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demie90s · 10 days ago

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2 Sexy

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Summary: Diana agrees to one night out with her friends at an upscale strip club—just to shut them up. Her friends pool their cash and convince the club’s owner to book his favorite girl for a private dance.

Genre: Sensual tension · Slow-burn obsession · One night changes everything

Warnings: Smut. Explicit sexual tension, pole dancing, lap dance, implied dom/sub dynamics, reader is a stripper (by choice), Diana is cocky but gagged, eye contact, mild language, mutual obsession brewing

Word Count ~ 6.1k

She didn’t want to go. That was the first thing.

Diana hated shit like this—loud music, overpriced drinks, people pretending to be something they’re not. The club scene had always felt… exhausting. She was thirty-something now. Legacy locked in. Her name rang bells in rooms she’d never stepped foot in. She’d earned the right to disappear after practice, drink something brown, and sleep for ten hours. That was peace.

But tonight?

“Come on, D, one night.”

“It’s not even trashy,” Penny said, sipping from a glass of something clear. “It’s… exclusive.”

“I don’t need ass in my face to feel alive,” Diana muttered.

“You need something in your face,” Megan shot back, laughing. “You been dry since the bubble.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping them off as the car pulled into a discreet valet entrance. Blacked-out SUVs lined the curb. No signs. No bright lights. Just a dark brass plaque on the side of the marble building—FLEUR NOIRE—scripted in cursive, like it was a perfume instead of a private strip club.

The bouncer didn’t ask for IDs. Just looked once, recognized who she was, and nodded.

Inside smelled like cash and perfume. Not the cheap kind either—the expensive, oil-based kind that clung to skin and memory. The floors were velvet black, the walls mirrored in a way that made everything look like it cost too much. It was dim, moody, low-lit like the club was trying to flirt with you before you even sat down.

It was nothing like the places from their twenties. No wrinkled bills. No sticky poles. No “Buy one, get one” Tuesday specials.

This wasn’t for broke men. This was for them.

Every woman on the floor moved like she wasn’t trying to make money—she was letting it come to her. Rich men laughed too loud in corner booths, throwing down cards that didn’t have limits. Athletes, actors, politicians, and the kind of corporate guys who paid six figures to not be touched.

“Is it bougie that I’m impressed?” Penny asked.

“No,” Megan said, grinning. “It’s bougie ‘cause you’re thinking of getting bottle service.”

Diana scanned the room slowly. Dark leather booths with gold accents. Thick curtains. Spotlights that made women glow like walking sin. There were maybe twenty people in the whole place, but every inch of it was occupied with presence. Intent. Lust.

A woman walked by in red—latex, not fabric—her body glistening under the low heat lamps, her walk slow enough to hush a whole section. Men shifted in their seats. One even adjusted himself. Diana sipped her drink.

Still not impressed. That’s what she told herself.

They took a booth, tucked away, close enough to see the main stage but with a view of the private hallway. Every few minutes, a man disappeared behind those thick black curtains. Some returned looking wrecked. Others didn’t return at all.

A man in a navy suit came over. He was handsome but not flashy—salt and pepper hair, smooth voice, and the kind of stillness that meant he wasn’t just management. He ran this place.

“You three good?” he asked. “Drinks okay?”

“They’re great,” Megan said. “We were thinking of getting a private dance for our friend here.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Penny smirked. “It’s tradition. You’re new. You get a dance.”

She waved them off. “No thanks.”

“Come on,” Megan whined. “It’s a strip club! Live a little.”

“She said no,” the man said, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “But maybe she just hasn’t met the right dancer yet.”

Diana scoffed. “Y’all think I’m that easy?”

The man smiled. “Not at all. That’s why I know exactly who to send.”

He didn’t even look at a roster. Just turned toward the back, waved over a girl in black lingerie, and leaned in. Quiet instructions. A nod. The girl disappeared behind a back door, whispering the message to someone unseen.

Penny blinked. “He didn’t even ask what you like.”

“He didn’t have to,” the man replied, smirking. “I know exactly who to send for someone like her.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

He just smiled.

Diana felt her lips curl just a little. Fine. One dance. One private room. One night out of her element.

What could possibly go wrong?

I’m 23 now. Legal. Paid. And at the top of my game. This isn’t something I had to do—it’s something I chose. And baby, I do it well.

I move like I own every man who walks in here. Most of them don’t know what to do with me. They think they’ve seen this before, but they haven’t seen me. My sets run like clockwork. Pole. Floor. Lap. Repeat. And I never break rhythm, never break character. They can look, they can beg, they can breathe heavy through a thousand-dollar suit—but they can’t touch.

