The humid breath of the New York night rolled over the city, heavy with exhaust fumes, neon lights, and the electric charge of secrets best left unspoken. In the heart of the city's decadent underbelly stood a club that had no name—an establishment of shadows, velvet, whispered transactions, and primal promises.
Ryan Hunter leaned back in his private booth at the heart of the establishment. The booth, half-hidden by crimson velvet curtains, provided a perfect vantage point—one from which to watch, to hunt.
Angel Dust sat beside him, nursing a drink, her presence radiating coiled strength. Her sharp eyes flicked across the room, dissecting every patron, every dancer, every hidden camera.
"Same girls, same stage tricks," she muttered, swirling the amber liquor in her glass. "Another night wasted?"
Ryan didn't respond.
Because tonight wasn't random.
Tonight had been chosen for a single reason.
Tonight, he would find her.
His gaze swept across the smoke-thick air—past the over-painted blondes, past the hired smiles—until it locked onto a figure emerging from backstage.
And the world shifted.
Her First Entrance
She didn't so much walk onto the stage as claim it.
Petite. Mocha-skinned. Toned from real work, real life. Tattoos curled like living vines across her arms, shoulders, and the small of her back, drawing the eye with every movement.
Angel Salvadore.
Her body was a study in defiance. She wore leather shorts that clung to her like sin, and a halter that barely contained her modest but perfect chest. The tattoos hinted at hidden strength—a pair of black, stylized wings across her shoulder blades.
No real wings. Not yet.
For now, she was pretending to be human.
Ryan's chest tightened.
He remembered her—from another world, another life. A spark that had deserved so much more. Betrayed. Killed in the margins of history.
Not this time.
Not under his watch.
The Dance of Defiance
The bassline throbbed low as Angel began to move.
But this time, her strip dance was slow. Excruciatingly slow.
She sauntered toward the pole, her hips rolling in sensual waves. She caught the beat with her body, letting it ripple up through her legs, her thighs, her abs, until it arched her spine and lifted her breasts.
One hand slid up the pole, the other trailing along her waist, fingers teasing the waistband of her shorts.
Ryan leaned back, captivated.
Her hands moved over her own body like a lover's caress. She lifted her halter top inch by inch, flashing the smooth, taut skin of her abdomen, the undercurve of her breasts.
Men leaned forward across the club. Mouths hung open.
Ryan only smiled.
She peeled the halter off over her head slowly, revealing a black lace bra—barely there, barely hiding anything.
She didn't drop it. She dragged it across her chest, taunting the room, eyes locked with Ryan's.
Her shorts came next. Fingers slipped under the waistband. A slow, agonizing peel down her thighs, revealing matching black panties underneath.
She kicked the shorts aside and stalked toward Ryan, still clothed, still untouchable—but offering the promise of everything.
Her lap dance was art.
She straddled him, not touching—hovering a hair's breadth above his lap. She rolled her hips, dragging heat and scent across the air between them.
Ryan gripped the arms of the booth, letting her tease him, letting her build herself higher and higher.
And just when the tension was unbearable, she leaned in—lips grazing his ear.
"Want more?"
"Strip," he said.
Another stack of cash hit the table.
And Angel smiled.
The True Seduction
Angel unclasped her bra with a slow, deliberate movement, freeing her pert breasts to the cool air. Ryan drank in the sight—the dusky nipples, the perfect weight and curve of her chest, the way each deep breath made them rise and fall temptingly.
But she didn't rush to him. No—she savored her moment.
Still kneeling over his lap without touching, she swayed her hips in hypnotic circles, her bare breasts swaying lightly with the movement. Her fingers teased down her own sides, brushing the sensitive skin of her waist, sliding around the gentle curves of her hips.
Angel bit her lip playfully, her dark eyes locked on his, reading the growing tension in his shoulders, the tight grip he had on the arms of the booth.
Without a word, she turned around—presenting her back to him—and bent over slightly, dragging her hands down the arch of her spine, accentuating the carved muscles and tattoos that adorned her skin. Her ass, round and firm, hovered just inches from his face, making Ryan's fists clench as he fought the urge to grab her.
When she looked over her shoulder and smirked, it was pure challenge.
Ryan said nothing. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him break first.
With exquisite slowness, Angel hooked her thumbs into the sides of her black lace panties. She tugged down an inch... paused. Tugged another inch. Teased the room—teased Ryan—with every incremental reveal of golden brown skin.
When the panties finally dropped past her thighs and pooled at her knees, she stepped out of them with practiced grace, fully nude except for the tattoos curling across her back and hips like whispered promises.
Now naked, she turned to face him once again.
Angel didn't immediately fall into his arms.
Instead, she began a true lap dance—skin sliding against the fabric of his pants, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts brushing his chest as she rolled her body with slow, torturous sensuality.
She moved like molten honey—slick, irresistible, tantalizing.
Her heat radiated against him. Her scent—warm, faintly sweet with a hint of sweat—wrapped around him, making his cock throb painfully inside his trousers.
Ryan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain perfectly still, allowing her to dance. To tempt. To offer herself fully, willingly, begging to be claimed.
She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered:
"Are you going to make me beg?"
His hands finally moved, snapping up to grip her waist, holding her firmly in place atop his lap.
"Not yet, little angel," he growled, his voice thick with restrained hunger. "First, you're going to dance for me a little longer."
Angel's smile widened, wicked and eager.
She began grinding her hips against his trapped cock, slow and sensual, rubbing the slick folds of her naked sex across the bulge in his pants. The friction made her gasp—soft, needy.
Ryan's hands slid up her sides, over the flare of her ribs, thumbs brushing just below the heavy swell of her breasts—but not touching.
Teasing her now. Punishing her for teasing him earlier.
Angel whimpered, arching her back, silently begging for more contact.
Ryan's mouth curved into a slow, predatory smile.
The real claiming was only moments away...