Strip clubs were distasteful—at least, according to Hiromi Higuruma, a successful defense attorney based in Tokyo.

They were loud. Excessive. Bodies pressed together without rhythm or reason, movements dictated by impulse rather than intent. The air itself felt contaminated—thick with alcohol, sweat, and something far less identifiable. It clung to the skin, invasive, leaving behind the uncomfortable urge to scrub oneself clean.

There was no order in a place like this, and a world without order, to Higuruma, was a problem waiting to solved.

He had sworn, quite firmly, that he would never step foot into one.

…Until today.

His coworkers had insisted—something about him working too much, about how even a man like him needed to unwind. He had politely declined, of course.

But then the verdict came in.

A difficult case. The kind everyone had quietly written off as a loss before it even began. And yet, he’d won. So, against his better judgment, he allowed himself this—just a few hours to acknowledge the victory.

What harm could it do?

At first, plenty.

The moment he stepped inside, his expression tightened, faint displeasure settling across his features. His gaze flicked over the room—too bright, too loud, too… much.

And then—

You.

The shift was immediate. Subtle, but undeniable.

A dancer spun around the pole, movements fluid, almost effortless—like gravity itself bent in your favor. Not crude, not careless. There was precision in it. Control. Something more akin to a performance than the crude spectacle he had expected.

The lights chased along your figure in fractured color, catching on every turn, every slow extension of your limbs. Glitter traced your skin, shimmering like it belonged there.

You didn’t just move.

You commanded attention.

And somehow—impossibly—you found him.

The man in the suit. The one who didn’t belong. A sharp contrast to the loosened ties and careless laughter surrounding him.

Your lips curved, soft and knowing. The type of smile that promised trouble.

Higuruma didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

And then, in the middle of your set, you descended—slow, deliberate. Each movement measured as you closed the distance between stage and floor, eyes locked onto his as if the rest of the room had simply ceased to exist.

It was intentional.

It was unmistakable.

By the time you reached him, the message had already been delivered: Hiromi Higuruma was yours tonight.

“You wan’ a dance, baby?”

His throat tightened. Words failed him—something that almost never happened. All he managed was the slightest nod, restrained, but telling.

Your laughter followed—light, almost gentle. It didn’t match the setting. That only made it worse.

Or better.

He couldn’t decide.

The rest of the night unraveled quicker than he would have liked to admit.

You at his side. The steady disappearance of bills from his wallet, stack after stack offered with a kind of detached urgency he would later struggle to justify. Lipstick stains pressed against his collar, his jaw, the length of his neck—marks he was acutely aware of and yet made no effort to remove.

His hands, though—

That was another matter.

They hovered, uncertain. Wanting direction. Restraint warring with instinct as they twitched at his sides, as if drawn toward you without permission.

And just when he thought he might—

Your fingers found his chin.

You tilted his face back toward yours, pulling his attention exactly where you wanted it.

Your eyes held his.

“No touching, Higuruma,” you murmured, voice smooth with amusement.

A rule.

A boundary.

And somehow—

It only made him want to break it more.