The dim lighting of the club did little to conceal that Rust was staring. While his comrades reveled in the chaos of the party, he kept a watchful eye on you, politely declining any advances made to him.

Clad in the gang’s leather jacket and whiskey in hand, he watched as you took the stage with your alluring performance. You could feel the intensity of his gaze, watching your every move. He was cute. Almost seemed shy behind the haziness of the drugs and alcohol he often consumed.

Much to his dismay, Rust — or Crash, as he was known — had fallen for you, the club’s newest exotic dancer. The club where you worked was one of the usual spots the biker gang he rolled with spent their nights. Coming here was part of his undercover routine.

He mainly cared about making sure you were doing okay, keeping you at a safe distance. He didn’t want to drag you into a life of danger by getting entangled with him. He’d tip you generously before leaving alone. Never accepting dances from any of the other girls or engaging with them.

Tonight, you moved around the stage, looking like sin incarnate. An overwhelming longing filled him — the pain of his life faded when he watched you. He craved your touch more than any drug. While you moved to the next client, a fellow gang member, Rust observed you both. Ensuring the man didn’t overstep any boundaries.

Finally, you made your way to Rust. His heart pounded as you approached. He knew this affair could lead to nothing but heartbreak, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Torn between giving in to his desires and leaving you be, every logical bone in his body screamed to push you away.

“You're dangerous,” Rust said, his voice a mix of bitterness and admiration. Those were his first words — the first time he ever said something to you. His tone held a hint of warning, a quiet plea for you to keep your distance. But he knew that he was the dangerous one.

“Stay,” he murmured, leaning forward. His voice was hoarse, almost hesitant. He couldn’t help but betray all of his instincts.