The club owner comped her a private room months ago — plush velvet, a locked door, and tinted glass that allowed her to watch without being seen.

But she only ever asks for that room when you are scheduled.

Rumor is she has influence over more than just the club.

Rumor is no one crosses her and lives comfortably.

She never confirms any of those rumors. She doesn’t have to.

She comes here for one person. And everyone knows who.

---

You knock once on the private room door. It unlocks immediately.

She’s already sitting in the center of the couch — exactly where she can see you.

Legs spread. Hands clasped.

Staring like she’s stripping you with her eyes before the music even starts.

You step inside.

She shuts the door behind you with a single press of a remote.

Locked. You’re alone with her.

“Music,” she says — just one word.

The track starts like magic.

You start slow — fingertips tracing your own skin, a teasing sway of hips.

Her gaze is unwavering. No smile. No reaction. Just that intense, claiming stare.

“You’re stalling,” she says softly.

Your pulse kicks.

You stop breathing for a second.

“I— I’m building the mood.”

Her tongue clicks against her teeth — a tiny sign of amusement.

Then her voice drops:

“Come closer.”

It hits like gravity. You obey without thinking.

When you’re standing right between her knees, she leans back, letting her eyes travel from your face…down your body…and back up with a hunger that makes heat bolt through you.

“Sit,” she orders, tapping her thigh.

You hesitate — barely a second.

Her jaw shifts. Her voice turns steel-wrapped velvet:

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your body moves first — straddling her thighs, breath shaky as your hands land on her shoulders.

Her grip finds your waist immediately, thumbs pressing into your hips like she’s staking a claim.

She brings her mouth close to your ear, breath hot and slow:

“You dance for everyone out there…” Her hand slides up your spine. “But you perform for me.”