He sat sprawled, legs wide in tailored black slacks, silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest so his heavy gold chains caught every flash of light. His eyes never left the main floor.

You were posted at the bar rail directly below the mezzanine overhang, a perfect sight line for him, coincidentally. He could see your gold lamé mini dress, a pretty number he bought last week, shimmering under the pink and red lights, so short every time you shifted your weight the hem rode up another dangerous inch, your fresh box braids swinging loose, gold hoops glinting, lips painted a glossy Valentine’s red that matched the roses everywhere.

You’d been working the bar for the better part of an hour, turning the Juke into your own personal stage. It's Valentine's day, love is in the air, and you still don't officially have a man to celebrate with. You've been with Stack for a little over a year now, and you're tired of being unclaimed. You want people to see you and think Ain't that Stack's girl? So, you have a plan. You're going to make Stack claim you, no matter what it takes. The nice men here in this lovely establishment should be the perfect pawns to help you.

Unfortunately, most of the guys who've come up to you so far haven't been good enough. They're small fish, minor street runners that'll be the first to go should the spot get blown up. Nothing Stack would take too serious.

That is, until a tall, light skin nigga with dreads came up to you, his gold teeth flashing as he grinned. You recognised him as one of Smoke's, actually, from before he retired to be with Annie, handing everything on over to stack. The light skin—V, he tells you—leaned in to order you a flute of the pink champagne the bartender was pouring for every woman who looked single. His hand brushed your lower back to "keep you steady, girl. You look real uneven on them heels” while the bottle was being opened. You laughed, head tilted back, hand resting on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary, then let him pour for you, clinking glasses while you leaned closer so he could smell your Opium perfume.

Then the shorter one joined. He was new around here. Not a baller at all, in any way. He had just bought a gym a couple of blocks over, in fact. He had Cuban link hanging heavy on his neck, Rolex catching every strobe flash. He bought the bottle outright, poured you another, whispered something in your ear that made you smirk and playfully tug his chain. You swayed between them to the beat of “Let’s Get It On,” hips rolling slow, back arched just enough to make the lamé dress ride higher. Let the tall one’s fingers graze your waist again when he “helped” you turn, and laughed louder than the music required.

Every move was for the mezzanine booth above. You knew Stack was watching. You felt the weight of his stare like a hand on your throat.

The shorter one moves closer to you, suddenly, his hands settling low on your waist. You felt it before you fully processed it: his breath brushing your cheek, his head tilting, his eyes dropping to your lips. Oh, boy, he really thought he had you. He leaned in, slow but certain, like you were a sure thing. Like the man who owns you, the most dangerous man in town, wasn't watching his every move.

You jerk your head back just enough to dodge him, a sharp turn of your chin, a quick laugh to play it off, your braids swaying with the movement. You want to be claimed, not taking care of in a back alley somewhere. But the attempt was unmistakable, and Stack has already seen.

Security moves instantly at Stack's behest, bee-lining straight toward you. Suddenly, two guards flank your sides, polite but firm, only a little threatening. “Mr. Stack would like you upstairs,” the darker one says, in a tone that implies you can't argue.

The pawns blink, confused. The short one reaches out, fully intending to follow you, while V disappears into the background, well aware of who Stack was and what he could do.

Security leads you away from them with ease, completely disregarding the short guy's displeasure with you leaving. They walk you up the stairs to Stack's booth like you were a prisoner headed to the chair, a pretty little lamb headed to the slaughterhouse. You swallow, suddenly unsure about your plan, as the eyes and whispers of club goers follow you.

When you reach the booth, Stack doesn't greet you. Instead, he clears it. “Out,” he says, voice commanding as he casts a glance around the booth. The people scatter.

The men lounging on the sides didn’t hesitate. One stood so fast he knocked over his champagne. Another muttered an apology and practically jogged toward the stairs. Even the bottle girl in sequins scooped up her bottles and disappeared without making eye contact, closing the heavy curtains behind her.

In less than fifteen seconds, the booth was empty. It was just you and Stack left. You wondered what he had in store for you. Stack didn’t touch you, didn't speak to you, he didn't even look directly at you. Instead, he stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall behind you. His arms were folded, chest rising slow as his nostrils flared. He was mad as hell at you. You hated how the sight made you feel—like a misbehaving pet.

“You done?” he says, finally, voice low and mean. “You get it out your system?”

You lift your chin, defying. You're not stepping back until you get what you want. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

He scoffs. “Lie again."

