Page 1

Bree

"Ladies, get those dollar bills ready..."

The bass thumps through my chest as the club's host grabs the mic. "... because our next performer is about to make you forget your own name. Give it up for... Thrustin Timberlake !"

The lights dim, and Justin Timberlake's 'Sexy Back' starts playing—because of course it does.

"Oh my God," Clara squeals next to me, already waving a handful of bills. "This is exactly what you need after that asshole Trevor."

I take another sip of my martini, determined not to let thoughts of my ex-almost-fiancé ruin Brittany's bachelorette party.

But when the spotlight hits the stage, my drink nearly slips from my fingers.

Holy. Chemical. Reaction.

The man who walks out makes every woman in the room stop breathing.

Six-foot-plus of raw muscle, moving with a predatory grace that screams 'athlete', not 'dancer.

'. His abs ripple under the stage lights, a thin sheen of oil making every cut and ridge gleam.

But it's his eyes that catch me—bright green and somehow both playful and intense as they sweep across the crowd.

He’s wearing only black boxer briefs, and dear God—they do nothing to hide how generously he’s built. His cock is impossible to ignore—thick, solid, and unmistakably half-hard, pressing forward with every step.

My fingers actually twitch with the urge to wrap around him, to feel how hard he’d become in my palm.

My mouth waters as I imagine the heat of him against my skin, how he’d pulse under my touch.

Every move he makes makes it that much harder not to picture exactly how he’d feel—hot, heavy, and perfect—if I just reached out and squeezed.

When he grabs the pole with one hand, the muscles in his arm flex in a way that makes my pussy clench with need, slick and aching. A tattoo sleeve runs down his right arm, the designs flowing like art over his bicep.

"Now that," Clara whispers, "is what I call chemistry. I’m ready to combust. Naked. On his face."

I can't even snark back at her terrible science pun. Not when Mr. Thrustin is now climbing the pole with fluid grace, his entire body moving like liquid metal. He inverts himself, thighs gripping the pole, and performs a slow spin that showcases every perfectly defined muscle.

Justin Timberlake croons through the speakers like a goddamn sex demon: “Dirty babe…”

Women are already losing it. Bills are raining down like confetti. A brunette in a tiara tucks a twenty into his waistband, and he doesn’t even look at her. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say thank you.

He just keeps moving — sinuous, controlled, unstoppable.

“You see these shackles, baby, I’m your slave…”

A group of bridesmaids shriek. Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else actually moans.

“I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave…”

That’s when it happens. He locks eyes with me.

And winks.

Pressure builds low and tight, and I have to loosen my grip before I shatter the damn martini glass.

"Ten bucks says he's got a boring day job," I mutter, trying to maintain some semblance of my usual cynicism. "Probably sells insurance or something."

“Who cares if he sells crypto? I’d still let him climb me like one of his poles.”

What he's doing right now is executing a series of moves that defy both gravity and my ability to maintain professional detachment. Each position flows into the next with controlled power, telling a story of strength and seduction that has every woman in the room leaning forward.

When he drops into a split, thighs flexing with controlled power, one hand grips the pole while the other traces down his chest, following that cut 'V' of muscle disappearing into his briefs. The room temperature spikes ten degrees.

I can't tear my eyes away. The stage lights catch the definition of his abs, and there's something mesmerizing about the way his body seems to understand physics in ways I've only seen in textbooks.

"Speaking of chemistry," Clara nudges me, "he hasn't taken his eyes off you for the last thirty seconds."

She isn’t wrong. His gaze pins me like a live wire — all heat and challenge. He hoists himself into another impossible hold, muscles flexing, tongue swiping across his lower lip like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. It’s obscene. And it’s working.

“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. I’ve already got student loans and low standards.”

I force myself to look away, taking another sip of my drink. "I'm done with men, remember? Especially hot ones who make their living pole dancing."

"You're done with gold-diggers," Clara corrects. "This is just eye candy. Very, very high-quality eye candy."

The song changes to something slower, and he transitions into his finale—a move that has him spinning down the pole in a controlled descent that showcases every muscle group I definitely shouldn't be cataloging with such scientific precision.

"You're staring," Clara sing-songs. “And I’m 95% sure you’re ovulating.”

When the music ends, the crowd erupts in whistles and applause. I watch him disappear backstage, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. It's just the martinis. And maybe the heat in here. Definitely not those green eyes or the way they kept finding mine.

"I need another drink," I announce, standing up.

"Want company? Or are you gonna go confess your filthy thoughts to a bottle of vodka?"

"Nope and maybe. Stay here and make sure Brittany doesn't try to call off her wedding again."

The bar is quieter, tucked away from the main stage. I slide onto a stool and signal the bartender for another martini, extra dirty. Just like my thoughts right now.

"Make that two," comes a voice behind me—low, rich, and rough enough to scrape over every nerve ending like velvet sandpaper. The kind of voice that could talk you into sin and make you beg for more.

Thrustin—God, I hope that's not his real name—settles onto the stool next to me. He's wearing a fitted black t-shirt now, but it does nothing to diminish the impact of his presence.

"Nice routine," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "The conservation of angular momentum on that last spin was particularly impressive."

