Married to a Stripper

Chapter 8 – Amber/Ryan

The Velvet steamed with sweat and whiskey.

Perfume clung thick to the air, and the floor gripped at my heels with every step.

I’d walked this hallway a thousand times, but tonight it felt different — like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

I tugged my jacket tighter, the cheap red dress beneath catching at my thighs.

I didn’t want to be here. Not after signing Carter’s damn contract.

Not after handing my name — and my future — to a man who looked at me like paperwork instead of flesh.

But pride whispered. Fear screamed louder.

Fear he’d come for me.

Fear he wouldn’t.

In the dressing room, Megan was fixing her lipstick, silver bikini glittering under the harsh lights.

“You sure about this?” she asked softly, eyes catching mine in the cracked mirror.

I forced a smirk, tugging at my corset laces. “What’s another night?”

My hands trembled as I pulled tighter. The ribs pinched, air thinned.

Pain anchored me. But suffocating behind armor was easier than choking on fear.

The music outside throbbed, heavy and dirty. The crowd was already loud, hungry.

I stepped onto the stage. Lights seared the floor, merciless.

The roar hit my bones — whistles, shouts, bills waving in fists. Routine. Survival.

Until my eyes found him.

Ryan Carter.

He stood near the back, shadow-cut in a black suit, jaw tight, shoulders squared like the city itself bent around him. Still. Cold. Furious.

My chest hitched. Heel slipped half an inch before I corrected. I gripped the pole, metal biting cold into my palm.

The music shifted. A low guitar riff rolled through the speakers. Slow, sultry, haunting. Wicked Game.

My stomach knotted. Of course.

I moved. Hips rolling, body swaying, slow descent down the pole, every line sharp.

But it wasn’t for the crowd.

It was for him.

His stare burned. The room blurred around his stillness, his control louder than the bass. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

Then he pulled a thick roll of bills from his jacket. Tossed it onto the stage. Notes rained against my knees, paper slapping skin.

“If you want men drooling over you,” his voice cut, low but merciless, “I’ll be first in line.”

The words sliced deeper than I wanted them to. Rage flared, heat streaked up my skin.

The insult burned, but something else burned with it. Hunger.

Fine. If he wanted a show, he’d choke on it.

I slid down the pole slow, every motion deliberate, the rhythm slow and lethal.

Eyes locked on him. Every sway of my hips was defiance, every movement a refusal to bow.

The crowd howled, drunk on sin, blind to the war happening between us.

I moved closer, knees grazing the edge of the stage, chest rising and falling with the beat.

My fingers brushed the air just above my thighs — a whisper of touch, not contact — enough to make the crowd imagine the rest.

The tension thickened. I tilted my head, eyes still on Ryan.

Every breath between us was a fight for dominance neither of us wanted to lose.

His stare didn’t waver. Mine refused to break.

I flipped one leg over, straddling the empty space near the front, body arched, hair falling forward, sweat catching the light.

I rolled my hips slow, grinding the air, not for the men shouting my name — for him.

The crowd saw sin. He saw defiance.

My hands dragged up my torso, palms gliding over my stomach, over my ribs, stopping just below my breasts.

I breathed harder, head tilting back, a low sound breaking from my throat that wasn’t faked.

The ache between my thighs wasn’t pretend either.

But I kept the illusion in my control. This was my stage, my rebellion, my body on my terms.

Ryan didn’t move. Didn’t touch.

But his fists were tight, his jaw locked, and his eyes burned like a promise.

Every second of his restraint fed mine.

Every heartbeat felt like a dare.

On the last beat of the song, I froze. Still. Chest heaving. Eyes locked on his.

The crowd erupted, howls and applause shaking the walls.

Bills burst through the air, dirty rain against my skin.

But between me and Ryan there was silence.

A suffocating silence that cut through the noise, thick as a hand on my throat.

He hadn’t moved. Still in his chair, suit sharp, teeth clenched.

Yet his knuckles were white on the armrest, leather straining under the force of his grip.

For a second, I thought he’d stand. For a second, I wanted him to.

The song crashed into silence.

And something inside me did too.

I snapped back, pulling away like I’d been cut.

I yanked my jacket off the stage floor, legs trembling, chest heaving.

My body still trembled… the burn didn’t fade.

Skin flushed, stomach tight, thighs shaking with aftershocks I didn’t want to admit.

I hated him.

I hated myself more for wanting.

And Ryan? He hadn’t even touched me yet.

But when I stumbled backstage, breath ragged, I felt his eyes still on me.

A weight pressing, following, holding me steady when my knees threatened to give.

Not a touch. Not a word.

Just a stare that felt too much like care.

Ryan

The Velvet steamed with sweat and whiskey.

Men drooled, bills flying, eyes all over her. I hated them.

Then Amber stepped on stage. Black lingerie clung to her curves, skin slick under the lights, hair wild.

She gripped the pole and heat jolted low in my gut, a slow burn coiling hard before I could stop it.

Wicked Game. Slow. Filthy.

She moved like sin itself. Every arch of her back, every sway of her hips — aimed at me.

I wanted to rip their eyes out.

Kill anyone who touched her.

I threw a roll of cash at her knees. “If you want men drooling, I’ll be first in line.”

Her eyes burned. Then she moved closer, crawling to the edge, hips rolling like she could scorch me alive just by breathing near me.

My pulse slammed. My teeth locked until pain shot behind my ears.

My fists tightened; leather groaned under my grip.

My c**k throbbed, aching to split her open.

And when her body shook — real, not fake — I knew she wasn’t just performing.

She was burning.

And so was I.

The crowd roared. I didn’t hear them.

I only saw the way her body trembled, how she straightened after the song, eyes glazed, breath uneven.

She thought she was defying me.

She’d belonged to me long before the ink dried.

When she disappeared backstage, I stood.

Every muscle pulled tight, every breath sharp enough to cut.

Control cracked. Want roared.

And I was already lost.

When I finally take her, nothing will be fake.

Only fire.