Page 8 of After Midnight

I follow him in and close the door behind us. Immediately, it gets quiet. Each room has a private sound system, so the dancers can pick their own music depending on their clients’ preferences.

He stands there, looking lost, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a loose tank, and his arms are huge; he could probably bench press me one-handed. One bicep is tattooed, though I can’t tell yet what it is.

“Take a seat,” I say, gesturing to the velvet couch.

He does as I say, moving to the couch and sitting down, though he doesn’t look comfortable about it. He continues to glance around, then scrubs his hands along his jeans a few times.

Now I do smile.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, moving to the panel on the wall to select the song I want to dance to. Next to the panel is a small discreet button: a panic button. If a girl presses it, it immediately alerts the management. But I’ve never had to press one before.

The guy laughs, and it’s a surprisingly boyish sound coming from such a large man. “Kind of. Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all.” I flick a look at him over my shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

His cheeks take on that slight pink color again just as my song starts: “Don’t Know” by Lithe.

It has a slow start, giving me enough time to cross the private room toward him. Sometimes I start with a dance on the small stage in the corner, but tonight, with this guy, I decide to get right to it. And when I ease into his lap, my knees sinking into the velvet couch on either side of his hips, he swallows hard and sits back.

“You can touch me here,” I tell him, guiding his hands to my hips. His palms are calloused, rough against my skin. From his instrument, maybe, though I can’t remember what he plays. Drums? Bass? I don’t know the band that well; Riley would be able to tell me in a heartbeat though. She’s obsessed with LGC.

He nods once. “Okay.”

“And,” I say, slipping a finger beneath his chin and tipping his head back so he’ll look me in the eye, “it’s okay to have a little fun.”

The bass hits, rumbling through the speakers, and I start to twist my hips in time to the slow beat. My hands slip into my hair, and I roll my body against his, grinding my scantily clad pussy into his lap.

Beneath me, I feel him start to harden. He clenches his jaw, muscles feathering along either side of his neck. He’s obviously fighting not to react to me.

It’s cute—but ultimately futile.

I lean forward, letting my long hair fall around us like a veil. “Good boy,” I whisper into his ear. When I sit back, his cheeks are red again. I try not to grin at how easy it is to make him blush.

I slip out of his lap and turn around, slowly twerking my ass in his face. Fantasique taught me how to do it the right way, and ever since, my tips have gotten much better. It’s all about the pop, the rhythm.

Over my shoulder, I watch him watching me. His hands are back to his thighs now, rubbing along the coarse fabric. He glances up and catches me watching him.

Holding his gaze, and with my back still toward him, I reach up and unclasp my sequined top. I slide each strap off my shoulders, then drop the fabric to my feet, kicking it away with one of my heels.

Turning, I keep my hands over my breasts, hiding them from him. Every moment of a dance is a moment to get the audience reengaged, to invite them to be curious.

But he looks plenty engaged.

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as I slide my hands from my boobs to my neck, then twist my body, letting my nipple piercings catch the dim red lighting as my hair slips over my shoulder.

Then I’m on my knees on the floor, crawling toward him, clad in nothing but my tiny blue G-string. I part his thighs and slink up between them, rubbing my hands over the hard-on straining against the zipper of his jeans.

He’s breathing harder now, pupils dilated as he watches me. But he doesn’t reach out to grab my tits or shove his thumb into my mouth, like so many others do—and get kicked out for. Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, obeying my rules, looking but not touching.

And for some reason, as I’m on my knees before him, I almost wish I did extras, almost wish I had it in me to fuck him right here on this velvet couch.

But I don’t do extras. Not even for pretty rock stars with dimples in their cheeks.

The song ends, and I ease myself off the floor and into his lap as the next one starts: “Free” by 6LACK.

And when I press my naked breasts against him, feeling his broad chest and pounding heart beneath my palms, I feel myself get . . .

Turned on.