turned away from the dais, walked the length of the platform like I owned it—because tonight, I finally did. Eyes followed me. Whispers trailed. But no one approached. They waited. They knew the rules had changed.
Then I saw him.
He leaned against a tiled pillar near the far end—about my age, maybe 29, lean but strong, dark hair falling into his eyes behind his half-mask. No bulk like Jax, no tattoos, no aggression in his stance. Just quiet confidence. He watched me approach without moving, c**k already half-hard in his unzipped pants, hand resting lightly on it.
Our eyes met through the masks.
No words at first. I stopped inches from him, close enough to smell his skin—clean sweat, faint cologne, arousal.
“You’re the one they paid,” he said, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Curious.