Unless they’re a woman. That’s my only rule. But tonight…tonights different.

Because Papi—that’s what we all call him, even though his real name’s Mateo—comes out the back hyped. He’s calm 90% of the time, but when he gets like this? Something’s up.

“I need you in the back,” he says, smile crooked, arms crossed. “Don’t ask questions. Just know she’s famous and she’s gonna try and act like she’s not impressed.”

I cock my head. “That’s new.”

He chuckles. “You still got it?”

I grin. “Always.”

He turns to head back toward the velvet hallway, pausing just long enough to shoot a look toward one of the servers.

“…she still has to pay, right?” the server teases. “Or does she get it free ‘cause you love her?”

Papi doesn’t even blink. “You know damn well she paying. Especially for you.”

That makes me hum.

I head to the dressing area, grab the heels that bite the hardest, and adjust the outfit I specifically save for high rollers. Tiny. Sheer in places that make people clench their jaw. Straps so thin they could snap if I move wrong. And I move very wrong. On purpose.

The back room is candlelit—luxury hotel vibes. There’s a pole in the center, a curved leather couch, another chair draped in silk. No cameras. Soundproof walls. Just me and them.

I’ve done this more times than I can count. Usually men. The kind that flash money and hide their wedding rings. They talk too much. They think I’m theirs for ten minutes. They leave a little emptier than they came.

But the women? They sit back and watch. Quiet. Curious. Sharp. They don’t touch unless invited.

And she’s invited.

When I walk in, she’s already there—Diana Taurasi, in the flesh, sitting like she owns air. Head slightly tilted, arms draped loose over the couch. Her legs are long, crossed, and casual. She’s got that posture that says this is beneath me.

And I eat that shit up.

I walk to her like I walk to everyone. Controlled. Slow. No smile. Just a look that hooks you without needing words. When I reach her, I tilt my head. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just gives me that stubborn, amused smirk like she’s waiting for me to crack.

I hold out my hand.

“…come on… don’t tell me you’re scared, mamba.”

That makes her laugh. Low and rough. It’s not polite either.

“You really using my nickname?” she says, eyes narrowing like she’s sizing me up.

“I could call you something else,” I murmur, stepping in just close enough that my knee brushes hers. “But I like mamba. It’s Silent. Sexy.”

Her gaze flicks up my body like a warning. Like I’m supposed to back down. I don’t. I just smirk.

“You gonna sit there all night looking cute, or you want your money’s worth?” That gets her.

She leans back—lazy, like she’s got time—and spreads her legs just enough to let me step in. Not much. Just an inch. A challenge.

So I step between them. Game on. She doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. Just sits there all regal and relaxed like she’s the one doing the hiring. Like I’m the show but she’s the main event.

Cute.

So I drop my hand. No big deal. I’m used to that little ego. Used to women like her thinking they can’t be touched—mentally, physically, emotionally. She’s the type that likes to be in control. Which is why I lean in slow, press my palms right on the arms of the chair, and cage her in.

One breath apart. My skin damn near brushing hers. Her eyes track me, sharp, unreadable—but she doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t blink.

“…you prefer your dance here?” I ask, voice low, sweet with a little edge.

My head tilts just enough to let my lips ghost near her jaw.

“I can work with that.”

I keep my eyes on hers, smirking like I already know what’s underneath all that fake calm. She ain’t slick. She’s breathing just a little deeper now. Hands still on her thighs like they’re glued there. Shoulders tensed but mouth stubborn. Like she’s deciding how long she can hold out before she folds.

I drag a single finger up the armrest, close to hers. Not touching. Not yet.

“Tell me when you’re ready to stop pretending,” I murmur. “’Cause I don’t do half-dances, mama. You want the real thing… you gotta act like it.”

And then I push off slow, straightening up, walking toward the pole in the center of the room like I didn’t just read her soul with a whisper. She wants to play cool? Let’s see how long that lasts.

The song starts, and I don’t perform. I exist. That’s the difference. I don’t get on stage to prove anything. I don’t need to. The moment I step into the light, the room just… shifts.

People sit up straighter. Voices drop. Every dumbass with money suddenly remembers how to shut up and stare.

“Like you, like you… like you, ooh-oh…”

Streets by Doja. Mateo ain’t shit for this. He knows what the hell he doing. That man been running this club longer than some of these men been faithful, and right now. He just orchestrated a funeral—for everybody’s self-control.

