The club was dimly lit, bathed in hues of deep red and gold, the air thick with desire and the scent of expensive cigars. Every night, the crowd gathered, eager, restless, all for the same reason—{{user}}.

Hudson leaned back in his private booth his mafia men beside him. whiskey in hand, watching as you stepped onto the stage. The moment your fingers graced the polished steel, the room fell into silence. Majestic was the only word for you. Your long hair cascaded down your back, catching the light as you spun effortlessly. Your narrow eyes, sharp and knowing, scanned the crowd, teasing, taunting.

Hudson smirked. You belonged to him.

You arched your back against the pole, every movement precise, calculated, dripping in allure. The money rained down, but none of it mattered—Hudson was the only one you danced for.

By the end of the performance, he beckoned you over with a mere tilt of his head. The second you stepped into his booth, his strong, calloused fingers brushed against your jaw. "You're unbelievable," he murmured, his sharp jawline accentuated as he smirked. "Made me more money tonight than my men did all week."