HƆNI XI9
part one
warnings: foul language, suggestive, etc etc
summary: englishmen are insistent.
You scrolled aimlessly through your phone, sitting on the cold wooden bench in front of those all-too-familiar lockers. Jude was everywhere—on your feed, in your explore page, buried in stories you didn’t even mean to tap on. It was like the algorithm had it out for you, twisting the knife a little deeper each time his face popped up.
You weren’t new to fame. You’d been in music videos, name-dropped in songs, brushed shoulders with more celebrities than you could count. The spotlight never rattled you. But somehow, Jude did.
You’d ignored his follow requests. Left his texts on read—not that you even remembered giving him your number in the first place. Still, he lingered. A handsome kind of plague you couldn’t seem to shake.
Your mind drifted, uninvited, to that private dance. The way his hands hovered, cautious but curious. The slow, reverent way he’d unlaced your underwear like he was unwrapping something sacred. He never crossed a line, but somehow that only made you want him more.
You needed him. But needing wasn’t the same as having.
Because in the real world, men like him didn’t end up with girls like you. You were an exotic dancer from a tiny town in Georgia; he was a football star on one of the most decorated teams on the planet. Even if you left that life behind, the past had teeth. And the media never let girls like you forget it.
You checked the time and pulled yourself out of the spiral, grounding yourself in the now. Showtime was coming. You were used to this. You’d climbed from pouring drinks to dancing side stage to dominating the main floor.
You were the name people whispered about, the one they came to see. The one they paid for. The money rolled in, but lately, the weight of it all felt heavier than usual. You were tired. But at least tonight, the crowd was small, private. Manageable.
They’d asked for you, like most did. You had the kind of body that made people forget their names, and the kind of presence that made them beg to remember yours. A tap on your shoulder broke your thoughts—it was one of the girls stepping off stage, her garters barely holding bills.
Private party with private pockets, you thought bitterly, standing up. You sprayed one last mist of setting spray across your face and leaned into the mirror. A quick swipe of your cheap, glittery lip gloss. Still, even exhausted, you looked like a dream.
You stepped into the haze of the club, lights flickering against the smoke, your heels clicking softly beneath the music. It was packed, shoulder to shoulder with unfamiliar faces—men too stunned to even touch, too fascinated to blink.
Definitely not from Atlanta.
You scanned the room. Nothing but tourists. That sinking feeling settled in your stomach. You hated outsiders. Hated the guessing game. At least the regulars had patterns. Predictability. These men? You’d have to read them cold.
You approached the pole slowly, easing into your rhythm. A bend at the waist, a calculated tilt of your hips. Letting the tension build, letting them think they had time to figure you out. Then—you felt it.
Fingers slipping into your thong.
Your body stiffened. You knew that touch. Too well.
“Jude,” you gasped, whipping around and stepping down from the stage, heat flooding your cheeks as your coworkers looked on. “What the hell are you doing here?” You smacked his chest—not in anger, not exactly. Something heavier. Conflicted.
No matter how many times you tried to shut the door on him, he always had another key. That was the curse of rich men—money rewrote the rules. Bought back access you thought you revoked.
“I paid good money for this, love,” he said, with that same smirk that made you ache and want to scream all at once. His hands grazed your sides, the heat from his skin sinking into your bones.
“You love to tip toe on my boundaries,” you said, quieter now. “I told you I’m a stripper. That’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
“And I keep telling you,” he said, stepping closer, “we could be more. But if you really mean that—if that’s all you’ll ever be—then at least let me be your favorite customer.”
There was something in his eyes. Lust, yes, but beneath it—something dangerous. Something tender. It chipped at the wall you’d built.
For a second, you almost gave in. Almost let yourself believe he meant it. That he could be different.
“Why do you want me so bad?” you asked, voice shaky. “Is this some kind of fetish?”
“What? No—”
“Is it the control? The idea that you can buy me? Does that turn you on? Am I just some PG-13 prostitute to you?”
He didn’t flinch. Just reached for your hand and led you into the same room where everything started. Where he first watched you, not like a man paying for a show—but like someone looking at art and aching to touch.
The silence settled thick between you.
“Why would I think of you like that?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, slower. “Am I not allowed to be infatuated with you?”
You looked down. The words came out before you could soften them. “I like you, Jude. That’s the problem.” You huffed putting your head in your hands, trying to take a deep breath.
“But I know how this ends. When i’m the docile girl you took out the strip club you’ll love me. But when I fuck up or do something you don’t like, I’ll be back to being a hoe. That’s what happens to girls like me.”
The air shifted. You hated how fragile you sounded. How much it sounded like a plea for protection when all you wanted was honesty.
“So you don’t want anything real?” he asked. “You don’t want love?”
You shrugged. A tear rolled down, but you wiped it away before it could fall too far.
He stared at you—like he was trying to see through everything you said, everything you didn’t.
Then he spoke, low and steady:
“If you were really okay with what you do…you’d understand that I accept you exactly as you are.”
A long pause.
“But the truth is, you don’t even know how to accept yourself.”
