all pushed you right over the edge.

Your body broke with it, a raw cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you. Your pussy spasmed hard, gushing around him, dripping down his cock and thighs as the wet slap grew louder, messier.

Jeff slowed just enough to grind into you, savoring it, groaning as your walls clenched and fluttered.

You clutched desperately at his arms, nails biting into his skin, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. The waves crashed over you again and again until your whole body was shaking, twitching, your thighs quivering helplessly.

He stayed buried in you, thick and deep, letting you ride it out while the room filled with your ragged cries and the sound of your body giving out beneath him.

Your arms gave out, your cheek pressed to the sheets as you gasped, muttering a breathless, “F…fuck…”

But Jeff wasn’t finished with you.

His grip on your hair tightened cruelly, yanking you upright until you cried out, his cock slipping free of your soaked pussy with a wet sound. He dragged you by the scalp, forcing you to scramble onto your knees, and you got the hint instantly.

“Blow me,” he snarled, the command leaving no room for anything else.

You bent obediently, lips parting wide as you took the thick head of his cock into your mouth. He was hot, heavy, slick with your own arousal, the taste coating your tongue.

Jeff’s hand clamped around the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp as he drove you down on him, using your throat like it belonged to him. He didn’t care for rhythm, didn’t care for your gagging whimpers, just fucked your mouth like it was the last step to get himself off.

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, working him with messy strokes to match his brutal thrusts, spit and precum slicking your palm. Your eyes watered, mascara smearing as tears spilled down your cheeks.

He groaned above you, low and rough, looking down at the mess he was making of you. “Figures,” he muttered through clenched teeth, voice thick with contempt and arousal. “Dick sucking’s all you’re good for anyway, huh, whore?”

The insult hit hot, making your pussy clench. You moaned around him, vibrating his cock as you choked and swallowed him down, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself as he used your mouth with ruthless abandon.

Jeff’s grip loosened just enough for you to take control, and for the first time he let you really work him.

You wrapped your lips tighter around the thick length, bobbing your head in long, wet strokes, tongue flattening under him as your hand twisted at his base. The spit dripping from your chin only made it filthier, your throat aching, jaw burning, but you knew how to make a man fall apart, and you gave it everything.

His growls deepened, rough and uneven, his thighs flexing beneath your hands as his breathing grew ragged. His fingers tangled back into your hair, tugging hard, his hips rolling into your face like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck–yeah, that’s it,” he snarled, voice breaking with a sharp edge. “Suck it, bitch.”

And then his control snapped.

He slammed you down on him, burying himself to the hilt in your throat as he groaned, loud and guttural. His grip was iron, holding you there, your nose pressed against his base as hot ropes of cum spilled straight down your throat.

You gagged around him, eyes watering, throat convulsing as he filled you, his groans rumbling above you. He held you there through it, forcing you to take every drop until your chest burned for air.

Finally, when the last pulse had left him, he yanked you back by the hair, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop. Spit and cum dribbled down your chin, strings of it clinging to your lips as you gasped for breath, wrecked and ruined, but fucked so deep into submission you could barely think.

Jeff let out a low, satisfied whistle, then flopped back against the pillows like he hadn’t just wrecked you, cocky smirk tugging at his mouth as he sprawled across the bed with his arms stretched wide.

You stayed frozen for a second, not sure if you were supposed to stay kneeling or crawl away. Finally, you eased down beside him, chest still heaving, skin buzzing with every aftershock.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him leaning off the side of the bed, rummaging through the pocket of his jeans. When his hand came back, it wasn’t for the knife this time. A crumpled cigarette pack and a lighter hit his palm.

He flicked the lighter, flame briefly illuminating his scarred face before the smoke curled into the red-lit air. Casual. Lazy. Like this was nothing.

The no-smoking signs plastered all over the club flashed in your mind, but your throat closed around the words. You weren’t about to test him.

So when he passed the cigarette over, you took it between shaky fingers, brought it to your lips, and drew in deep, the burn filling your chest.

For the first time since you’d walked into the room, things slowed. Reality bled back in: the scars slashed across his torso, the bruising grip he’d left on your thighs, the taste of him still at the back of your throat.

You studied him silently, every line of his body cut sharp in the haze, every scar a story you didn’t dare ask about.

He caught your stare, exhaled a long plume of smoke, then glanced over with that same infuriating smirk.

Like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Your head spun with everything you wanted to ask - a hundred questions clawing at your throat. Who he really was. What he’d done. What the fuck you’d just gotten yourself into. But it was like he’d stolen your ability to think straight, let alone speak. All you could do was breathe smoke and stare at the danger lying next to you.

When you finally passed the cigarette back, his lips curved into that lazy, cruel smirk. “You look a fucking mess,” he drawled, amusement thick in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, brushing your tangled hair back from your face, the corner of your mouth twitching into a small, reluctant smile. “Oh yeah? That’s your fault.”

Jeff barked out a low laugh, smoke curling from between his teeth. He tipped his head toward you, scars catching in the red light, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

“Well,” he muttered, taking another drag, “customer’s always right.”

You hummed softly, not bothering to answer, though in your chest you knew he wasn’t just another customer. Not with the way he’d gotten under your skin, carved himself into your memory like those scars etched across his body.

Jeff moved with lazy satisfaction, still smirking as he pushed himself off the bed. He stretched, every muscle rippling under scarred skin, then began pulling his clothes back on like he had all the time in the world. Jeans. Shirt. That pocket knife slid back into its home.

He barely spared you a glance as he headed for the door, smoke still lingering in the air from his cigarette.

Your eyes flicked to the wallet left on the bed, its weight heavy, stuffed. “Hey,” you called after him, your voice hoarse but steady. “You forgot the wallet.”

He paused with his hand on the door, turned his head just enough for that smug smirk to curve across his lips. “Keep it,” he muttered, then disappeared into the hall like a shadow.

You blinked, stunned, your body still humming from everything he’d done to you. Caught off guard, swooning in spite of yourself.

Slowly, you reached for the wallet. Flipping it open, the thick stack of bills practically spilled into your lap. Your lips curled into a smile, small but wicked, as the weight of it settled in your hands.