Craving the stripper

Dominic The club was drenched in red—like lust had taken physical form and bled into every inch of the place. Smoke curled lazily under strobing lights. Men in suits with dead eyes and fat wallets sat in velvet booths, pretending not to ache for the girls grinding inches away. My security detail kept a perimeter, pretending I wasn’t here, pretending I was still at that black-tie dinner shaking hands and pretending I gave a damn about foreign policy. Let them think what they want. I wasn’t here to behave. I was here for her. I didn’t know her name. Didn’t need to. She moved like a sin whispered into a priest’s ear—slow, deliberate, made to tempt. Skin like molten gold, long legs straddling the pole like she’d been born to ride it, not dance on it. And those eyes—dark, dangerous, completely detached from the world around her. Like she’d already bled out all her emotions and was dancing with the ghost of herself. I was hard before she even touched the stage. By the time she peeled the top from her chest, my c**k was throbbing against my belt. “You want me to clear the room?” one of my guards leaned over and murmured. “No,” I said, never breaking eye contact with her. “I want to see her in her world. I want her to see me watching.” Her hips rolled in slow circles, the curve of her waist dipping perfectly under the light. A dollar bill floated to the stage like an offering. I almost laughed. She was worth kingdoms. Empires. And she didn’t even know it. When her eyes finally met mine—just a flicker, like she hadn’t meant to—I felt it. That crackle. That forbidden, sharp-edged something that made every rule I’d ever followed bend in her direction. She flinched, just slightly. Good. Let her feel it too. She looked away too fast. But the damage was done. Now she was mine. I stood slowly, ignoring the murmurs, the flashes of recognition as people noticed who I was. Suits shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to notice the country’s first son with a raging hard-on for the girl on the pole. But I wasn’t here to be discreet. I was here to claim what shouldn’t be mine. Because a man like me—political royalty, constantly watched, constantly worshipped—shouldn’t crave a woman like her. A stripper. A nobody. A body meant to be rented, not owned. But I did. Fucking hell, I did. And I always take what I want.