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I might know her father, but it doesn’t matter.
How the hell did she end up down here?
Maybe she moved when her father became regent.
I down the rest of my beer and raise my hand, signaling to the waitress I need another.
This is going to be one hell of a night.
The stage lights shift, casting a sultry red glow on her.
It oozes sex appeal, seduction, and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be with her.
Her body continues to sway sensually to the rhythm of the beat.
The vibrant colors of her braided hair illuminate under the red hue.
My gaze drifts over her athletic form. She’s toned, but isn’t overly muscular like those women who religiously go to the gym every day.
I find women like that to be unattractive.
It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a size six, or a size twenty-six, but I refuse to go after women who are tiny as hell. It’s never been my thing.
My eyes are trained on her as she gracefully spins around the pole, arching her body and bending with it as if they’re one.
My pulse races as she continues with her set, owning the stage with every move she makes.
Her eyes are warm with confidence, catching mine every now and again.
She licks her lips and her eyes lock onto mine.
In a way, I feel like she’s dancing for me.
Surely, she recognizes me.
Oakleigh’s heels click against the stage as she continues her movements, maintaining an enticing rhythm.
My heart continues to pound in my chest, each beat reminding me that I should leave.
I should be getting up and walking away, but the longer I stay here, the more I know I want to play with fire.
Oakleigh walks around the stage, dropping it low and taking as much cash as she can before getting back on the pole.
She allows her top to slide off, and the red lights cast an ethereal glow on her body.
Any time our eyes meet, I find myself drowning in the depths of hers.
She has a smoldering, intense stare, one that pulls you in like a moth to a flame.
Oakleigh slides down the pole, her long braids flowing around her like a raging waterfall.
My hand tightens around my beer bottle, knuckles turning white from the strain.
She ends her set with a final twirl around the pole—slow and calculated—keeping her eyes trained on mine before she struts off the stage.
I finish my beer and put my hand up once more, signaling to the waitress I need another.
She comes back over within a few moments and hands me another one.