He stands slowly, deliberate and unhurried. His presence fills every inch of the mirrored space, overwhelming you. “You been makin’ a fool outta me all night,” he says as he approaches. “Smilin’ in niggas’ faces. Letting ‘em touch you. Playin’ cute for whoever lookin’.”

You swallow but don't back away. “That's not what I was—”

“Shut up.” It's an order. He's never spoken to you this way. Perhaps you've pushed him too far.

You blinked, breath catching. “Don’t talk to me like—”

“Look.” He cuts you off again, not giving much of a fuck about whatever it is you have to say, gripping your waist and turning you toward the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you: flushed cheeks, parted lips, dress glittering, body thrumming with adrenaline. Stack stands behind you, close enough that his breath warmed your shoulder, his gold chains catching flashes of neon.

“That’s what the whole club saw,” he murmurs. “You actin’ up, actin’ available.”

You try to steady your breathing. “I wasn’t—”

His hand slides from your waist to your chin, lifting it sharply. “Tell me you ain’t do that shit on purpose.”

Your lips part, ready to answer. You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I did.”

Stack breathes out one harsh laugh, disbelief, irritation and desire all tangled up in it. “You just love workin’ a nigga’s nerves, huh?” he hisses against your ear. “Flirtin’ with them broke-ass niggas right where I can see. Lettin’ ‘em touch you. Actin’ like I ain’t been watchin’ every second.”

Your body betrays you, chest rising fast and incessant as your cunt drips at the tone of his voice. “Maybe if you claimed what’s yours,” you shoot back, tone haughty, “I wouldn’t have to put on a show.”

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. “That what this was?” he asks darkly. “You tryna force my hand?”

You smirk at him in the mirror. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He grips your jaw harder, the hold bordering on painful. “Careful,” he says , voice dropping to a threat. “You gon’ make me do somethin’ you ain’t ready for.”

“Try me.”

He tilts your chin up more, thumb pressing harder against your lip, parting it just enough to slip inside. You don’t fight it. Your tongue meets the pad of his finger instinctively, slow curl, tasting salt and smoke and the faint sweetness of the Rémy still on his skin.

Stack’s eyes darken in the mirror. “You really think you runnin’ this shit?” he growls, voice low and vicious, laced with that edge that makes your stomach twist. “You think you can tease me all night, let other niggas put they filthy hands on what’s mine, then strut up here and talk back like you got some kinda say?”

He yanks his thumb free with a rough tug, dragging the slick digit down the center of your throat, pressing hard enough to make you swallow against it. Like he was testing how far he could go. Your pulse hammers under his grip, fear and want mixing together into something filthy.

“Answer me, little girl.”

You lick your lips, tasting him still. “I think… you like being tested, putting me in my place.”

His responding laugh is short, cruel with no warmth in it. He spins you around fast, your back slamming against the mirrored wall with enough force to knock the breath out of you, the cold glass biting into your shoulder blades. It’s a miracle it doesn’t break. Your palms flatten against the wall, acrylic nails scraping for purchase.

Stack cages you in, one thick forearm braced above your head like a bar, the other sliding down to grip the meat of your thigh. He yanks your leg up roughly, hooking it around his hip so your dress gets rucked up all the way to your waist, exposing your bare, dripping core. Stack feels it immediately, his fingers brushing against warm, slick skin. He freezes, eyes narrowing.

“No fuckin’ panties?” he snarls, voice drowning with disgust and hunger. “You walked in here like that? Bare-ass pussy out for anybody to see? You that much of a desperate little slut tonight? Tryna get filled by some random nigga downstairs?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “No—Daddy, it was for you—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He slaps your inner thigh, a sharp string that makes you gasp. “Don’t lie to me. You been drippin’ all night, ain’t you? Wet and ready like a whore beggin’ for it.”

His hand cups you possessively, palm grinding against your clit while two fingers go in deep, no warning. You arch, a choked moan tumbling out of your throat. “Look at that,” he mocks, pumping hard, fingers curling viciously. “Soakin’ my hand already. This pussy knows who it belongs to, even if you actin’ like you don’t.”

He adds a third finger, stretching you wide, ignoring your whine of too much, Daddy, please. “You mine. Every fuckin’ inch. From yo' toes to them braids I paid for to yo' fucking womb. And you gon’ learn that tonight. I'ma put my name on that shit proper.”

He drops to one knee without ceremony, yanking your leg over his shoulder. He looks up at you, eyes black and merciless, before he buries his face between your thighs. He licks a long, punishing stripe up your center, tongue flat and brutal. Then he sucks your clit into his mouth hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you yelp. He growls against you, the vibration a warning. His fingers move faster, reaching deeper into you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter. His free hand grips your ass, spreading you even wider for him.

