THREE CAN PLAY

Chapter 2

ADRIAN'S POV

Adrian didn't really know what to expect — he'd never had a reason to hang around strip clubs — but the back room wasn't it. No mirrors, no pole, just a low velvet couch, a single red light burning in the corner, and enough quiet that the bass from the main floor felt like something in his ribs instead of his ears. She sat him down like she was handling something breakable and dropped onto the couch beside him, one leg tucked under her, her perfume cutting through the smoke still clinging to his shirt.

"So what did you do to your wife to make her go stray?"

The question landed like a slap. "Me?" He straightened, something defensive flaring hot in his chest.

"Do you own a dog?" she asked, unbothered.

"No. My wife hates dogs." He frowned. "Why'd you ask?"

"Because you can liken a dog to a woman."

He made a crooked, disbelieving sound. "Is that a joke?"

"No." Flat, certain, like she'd said it a hundred times to a hundred men on this same couch. "Women are like dogs. You feed 'em, love 'em up right, they stay loyal to you. You do otherwise, they go stray."

Something in his stomach twisted — not anger this time, closer to shame. He stared at her, jaw tight.

"Did you confront her?" the stripper asked.

"I couldn't." His voice cracked on the last word. His eyes stung, hot and sudden, and he hated it.

A long pause stretched, thick with bass thudding faint through the floor.

"Lis is a good girl. She's amazing." His voice had gone quiet, almost pleading. "I think she went stray because of me. I was away for work too long. She had to cope."

"Did you cheat on her while you were away?"

"I would never cheat on Lis." Fast, wounded, like the accusation hurt worse than anything she'd said yet.

"Hmm." She shrugged, easy. "Never say never. But most times, people cheat because they want to."

Silence again. Adrian's jaw worked, his mind spinning out scenarios he couldn't stop — another man digging his wife right now, somewhere, while he sat in a dim room paying a stranger to make sense of it.

"Ohhh God." He couldn't take it anymore. His face crumpled, and he broke.

She sat up straight, startled. "Are you crying?" Her hand hovered, uncertain for the first time since he'd met her. "Oh my God, please stop."

He didn't. Couldn't. It came out of him ugly and silent, then not silent at all — hands pressed hard against his face, shoulders shaking, breath hitching in a way that embarrassed him even as it happened.

"Please stopppp," she said again, softer, and shifted closer, one hand landing between his shoulder blades, moving in slow circles. "It's okay. It would be okay."

He cried longer than he wanted to in front of a stranger with glitter on her collarbone, and she kept her hand moving, patient, not flinching, like she'd done this before for men who weren't paying her for it. Eventually the shaking slowed.

"Sorry." His voice scraped out, wrecked. He dragged a hand down his wet face, heat crawling up his neck. "I don't — that's uncommon. I don't cry."

"Everybody cries." Simple. Unbothered.

"Not in front of a stranger."

"I'm a professional stranger." A small smile, softer than the bravado from earlier. "Occupational hazard."

He huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh, swiping at his eyes — mortified, hollowed out, and lighter all at once. Her hand was still on his back, warm and undemanding, patient in a way nobody had touched him in longer than he wanted to admit.

Then her alarm buzzed sharp against the cushion and they both flinched.

"Your money's up. I gotta go."

"Please." Raw, desperate. "Stay a while."

"I'm closed for the day. Sorry." She stood, and something in his chest dropped at the space suddenly between them.

"I'll pay." He was already reaching for his wallet. "Stay an hour, I'll pay you."

She made a face like she wanted to argue — but it died when she got a real look at him, swollen-eyed, more breakable than the man who'd walked in an hour ago.

"Okay." She dropped back down, already thumbing at her phone.

"Is your boyfriend gonna be mad?"

"Nope." A half-giggle. "And none of your business. Pay up."

He paid. She pocketed the bills without looking, thumbs still flying — then set the phone face-down and turned back to him. The crying had cracked something open in his chest that hadn't sealed over, and she was close now, close enough that her perfume was the only thing he could smell.

"Better?" she asked.

"Getting there."

Her hand was still resting near his on the cushion. He looked at it, then at her — really looked, past the glitter and the practiced ease — and somewhere beneath the wreckage of the day, under the text still burned behind his eyes, something else caught fire. Not sadness. Hunger — for every night his wife had turned her back to him in that bed, for the anger he hadn't let himself feel yet because grief had gotten there first.

His hand moved before his brain caught up, sliding along her jaw.

He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn't, his lips met hers, tentative at first, then lingering as the tension between them finally gave way.

It wasn't gentle. He kissed her like he was trying to burn the morning's text out of his own skull, like if he pressed hard enough he could stop hearing crazyyyyy, can't wait on a loop behind his eyes. She gasped against his lips — then kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting into his shirt, yanking him closer.

"There he is," she murmured against his mouth, a laugh caught in it.

"Shut up," he muttered, deepening the kiss before she could answer.

She pulled back only far enough to reach behind her own neck and pull the string loose. Her top fell away and she watched his face the whole time, reading what it did to him. His breath caught audibly, hands twitching before he made himself move them, palms sliding over warm skin at her waist. She guided one hand up to her boobs, arching into his palm with a soft sound.

"You said never." She whispered it to his ear, breath hot against his jaw as she traced her tongue around it.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Somewhere far off, a voice that sounded like his own conscience tried to say something about rings and vows and three years.

He pulled himself away from her. "I can't do this to Lis," he admitted, voice wrecked, hands leaving her hip and boob. "Please leave."

The stripper hesitated, then moved away from him onto the couch. "Your hour's not up yet."

She turned her back on him to tie back her bikini, and his eyes landed on her glistening caramel bare back.

His breath was uneven as he watched her. And as she turned to him, he locked his mouth with hers again, with no hesitation. Just pure heat and hunger.

She laughed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated through him, and swung a leg over to straddle his lap in one smooth motion. "Honest. I like that."

"Condom," she breathed. "Always."

He entered her. She was freaking wet, and he groaned at the feel of her, hips already moving, chasing something that felt less like pleasure and more like proof he still existed.

"Right there," she breathed, and he watched her come undone above him, reverent.

He followed her over a moment later, guilt and relief arriving in the same breath, refusing to untangle.

Afterward she collapsed half against him, chest heaving, laughing softly at nothing. "Damn," she said, brushing hair off her damp forehead. "You needed that."

He didn't answer. He just held onto her a beat too long, like letting go might let everything else back in — and somewhere in the fog of whiskey and her weight against him, the room tilted, and the night swallowed him whole.

MELLISA'S POV

Across town, in a bed that wasn't her husband's, Lis lay stretched across the sheets, hair fanned out over the pillow, a slow smile already forming before the door had even finished opening.

"You're late," she said, low and warm, not bothering to sit up. "I've been craving you all night babe."