His eyebrows shoot up, and his lips curve into a genuine smile. "Did you just explain my finale with physics?"

"Sorry. Occupational hazard. I tend to see everything through a scientific lens."

"Don't apologize. It's hot when a beautiful woman actually understands the mechanics behind what I do."

The bartender sets our drinks down, and he immediately pays for both before I can protest.

"I can buy my own drinks," I say, but there's no heat in it.

"I know you can. But maybe I'm trying to impress the woman who understands angular momentum."

"And maybe," I say, taking a sip of my martini, "I don't want to be impressed by someone who takes his clothes off for a living."

His eyes darken slightly. "Ouch. Afraid I'm after your money, Princess?"

The question hits too close to home. "Princess? And what makes you think I have any?"

He smirks. “Just a hunch.”

“Enlighten me.”

"The way you carry yourself. The designer watch. The fact that you're drinking Grey Goose instead of well vodka." He shrugs. "You're a Princess. And I'm observant."

Princess. I roll my eyes, but the word clings. Like he already had me figured out.

"Great. Another man who notices my bank account before my brain."

"Actually," he says, leaning closer, "I noticed how your eyes lit up when you talked about physics. And how you've been fighting your smile all night, like you're afraid to admit you're having fun. The watch? That was just proof I'm right about you being way too good for this place."

I blink at him. That's... not what I expected.

"So what's your story?" he asks. "What's a woman who understands angular momentum doing at a pole dancing show?"

"Bachelorette party. My friend's making the biggest mistake of her life, but we're all pretending to be happy about it."

"Not a fan of marriage?"

“Her fiancé thinks one career is enough—for both of them. So obviously, she picked his. So no, not a fan of giving up your dreams for a man." I take another sip. "Brittany—that's the bride—is trading her PhD for a ring and a kitchen. But sure, let’s celebrate.'"

His jaw tightens. "That's messed up."

I blame the martinis. Or maybe it's the lingering effect of watching him work that pole. Or maybe I just want to forget Trevor with someone who looks at me like I'm dessert.

Whatever the reason, I impulsively kiss him.

He responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other grips my hip. His mouth is hot and demanding against mine, and I moan when his tongue slides against mine.

"My place," he says against my mouth. "Roommate's away."

I nod, already wet from the way his hands are roaming my body. He leads me out to his car, and the drive is a blur of wandering hands and heated kisses at red lights .

The moment his apartment door closes behind us, he pins me against it. His cock is hard against my stomach as he kisses down my neck, and I arch into him, desperate for more contact.

He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His cock presses against my core through our clothes as he carries me to his bedroom, dropping me onto his bed. I pull him down for another kiss, rough and hungry.

"Condom?" I ask between kisses.

"Nightstand."

His shirt comes off first, and seeing that dancer's body up close makes my pussy throb. I run my hands over his abs while he unzips my dress, pushing it down. When my bra follows, he groans at the sight of my bare breasts.

His mouth finds my nipple, sucking hard while his fingers work my other breast. I arch up, grinding against his erection. "Fuck, I need you inside me."

He strips us both, and I get my first look at his cock—thick and hard and perfect. He rolls the condom on while I spread my legs, already dripping wet.

"You're so fucking wet," he growls, sliding two fingers inside me.

I gasp as his fingers curve inside me, hitting exactly the right spot. His thumb finds my clit, circling it while he watches my reactions with those intense green eyes.

"Stop teasing," I demand, pulling him closer. "I want your cock."

He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock sliding through my wetness. When he pushes in, I dig my nails into his back. He's thick, stretching me perfectly as he fills me inch by inch.

"Fuck," I moan as he bottoms out. He feels incredible, and when he starts moving, I wrap my legs around him, urging him deeper.

He fucks me hard, each thrust making my breasts bounce. I reach down to rub my clit, chasing my orgasm. His rhythm gets faster, rougher, and I can feel my pussy starting to clench around him .

"I'm close," I pant, working my clit faster.

He responds by driving into me harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. When my orgasm hits, I cry out, my whole body shaking as pleasure rips through me. He follows right after, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes.

We collapse, both breathing hard. He rolls off me, disposing of the condom while I catch my breath. The sex buzz mingles with the martinis, making everything pleasantly hazy, but my body feels boneless, satisfied in a way I haven't been in a very long time.

“I should go.”

"You can stay," he offers, and for one insane second, I wanted to say yes. To see if those eyes still look at me the same in the morning.

But I know better.

"Want to freshen up or do I go first?" he asks, propping himself on an elbow.

"You go ahead."

The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, I slip into my dress, pull five hundred-dollar bills from my clutch, and tuck them into an envelope I found. I leave it on his nightstand. Every man has his price—some just take it up front instead of stealing fifty grand later.

I pull my phone to order an Uber. Three texts from Clara. Shit. Some friend I am, ditching her and Brittany's bachelorette party for a hook-up.

I take one last look at the bathroom door before leaving. He'd seemed different, smart even. But in the end, they're all the same. His comments about noticing my wealth were not a coincidence—stupid I’m not.

Well, at least Daddy's money was good for something tonight.