“You gon’ come on my tongue,” he rasps between licks, pulling back just enough to spit on your clit before diving back in. “Right here, where the whole club can see you fall apart for your Daddy. Show ‘em who owns this wet little cunt.”

You were loud, moans ringing out through the booth, but Stack didn’t care. If anything, he wanted you to be louder, for every nigga in the club to hear how pretty you were sounding for him, how good he made you feel. He keeps devouring you, tongue relentless and incessant, until your thighs shake, hips backing up against his face.

Your orgasm rips through you, your cunt clenching around nothing so hard it’s almost painful. You grip at Stack’s hair, pulling at the ends, grinding down on his face as each wave crashes over you. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it until you’re sobbing and overly sensitive, begging him to let up. Only then does he stand, letting your leg fall gently back on to the floor as he rises up, wiping his mouth with back of his hand. His lips were glossy, the lower half of his face completely covered in your cum.

“Pathetic,” he spits out, gripping your jaw hard, forcing you to make eye contact with him “Cummin’ that fast? You that starved for your Daddy’s attention?”

Embarrassed by how easy you were for him, by how quickly your plan had turned on you, you elect not to answer. Instead, you stand there, panting, legs feeling like jello, as Stack watches you. When he gets fed up of waiting for an answer, he spins you back toward the mirror. “Hands on the glass,” he orders, voice like gravel. “Ass out.”

You obey, palms flat, arching your back instinctively. He shoves your dress up, kicks you feed wider apart. You hear the clink of his belt, the rush of his zipper, before suddenly feeling the blunt head of his tip resting at your entrance. He teases you first, rubbing himself through your slick folds, making sure to hit your clit with every drag. “Beg for it,” he tells you.

Your pride, your confidence in your plan, has long since evaporated. You should’ve known better to fuck with Stack like that. Shaking, you do as you were told. “Please fuck me, Daddy. I need it, need you.”

He pushes in slow, the pace so torturous it almost feels like he’s mocking you, stopping when he has a little over and inch inside of you. “Again. Louder. Tell me who this dick belongs to. Let the whole Juke hear you.”

“Please, Daddy, please fuck your pussy,” you nearly scream, clenching around his unmoving length, “it’s yours—only yours, please!” He slams home in one vicious thrust, the sudden weight of him making you cry out, palms smacking. the mirror.

He establishes a rhythm quickly, fucking you hard with deep, punishing strokes that shove you forward until your tits press against the cold glass. “Look atch yourself,” he snarls in your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. “Look how fuckin’ wrecked you are. Dress hiked up like a whore, takin’ Daddy’s cock in front of the whole damn club.”

You do, eyes going wide at the sight. Your lips are swollen, your mascara’s running, and your braids are a wild tumble on your head. Your gold hoops swing with every brutal snap of Stack’s hips, his chains glinting in the neon club lights, hair mussed from you grabbing at it, his jaw clenched like he was pissed off. “Who pussy is this?” he demands, angling deeper, hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yours, Daddy, all yours!” You choke out, throat raw from screaming.

He reaches around your body, deft fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough. “That’s right,” he groans. “Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Gon’ breed this tight little cunt tonight. Pump you full of my cum so you remember who you belong to. Walk outta here drippin’ me, marked inside an’ out.”

The words light you up, body shuddering with pure pleasure at the thought. “You want that?” Stack growls, his thrusts turning erratic, sloppy. “Want Daddy to knock you up? Claim you for good?”

“Yes, yes! Please breed me, Daddy. Want everyone t’ know I’m yours!”

He groans, low and guttural, as his talented fingers dance around your clit. “Cum on this dick,” he commands. “Milk me dry. Show Daddy how bad you need his seed.”

You do as you’re told, cumming hard around Stack’s length, legs shaking as a wail tears its way through your throat, your walls clenching around him like a vice. He follows suit, slamming deep inside of you, his tip kissing your cervix, as he floods you, your name leaving his lips like a curse. “Take every fuckin’ drop, baby. And say thank you like a good girl, now.”

You barely manage a trembling, “Th-thank you, Daddy,” voice wrecked.

He chuckles, dark and content, still twitching inside you. “Good job. Always so good for me after I fuck you stupid, honey.” He says, staying buried inside you a moment longe, letting you feel every lazy pulse, every last drop he just pumped into you. He pulls out eventually, easing his back slow and deliberate, the wet drag of him making you whimper. You could already feel the thick warmth of his cum starting to spill.

