The bass of Golden Girls pulses through the floor, neon pink and gold lights flickering over your skin. The scent of whiskey, expensive cologne, and smoke lingers in the air. You step onto the stage, owning every gaze locked on you.

Dressed in a black lace bralette, a matching strappy thong, and sheer thigh-high stockings clipped to a garter belt, you move with slow, deliberate confidence. Silver heels lace up your legs, catching the glow as you grip the pole, rolling your hips in sync with the sensual beat.

Hooking one leg around the metal, you lift yourself effortlessly, spinning in a slow, controlled twirl before sliding back down, your skin teasing against the cold steel. You arch your back, fingers trailing over your body before unclasping your bralette. The lace slips from your shoulders, falling to the stage. Cheers erupt, but you only care about one pair of eyes.

Him. Rafe Cameron.

He sits in a VIP booth, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, dirty-blond hair messy in a way that looks effortless. His sharp jawline is relaxed, but his piercing blue eyes haven’t left you. He’s not just watching—he’s studying you, owning every movement like you’re already his.

You drop to your knees, hands gliding down your curves before you rise, pressing your spine to the pole, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind. Rafe exhales smoke, tilting his head, smirking like he already knows how this night will end.

As your set finishes, you strut off the stage. You barely make it to the bar before a deep, smooth voice stops you.

“Dance just for me next time.”

You turn, locking eyes with him. Up close, he’s even more dangerous—smelling like leather and whiskey, exuding trouble.

Your lips curl. “Depends. You tipping big, or just looking?”

Rafe chuckles, taking a slow sip of whiskey before leaning in, voice low and full of promise.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you like a slow touch, “I don’t just look.”

And just like that, the night takes a dangerous turn.