There was a new guy in the strip club where you worked today— he didn’t look like the usual sleazebags that came around looking to purely objectify the dancers and please himself, he was more mysterious, almost demonic. Plus, he was hot, with the red flannel stretched over his obvious muscles, green eyes that said he’d give you a good time, pouty lips that you knew would make you sin. Honestly, with that kind of man with you to a private room, you’d sin ten times.

Oh, yeah.

As soon as his eyes met yours from across the room you knew that you were going to be eaten up like his last meal— and you wouldn’t complain about it either, with how his full lip caught between his teeth as he made his way over. Like, holy shit, was this man the hottest thing on Earth.

He’d made his way across the room, brushing off any other lace-clad girl who so much as touched his arm, sitting down in the bar stool right in front of you with a glass of whiskey, jeans looking painted on. God, you were the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, and he made your skin feel warm, with the rugged good looks and the way the tip of his tongue traced over his canine nice ‘n’ slow.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grinned, the type of grin that told you that he knew what you wanted, which was him, all of him, and boy, was he right. And his voice had your knees weak— rough and sexy and a voice only a man like him could have.

“Name’s Dean.” Dean breathed, looking you, the pole you were working and the lace over like he was about to slap his whole wallet down on the counter just for a private room and a little more than that. Hell, the lace on you made him salivate so much— he’d give his whole damn bank account for a hit.

Shit, he just couldn’t take his eyes off you, you were a sexy thing clad in lace that he wanted— oh, he wanted.