Because the way I move, the pole don’t stand a chance.

It’s about me. The air thickens. Time drips slower. I make space bend without even touching the pole. I walk the edge of that stage like I’m choosing who gets to breathe tonight.

The men in the front. Losing it. One’s gripping his glass too tight. The other already digging for bills, like that’s gonna do anything for him. I like it. Not because I want them—God no—but because I love the power. The silence. The hunger. I like when men tell me how good I look knowing damn well they couldn’t even survive touching me.

‘Cause the thing is—they know they’ll never touch me.

They know this body ain’t theirs to want.

But I’ll take their comments. Their yes ma’ams. Their desperate little dollar-stained praises. I’ll take their cash and give ‘em a memory so vivid it’ll haunt their wives. I’ll take their minds and leave them with nothing but a ruined standard.

Her friends are losing their shit. Penny smacked Megan’s arm and muttered, “Oh, hell no—not that,” like they just witnessed God descend in stripper heels. They ain’t expect this. Didn’t expect me.

Loud. Laughing. Whispering shit and elbowing her like they can’t believe what they’re seeing. They expected someone cute. Maybe hot. Harmless.

Not the woman who walks out and owns the room without blinking. Not the one who doesn’t crack a smile because she already knows how bad you want it. And I love that.

Then there’s her.

Sitting back like she’s above it all. Arms crossed. Legs spread casual. Like the heat in her chest ain’t rising. Like I don’t already have her attention in a chokehold.

My eyes meet hers. I hold them. I let her sit in it. Feel it. And I swear to God—for a half-second—she leans in. Just a little. Almost like her body moved before she told it not to.

That’s all I need. Because now It’s over. She don’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.

After I finish, I don’t linger. I don’t wave or collect bills or blow kisses like the newer girls do. I just walk off—shoulders relaxed, head high, like I didn’t just ruin the atmosphere for every other dancer scheduled tonight.

Backstage, I wipe down. Fix my lip gloss. Adjust a single strap. It’s routine. I’ve done it a hundred times, but tonight’s different. Feels different. Because I already know what’s waiting.

And when I step out, she’s exactly where I thought she’d be—still in that same booth, pretending like she’s not waiting. That stiff posture, that leg bounce, the fake calm expression? All of it screams she doesn’t know how to feel. Which is perfect.

I lean against the doorway, arms folded, amused. Watching her. Letting her sit in it.

Then I raise one finger. Curl it once. Real slow.

A smirk spreads across my lips, because her reaction isn’t immediate—but it happens. She hesitates just long enough for her friends to jump in, bumping her shoulder and egging her on.

“You better go get that.”

“Dee, please. For the culture.”

“What culture?”

“Just go!”

She rolls her eyes but stands. And that’s all I needed.

I don’t say a word—I just walk backward, heels clicking against the dark wood floor like a countdown. She follows. Of course she does. Diana Taurasi may not chase—but she follows. That’s how I know I already got her.

We step through the velvet curtain, and she enters the private room like it’s foreign ground. Like she doesn’t usually give up control. The lights are dim, low and sultry, music humming through hidden speakers. No stage here. No crowd. Just me, her, and a space that bends to my rhythm.

She looks like she’s trying to play it cool, but her hands are shoved in her pockets, and her jaw is tight. So I push her into the seat, palms soft on her chest. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough pressure to remind her—you’re not in charge anymore.

I circle her slowly, letting my fingers trail across the chair, behind her neck, down the opposite armrest. She doesn’t look back, but I feel her track me with every step. Like her body’s on alert. Like she doesn’t know what to expect and hates that she’s into it.

“Why so tense, mamba…” I murmur, voice barely above the music. “You can relax.”

I step in front of her, close enough to press my knees against hers. Then I take her hands—slowly, gently, like I’m not in a rush—and guide them to my hips. She doesn’t move them. Just lets them rest there. Still stiff.

“Come on,” I whisper. “You can touch me. That’s the rule.”

Her brows twitch like she’s weighing the cost. She’s trying to act like this doesn’t faze her, like I’m just some girl dancing in a private room.

But she doesn’t pull away. The music keeps playing, low and dark and full of bass, and I sway into it, letting my hips roll into her hands as if they belong there. And maybe they do. Just for tonight.

“If you think you’ll win this…” I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, “…you’re wrong, baby.”

I press one palm against her chest, then slowly glide it down until I’m gripping her thigh. My other hand parts her knees with the same ease as someone opening a door.

