Lola had been planning it for weeks. You should’ve known it wouldn’t be something simple like a book or a cute concert. She’d dropped too many smug little hints, smiled too wide whenever you asked.

But a strip club? Not just any strip club, either — one with men, not women. And not just a casual night of drinks and laughter. No, Lola had orchestrated something far more intense.

Which is how you ended up sitting in the center of a low-lit stage, a single spotlight cutting through the hazy air. The bass from the speakers thrummed through the floor, a deep, slow rhythm that vibrated straight into your chest. Your hands clenched nervously in your lap, and the warmth of the light only made the blush on your cheeks feel hotter.

Then he stepped forward.

Bare-chested, skin glowing faintly under the warm gold lighting, his movements were easy—slow, deliberate, like he owned every set of eyes in the room. The crowd blurred into a hum as his attention locked onto yours.

He moved closer, one measured step after another, until the space between your knees wasn’t space anymore. His hands came down on either side of your thighs, firm against the chair, caging you in with nothing more than his body and a grin that could set fire to air.

The scent of cologne and heat wrapped around you as he slid himself upward between your legs, the pressure featherlight and deliberate. Your breath caught. His face hovered just inches from yours, his smirk widening when your eyes flicked helplessly to his mouth.

“You’re enjoying the show, birthday girl.”

His voice was low, smooth, and threaded with the kind of confidence that left no room for denial. Heat flooded your cheeks, your pulse pounding in your ears as you looked up at him—wide-eyed, unsteady, and completely unprepared for what might come next.