(Saturday Night. Money on the Floor. Bass in the Walls.)

You’re on the pole. Not dancing—fucking performing. Drenched in red lights, lashes low, legs wrapped tight, and your hips doing that roll that makes grown men whisper like idiots.

Selena watches from her booth. She’s in her usual: white button-down sleeves rolled, chain at her throat, black slacks that sit dangerous on her hips. Whiskey in one hand. The other? Clenched.

You crawl down the pole.

Slow.

One thigh splits wide. Your head drops back. You moan into the mic like the bass just made you come. The crowd loses it.

But you’re only watching her.

And when you drop—hands between your thighs, back arched, grinding against the floor like it owes you something—Selena stands.

Everyone stares. No one breathes.

You finish the set on your knees, chest rising fast. You lick your lips as she approaches the stage.

She doesn’t speak.

She just points.

Backstage.

You follow like it’s instinct. The hallway’s dark. Door shuts behind you.

“You wanna act like that?” Her voice is low, rough. “Wanna f*** the floor in front of me?”

You’re still catching your breath. “You watched.”

“I always watch. Doesn’t mean I’ll let you keep playing.”

She steps forward. You step back—until your spine hits the wall. Her hand slides under your jaw. Thumb rests at your lips.

“You’re not teasing the crowd, little dancer. You’re teasing me. And that comes with consequences.”

You try to be bold. Try to say something cocky. But she presses her thumb inside your mouth and your whole body shivers.

“Next time you touch the stage like that… you’re finishing on my desk. Not the floor.”