Married to a Stripper

Chapter 2 – Ryan

Hours later I was in the service corridor of the club. Bleach and whiskey lived in the concrete walls. The bass pressed through the wall like a heartbeat pretending to be a god. Lights strobed under the door and cut out. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for the stage.

Silas blended into shadow at the turn. Jacket closed. Hands still. Nothing wasted.

“Two minutes,” he said. “Between songs.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

Good.

I stood with my back to a steel door that had never been cleaned properly. Cold bled through my shirt. A wet mop leaned in the corner like a tired weapon. The corridor ran thirty feet and ended in a fire door with a crash bar. A red EXIT sign hummed, sick and steady. Heater vents breathed stale air. The whole place felt built to hide things.

I liked that. Places that didn’t ask questions. Places that kept secrets even when you didn’t.

A latch released. Laughter spilled and died. Fabric whispered. Heels hit concrete, sharp, confident, not hurrying for anyone. The air shifted before she turned the corner, like the hall made room for her first.

Fuck.

So the picture hadn’t lied. It had only failed to warn.

The photo hadn’t been enough. It never could be. In person she was sharper. Dark hair, a few strands loose and reckless around her face. Hazel eyes that didn’t bend. Robe belted tight, parting at the thigh with every step. Skin unapologetic. She carried herself like the floor belonged to her, not the men who paid to watch her move. Bleach, whiskey, sweat, the stink of cheap survival. She rose out of it anyway, like she knew it couldn’t touch her. Useful. The cleanest kind of dirty.

Heat crawled under my skin before my thoughts caught up.

My c**k reacted before I could stop it. Heat shoved hard against the zipper. Annoyance flooded right after. I didn’t like reflex owning me. I didn’t like being owned by anyone.

Breathe. Set my jaw hard. Count to three.

She stopped a few feet out of reach, weight in one hip, chin lifted, a blade waiting to cut. She watched me watch her and didn’t blink. The robe’s lapel had a fingerprint of glitter near the collarbone. It didn’t suit her. She wasn’t glitter. She was edge.

Her shoulders lifted once—half a breath she tried to hide—then stilled. A pulse hammered at the base of her throat, small and fast, before she crushed it flat.

“You’re the man who doesn’t go through doors he doesn’t own,” she said. Voice low. Smoke with bite.

“You’re Amber.”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Ryan Carter.”

No flinch. Either she didn’t care or she was very good at pretending. She crossed her arms, the robe gapped higher on her thigh.

“You pulled me off my set. Expensive.”

“I’ll pay for your two minutes.”

“My minutes cost more than most men’s egos.”

“Good. I don’t buy egos.”

We let silence do the next exchange. The bass rolled under us. The EXIT sign hummed. Bleach bit the back of my throat. Her eyes stayed steady. So did mine.

Standoff. No wind. Just heat.

She shifted her stance a fraction. The heel of one shoe clicked as it settled. She didn’t sway. She didn’t go soft. She looked like she could go for the bar and break someone’s face with it if she needed to.

“You want me to dance for you?” she asked at last. No flirt. A challenge.

“No.”

“Then say it. Because I don’t f**k clients. I don’t spread my legs for anyone who waves cash and calls it respect.” Her gaze flicked to my belt and back like she enjoyed landing the blow. “You can look. You don’t touch. That’s the rule.”

I laughed once. Cold. Clean. It cut the space like a blade.

“I don’t pay for p***y, Amber. I prefer women who claim to be refined.”

The word landed how I wanted. Refined. A judgment with a bow on it.

Her jaw flexed. She didn’t drop her gaze. The corner of her mouth lifted, not a smile, more like a warning.

Inside, I called my own bluff. If refinement was what I wanted, my c**k wouldn’t be wired. If refinement was the measure, I wouldn’t be thinking about her mouth around me... lips tight, tongue obedient until I told it not to be. The thought hit and I shut the door on it. Control becomes bone-deep when you train it long enough.

Still, the picture didn’t go. It just stood behind the door and waited.