Jude knew what kind of night it was going to be the second he stepped into the club—loud, chaotic, expensive. It was his 21st, and his boys were going all out. That age where you’re finally legal for everything, where you walk into a place like you own it, just because the law finally agrees you can.

Drinks were flowing. The music was pulsing like it had a heartbeat. Jude leaned back in the VIP booth, laughing at some dumb inside joke, one arm slung over the leather seat, the other running through his curls. His chain caught the strobe light when he tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded from the tequila burn in his chest.

Then he heard it.

A roar of laughter from the group, sudden and electric—and when he looked up, that’s when he saw you.

And time did something weird.

Because the second your heels hit the stage, the second you turned your head and locked eyes with him, it felt like the whole damn club vanished. Just your body, moving like sin itself. Your outfit—barely there. Your makeup—lethal. Your confidence—unreal.

He’d noticed you earlier. Of course he had. You were impossible not to notice. But this? This was different.

His jaw ticked when he caught the smug look on Matt’s face, then the way the rest of the guys practically leaned forward in unison. One of them clapped him on the shoulder.

“All yours, Bellingham.”

And then you were walking toward him.

He sat up straighter, tension rolling through him like thunder under his skin. His eyes raked over your figure—long, slow, shameless. When you finally reached him, hips swaying, your voice low and teasing, he didn’t catch a single word.

“Sorry—what?” he asked, blinking once. Then again. “Yeah. I’m—” he huffed a laugh, tongue darting out to wet his lip, “I’m the birthday boy, yeah...”

His friends howled, slapping the table, drinks sloshing. Jude didn’t even look at them.

His eyes were all on you.

You smiled, slow and knowing. And when you stepped closer, hands feathering over his shoulders, ready to start the lap dance—

He swallowed thickly. Jaw clenched. Breath caught.

“A lap dance?” he repeated, like he was trying to wrap his head around it. “Right. Yeah. That’s…” he nodded once, slow, his eyes trailing down your legs and back up again, “that’s fine by me.”

But fuck, you were pretty. Dangerous kind of pretty.

And Jude Bellingham was a lot of things—composed, confident, smooth. But right now, with your hands slipping down his chest, your body lowering onto his lap, and that perfect mouth of yours just inches from his ear?

He was absolutely, completely undone.