She doesn’t stop me. I sink down between her legs—not in a rush, not to shock her. Just low enough that I can look up from the floor and see the shift in her eyes when she realizes this isn’t about performance anymore.

I drag both hands up the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, pausing just below her hips. My thumbs press into the fabric of her pants like I’m memorizing the shape of her. Then I move higher, palms smoothing up her stomach, across the line of her abs, just until I’m hovering again—half-kneeling, half-crouched, face tilted like I’m trying to figure out exactly how she’s holding it together.

Spoiler: she’s not.

“You’re breathing different,” I say softly. “You trying not to react?”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw clenches.

“You think I haven’t seen that look before? That stiff, don’t-break composure?” I smile. “It’s cute. But it never lasts.”

I press higher, fingers trailing the bottom edge of her shirt now, just enough to make her nerves jump. And all the while, I keep looking at her. Only her.

“I’ll break you.”

I say it like a promise. Like a quiet storm. Like it’s already happening.

And then I stand. Smooth. Tall. Confident. My hands slide back to her shoulders, pressing her back into the chair as I climb up, knees bracing each side of her thighs, hips hovering just above her lap. My face inches from hers.

Still no rush. Just presence. Just heat. And she’s frozen—somewhere between fight and surrender. Exactly where I want her.

She’s loosening up now.

Breathing easier. Shoulders down. Hands not clenched in her lap like she’s scared to move. I can feel it in the way her knees shift, just slightly wider. The way her eyes follow my hands instead of the floor.

So I smile, soft and amused. “See… not so hard.”

Her voice is low. “What’s your rule?”

I don’t even turn around. I just hum.

“…You already know.”

I take a step back, let the distance stretch for half a second before I soften it with a teasing little whine—playful, cocky, like I’m daring her to miss me already. My body rolls with it. Smooth, fluid. That’s my best weapon—being sensual without effort. Being a problem without ever raising my voice.

I lean back into her, slow like molasses, turning so my back presses to her chest. My hand finds her knee—she’s already sitting wide, practically begging—and I lower myself down into her lap, full weight, deliberate.

It’s not rushed. It’s intimate. Claustrophobic in the best way.

I let my head tilt back, just enough that my hair brushes her collarbone. My thighs fit between hers, one hand resting on her knee like I’m claiming the territory she forgot was hers to give. She doesn’t stop me.

Her breath warms my ear. Slow. Hesitant. So I guide her.

I take one of her hands, soft at first, and lay it flat on my stomach. She tenses. Holds it there. But when I don’t stop her? When I don’t pull away?

She squeezes. Not rough. Not horny. Curious. Like she’s trying to learn something she thought she already knew.

And when I still don’t stop her—don’t even flinch—she does it again. This time letting her hand slide lower, to my thigh, dragging her fingers lightly like she’s trying to memorize texture. Her other hand follows, finding the opposite leg, gripping it. Palming it. Like she’s testing if I’ll let her.

I do.

I arch just enough to deepen the contact, then roll my hips slow—not grinding, not yet. Just a suggestion. My hands glide down her arms, fingertips brushing hers. And then I feel her move.

Her hands come up, hesitant but bold, sliding along my waist until she’s cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my top. She pauses—like she can’t believe she’s doing it. Like she’s expecting me to flinch or scold.

But I chuckle. Low. Sweet. A little cruel.

“See?” I whisper, turning my head just enough for her to hear it in her ear.

“I don’t bite… mamba.”

She exhales. Real slow.

I can feel her jaw shift against my cheek, the tension melting into something else. Something needier. Hungrier. Her thumbs move, brushing over me gently, more confident now. She still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. Her hands say enough.

I just smile. Because now she’s here.

I settle fully in her lap. No space left between us. No more teasing like I might stand up again. I’m here, soft and heavy and deliberate. Her hands are everywhere—waist, hips, ribs, thighs. Wandering. Not greedy, but steady. Like she can’t decide where she wants to keep them because she wants all of it.

My head tilts back slightly, brushing her shoulder as I look up at her. Her face is right there. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite. But I don’t—not yet. I just let her feel the weight of me. Let her feel what it’s like to be the one touched and touched back.

I grind against her slow, barely-there pressure, just enough to remind her what I’ve got. My hips roll once, lazy and calculated, the seam of my body angled exactly where I want it. Right where her center’s pressed between my thighs. I lean forward a bit, just enough that her grip shifts, slides to hold my hips again.

