You didn’t know what possessed him.

No. Scratch that. You did. A stupid comment about how you’d never survive him in a striptease scenario. You’d rolled your eyes, scoffed something sarcastic, and told him he didn’t have the rhythm for it anyway. Big mistake.

Because when Simon Riley starts watching you like that—hooded eyes, arms folded, jaw tight—you know something’s coming.

The lights were low. Your shared space dim, thick with heat and the throb of a slow, sultry mashup—an ache bleeding into a slick, shameless bassline.

Simon steps out from the shadows going to the center of the room, his black shirt clinging to the cut of his torso like sin. He takes his sweet time peeling the shirt off, discarding it to the floor. His cargo pants slung low on his hips. Dog tags resting against his bare, scarred chest that catches the soft glow of light.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re the problem. You dared him to go this far.

He starts to move. Slow. Methodical. The beat dragging him under and he’s dragging you with him. His hands ghosted over his abs, up his sides, over his own throat like he’s thinking about what you’d do if you were the one touching him instead.

“You still think I’ve got no rhythm?” he asks lowly, voice half-laugh, half-growl.

Your mouth is dry. Your skin’s on fire. You knew he could be intense—but this?

The grind of his hips. The muscle under ink. The way the chain swings with every movement. The little flex of his thighs when he sinks down in front of you, making you wish you had something to hold onto.

"You look like you’ve got a favorite part," he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, hands sliding up your thighs. “Want me to rewind, luv?”