He watches it happen with a mean, awed sense of satisfaction, eyes flicking to your face in the mirror, then back to down where his cum oozes out of your swollen in pussy in slow, heavy gushes. White trails slide down the inside of your thighs, glistening under the pink and red strobe lights, some of it already dripping on the floor of the booth.

“Next time you go off flirting with other niggas,” Stack begins, his voice a warning as he catches your eyes in the mirror, “I’ll fuck you up.”

You give him a shaky, cum-drunk smirk. “Promise, Daddy?”

Stack tuts, ignoring you. He calls for the guards posted outside of the booth to come in. “Get her cleaned up,” he tells them, “But bring her right back. We still celebratin’.”

Outside, the city hums in neon.

It bleeds through the cracks in everything, through grimy windows and flickering signs, through the basslines spilling out of clubs like this one. Pinks and blues smear across wet pavement, reflecting off passing cars, off cigarette smoke curling into the night air. Somewhere down the street, a radio blasts something synth-heavy and electric, all sharp beats and longing vocals.

It was exactly what you'd been looking for.

The mirror in the bathroom is cracked down the middle, splitting your face into two uneven halves. One looks softer, the other sharper. Neither quite matches the girl you were back home.

You lean closer anyway, steadying your hand as you fix your lipstick. The colour is bold. Too bold, your mother would’ve said. Too loud. Too much. But out here, in the city, loud feels… right. Or at least, you’re trying to believe it does.

The bass from the dance floor hums through the walls, a steady pulse that settles into your chest. It mixes with the warmth under your skin, the drink, the nerves, the freedom. Not enough to lose control. Just enough to stop caring so much.

Back home, caring was survival. You were always adjusting, shrinking your voice, smoothing your edges, letting people look at you like you were something to figure out instead of someone to know. Too this, not enough that. A question mark in a town that liked its answers simple.

Here, no one’s asked you to be smaller yet.

You press your lips together, perfecting the shape, then snap your purse shut. “Better,” you murmur to yourself, though it feels more like different than anything else.

The hallway outside is narrow and dim, washed in flickering reds and tired yellow light. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere ahead. Someone else brushes past you, smelling like cheap cologne and something stronger. You keep your head down as you walk, already digging your lipstick back into your purse.

Too distracted to notice the stranger leaning on the corridor wall until you knock into something solid and lose your footing. Your heel slips slightly on the worn floor, balance tipping—

—but you don’t fall.

A hand catches you. It lands at your waist, fingers spreading just enough to hold you in place, the other brushing your arm to keep you upright. For a second, you’re suspended there, closer than strangers should be, your breath caught somewhere halfway in your chest.

“Easy,” the stranger says, low and close, that southern warmth sitting soft in his voice.

You blink, a little dazed, and look up.

He’s… unfair, honestly. Tall, relaxed in a way that makes the cramped hallway feel like it belongs to him. His clothes are too good for this place, too clean, too deliberate. And his face—

Your gaze dips, just for a second, to his mouth.

Gold glints when his lips curve. It's not a full set, just enough to catch your attention. His canines look a little sharper than they should, but you figure that’s just the kind of thing men with money do. Modify, polish, sharpen themselves into something eye-catching.

Still, your stomach flips.

“Oh—God, I’m sorry,” you say, straightening slightly, though his hand lingers just a moment longer before easing away.

“You alright?” the stranger asks, a lick of amusement colouring his tone rather than annoyance, “you always run into strangers like that, or am I special?”

Heat rushes to your face. “I wasn’t looking,” you admit, gesturing vaguely with your purse. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sound too sorry.”

You huff a small laugh despite yourself. “I could try harder, if you want.”

“Nah,” the stranger replies, eyes flicking over you in a way that’s quick but thorough. “I think you’re doin’ just fine.”

There’s a pause, easy but charged.

“Let me make it up to you,” he adds, nodding toward the bar. “Buy you a drink?”

You hesitate for half a heartbeat. Then you remember why you came here.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

The bar is sticky and loud, alive with movement and noise. He moves through it like he belongs, and somehow you follow without thinking, slipping onto the stool beside him.

“What’re you havin’?” he asks.

“Something sweet,” you say with a small smile. “I’m still learning what I like.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, “Ain’t we all.” He orders for you, something you don’t quite catch over the music, then turns back, leaning against the bar with his attention settling fully on you.

“So,” he says, “you got a name, or am I gonna have to call you ‘trouble’?”