I know what I’m doing. I love women. I’ve studied every twitch, every breath, every slip of control. This is a language I speak fluently—and she’s starting to understand it.

“Too much?” I ask, voice soft, lips close to her jaw. A little pout on purpose. Just for the contrast.

“…not enough.” She doesn’t hesitate.

That answer hits low. Deep. Like a crack in the foundation. My smile sharpens, slow and wicked, and I roll my hips again—this time a little deeper, a little heavier. Let her feel it. My body dragging slow friction right over the spot she didn’t mean to tense for.

Her fingers flex at my hips. Hold tighter. She doesn’t pull me closer—but she doesn’t stop me either. She doesn’t have to. She’s giving it away.

“Mmm,” I hum, low in my throat, still moving. “You sure? I could stop.”

She exhales through her nose. Sharp. Annoyed. A silent don’t play with me. So I lean in again—this time my mouth barely an inch from her ear.

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I haven’t even started.”

Her hands grip my hips now—not tentative anymore, but firm. Like she’s giving in. Letting me move, letting me guide the rhythm, but needing to feel it. Needing to hold something while she falls apart slowly.

I smile to myself, eyes half-lidded, the corner of my mouth curling like I already know what’s coming. Her jaw’s tight. Clenched. Like her whole body’s working overtime just to keep from reacting too fast.

And I love it.

I keep grinding slow, just enough friction to keep her focused. Just enough pressure to make her forget where the line is. My hips roll steady into her lap, warm and soft and controlled—like sin wrapped in velvet.

She lets out a groan. Low. Right against my ear. The kind that escapes before she can trap it. Her breath is hot, and her grip on my waist tightens again, anchoring herself like she’s seconds from slipping.

I chuckle softly—breathy and smug. Not cruel. Just knowing.

One of her hands leaves my hip. Slides up my body, confident now. Over my side, across my ribs. It finds my breast again, fitting her palm there like she finally figured out what she wants to do with it. She squeezes, slow and careful, thumb brushing across me through the fabric.

My breath catches just slightly—not because I’m surprised, but because I like it. Because now I know for sure: she’s gone. I’ve got her. And she’s holding on like she needs to.

Her other hand never left my hip, though. She grips it tighter, using it to guide my rhythm, like her body’s responding before her mind can catch up. Her legs are wide under me, her thighs flexing every time I roll just right over her.

“You good?” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder, voice lazy and teasing like I’m not sitting directly on top of everything she’s trying to control.

She exhales hard. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps touching me.

So I smirk again and roll slower, deeper, my body fitting into her like we’ve done this a hundred times.

But we haven’t. She just wants it that bad.

I push off her lap and stand, slow and smug, watching the way her body reaches for me without meaning to. Her breath stutters, and if I blinked, I’d miss it—but there it is.

A little pout. Not dramatic. Just a flicker of disappointment. Hunger.

“Awww, what’s wrong, baby?” I coo, tilting my head with mock concern. “Thought you’d win something?”

I drag my finger across her shoulder as I walk around her, circling slow, eyes locked on the way her legs still won’t close. She’s hot. Bothered. Chest rising and falling just a little too fast. Trying to hold composure that doesn’t belong to her anymore.

And just as I drop low again, just as I let the silence stretch between us, her hands find my waist—bold now—and pull me right back onto her lap.

I let it happen. Let my knees slide wide, thighs snug around hers. Straddling her again, this time with her chest pressing up into mine, her hands gripping the curve of my hips like she owns them.

“Mmm… touchy now, huh?” I murmur, smiling.

“Shut up.”

“Oh?” I laugh softly, settling in. “Or what?”

She glares, jaw tight—but her grip doesn’t ease up. She ain’t got a comeback this time. No smartass reply. Just those hands flexing on my body like she’s trying to get a grip on her sanity.

Too late.

I tilt my head slowly, daring her. Then I reach up and grip her jaw—not rough, not sweet either. Just firm. Steady. I tilt her face up, force her to look at me.

This… this is new.

I don’t kiss clients. I don’t touch like this. Not for real. I dance. I tease. I push them to the edge and leave them there. Get them wet and wrecked and begging, then disappear. That’s the job. That’s the art.

She make me want to.

So I smile. Real slow. Her hands slide down to my ass, full and sure, like she’s not asking permission anymore. Just taking what I’ve already given.

I lean in, slow enough to make her wait, and kiss the corner of her mouth. Just that. Soft. Just enough heat to sting.

“…That allowed?” She’s whispers.

