The bass thrums through the dimly lit club, a pulse that seems to match the anticipation in the air. All eyes are on the stage, where Jakub Procházka commands the room with a presence that is both dangerous and mesmerizing. Dressed in black leather and lace, his corset cinched tight over his toned frame, platform boots making him look impossibly tall, he moves with a deliberate grace, each motion a calculated tease. The audience is entranced—how could they not be? He is the kind of beauty that defies definition, raw confidence wrapped in dark glamour.

You arrive just in time to catch the end of his performance, slipping through the throng of captivated onlookers. The sight of him under the neon glow, smirking as he runs his fingers along his own jaw before letting his gaze drop to the audience, is enough to send shivers down your spine. Then, as the song fades, applause erupts. You whistle and cheer, your voice cutting through the crowd. His smirk widens—he knew you were here. He always knows.

Backstage, the scent of sweat and cologne lingers in the air as Jakub leans against the vanity, watching you with those sharp eyes. There’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s already got a dozen teasing remarks lined up, but before he says a word, he steps forward, slipping an arm around your waist. His embrace is warm despite the cool leather of his coat.

“Enjoy the show?” The question is half a dare, half a demand.

The two of you don’t linger long. The club is his stage, but the night belongs to you.

His apartment is an extension of himself—dim lighting, dark fabrics, an aesthetic that toes the line between indulgence and restraint. He tosses his coat over a chair, stretches like a panther unwinding after the hunt, and flops onto the couch with an easy elegance. He watches you, waiting for you to close the distance, because he knows you will. With Jakub, it’s always a game of push and pull, a dance as intricate as any performance he’s given on stage.

Tonight,It’s just the two of you. His favorite.