You laugh and give it to him, letting your name sit between you. He repeats it slower, like he’s testing how it feels on his tongue.

"Pretty," He decides.

“And you?” you ask, lifting your drink when it arrives and taking a careful sip.

His smile sharpens just a touch. “Stack.”

You blink. “Stack?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Like a stack of money?”

He grins, gold flashing again. “Depends who’s askin’.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Okay, but what’s your real name?”

Stack leans in slightly, close enough that you catch the vague warmth of him and a whiff of something rich and out of place in a club like this.

“You got time to earn it?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head, eyeing him over the rim of your glass. “That your thing then?” you ask, a hint of a smile pulling at your mouth. “Keep a little mystery, keep the people guessing?”

Stack's grin widens, slow and knowing. “Got you guess.”

You huff softly, shaking your head, but you don’t look away. Neither does he.

The conversation drifts after that, easy in a way you didn’t expect. He asks just enough to keep you talking, dodges just enough to stay interesting. Where you offer pieces of yourself, he gives you fragments in return. Never enough to settle, always enough to keep you leaning in.

At some point, you realise you’re halfway through your drink. At some point, you realise he hasn’t touched his.

Your eyes flick to his glass briefly, then back to him. “You gonna drink that?”

Stack follows your gaze, then looks back at you, something unreadable passing through his expression before it smooths over.

“Not thirsty,” he says lightly.

You raise a brow at that, amused. “Then why buy it?”

His gaze lingers on you a second too long. “Seemed polite.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip, though you’re not entirely sure why.

You take another sip, finishing the last of it, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink. The warmth in your chest has spread, settled into something loose and easy.

There’s a beat where neither of you looks away. The music swells behind you, louder now, pulling at the edges of the moment until it snaps.

He jerks his chin toward the dance floor. “C’mon,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You don’t argue.

The crowd closes around you the second you step off the edge of the bar. Bodies press in, heat rising, the bass heavy enough to feel in your ribs. Stack doesn’t lose you in it. One hand finds yours, the other your waist, guiding you through like he’s done this a hundred times.

By the time you stop moving, you’re already flush against him. His hands settle on your hips, firm, steady, like he’s claiming the space more than asking for it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and let yourself fall into the rhythm into him.

It’s easier than it should be. You dont feel watched. You're not second-guessing yourself. Just movement, music, and the way he matches you step for step like he’s been waiting for it.

His mouth brushes your neck, barely there at first. A test. “Careful,” you call over the music, tilting your head just enough to give him more room without meaning to.

He lets out a quiet sound, something like a laugh but lower. “That a warning?” he asks, voice grazing your skin.

“Maybe,” you say, though there’s no real conviction in it.

His grip tightens just slightly.

“Don’t sound like one.” Then his mouth is back on your neck, not teasing this time. Slower. Deliberate. His tongue follows the path a second later, dragging heat up the curve of your throat.

Your breath stutters, fingers curling instinctively into his shirt. “Jesus,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

He turns you then, smooth and close, until you’re facing him. There’s no space left between you. The look in his eyes is different now. Darker. You don’t think. You just lean in.

The kiss isn't soft, not tentative. It feels like catching a live wire, something immediate and charged that pulls a startled sound from your throat. His hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there as his mouth moves against yours, insistent, almost overwhelming.

You taste sweetness, liquor, and something else beneath it. Something metallic. Something that doesn’t quite belong. It makes your head spin.

Your lipstick smears between you, the careful lines you fixed minutes ago completely ruined now, but you can’t bring yourself to care. If anything, it makes the moment feel messier, realer in the way you've craved enough to move to Chicago.

His grip tightens for just a second longer than it should, and then the kiss deepens, pushing right to the edge of too much.

You pull back first, breath uneven. And then you see it.

His eyes are different from what you remember. It's still dark, but blown wide, pupils swallowing everything. The edges are tinged red, catching the low light in a way that makes your stomach drop.

His mouth is parted slightly, wet. A thin line of saliva glints at the corner, and before you can look away, a droplet slips free and lands against your chest.

Cold.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then something changes. It’s quick, subtle, like a switch flipping back into place.

He steps away, not entirely, just enough.

That easy smile returns, smooth as ever. “Maybe another time, pretty girl,” he says softly.

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd before you can react.

You stand there, pulse racing, skin still buzzing where he touched you. The music hasn’t stopped. The world hasn’t changed.

But something has.

You don't think this will be the last time you see Stack. And you're not as mad about it as you thought.