“You care?” I smirk.

“…Do it again.”

So I do. I kiss her again—this time lower. Her jaw. Her neck. I trail heat down to that spot right below her ear, where her pulse jumps, where her hands grip me harder and her thighs tense beneath mine.

She starts moving me. Hands on my hips again. Rocking me slow against her like she can’t help it. Like if I stop, she’ll fall apart. Her shoulders shift. I can feel the strength in her arms as she rolls my body into hers like she’s trying to memorize it.

I pull back just enough to look down at her, my hand still under her jaw, lifting her chin like she belongs there.

“Mamba…” I say with a slow, wicked smile. “You gave in.”

I lean in close, nose brushing hers. “Look at you…”

And she does. Eyes dark, lips parted, throat tight

Her hands move up my back—no hesitation now, no testing. Firm. Hot. Possessive. She pulls me closer like she needs me there. Like not having my body against hers is suddenly a problem.

Her breath brushes the shell of my ear, and I can feel it—tight, ragged, uneven. She’s holding on by threads. So I lean in, real low, lips brushing her skin but not kissing.

“Gonna beg me?” I whisper. She stiffens.

“No.”

I smirk. That denial came too fast. Too tight. That’s the pride talking—not the heat pooling in her stomach, not the grip on my waist, not the way she’s practically rocking against me now.

“Ohh come on…” I purr, sliding my hips forward, slow and deep, letting the friction hit just right between us. “You’re Diana Taurasi… you’ve worked for shit before, right?”

I let that hang in the air for a beat—just long enough to let her feel it. Then I shift like I’m about to leave. Start to push off her lap, slow, smooth, nonchalant. Like I could go.

Like I would. And that’s when she panics.

She grabs my waist. Strong. Too strong. Damn near slams me back down into her lap. My eyes widen slightly—not out of fear, just amusement.

Instant ocean. I raise an eyebrow, watching her jaw flex like she’s choking on the one thing she’s never had to say out loud.

“…Please.”

Soft. Rough. The kind of whisper you say through gritted teeth when you hate how bad you mean it. My smile spreads.

“Mm,” I hum, dragging my nails lightly up her arms. “I’ve heard better, mamba.” I rock once. Deep. Slow.

“Say it like you mean it… or I’ll walk out of here so wet for you it’ll haunt you for the rest of the season.”

And her fingers dig in like she knows I mean it.

Her grip tightens like her life depends on it. Like letting me go now would mean bleeding out. And I can feel it—the tension in her thighs, the ache in her fingertips, the shallow drag of her breath like it’s scraping up from somewhere deep.

But she still hesitates. Still clings to that last sliver of control like it matters.

I roll my hips once more, slower this time—sinking right down into her lap, giving her every inch of that friction she didn’t earn. My hands cradle the sides of her face, thumb dragging across her cheek like I’m comforting her. Like I care.

“I said say it like you mean it,” I murmur. My voice is silk, but the command in it? Cold steel.

She swallows hard. I don’t move. I just wait. Still. Straddled over her. Breathing steady while hers stutters. Then finally—finally—she looks at me.

Eyes glassy. Dark. Almost angry at herself. Like her pride is choking her on the way out. And then she says it.

“Please.”

But this time it’s real. Quiet. Raw. Like she hates how much she means it. And baby… it breaks her. My smirk softens into something else. Not pity. Not victory. Something deeper. Almost dangerous.

“There she is,” I whisper.

I lean in slow. Let my lips brush hers, not quite a kiss—just a burn. A warning. Then I drag my mouth down the line of her jaw, across the curve of her neck, until I find that spot pulsing under her ear. I kiss her there. Once. Slow. Then again. Open-mouthed.

She groans.

Her hands slide from my waist to my ass, gripping like she needs to anchor herself to survive this. Her legs flex underneath me. She starts moving me again—guiding my hips with a rhythm that’s messier now. Needier. She’s not in control anymore, she’s chasing.

I pull back, just enough to look her in the eye. My breath fans her lips.

“Look at you,” I murmur, sweet and sinful. “Begging.”

And then I kiss her. Really kiss her. Full mouth. Full pressure. Like she’s mine already and always has been. The way she kisses back. Baby—she’s gone.

She’s not asking anymore. She’s begging. And it’s not just once—it’s spilling. Low, hoarse, under her breath like it’s involuntary. Like every second she doesn’t feel me move is a punishment.

“Please…”

“Don’t stop…”

“Fuck—please…”

Each one softer, wetter, more pathetic than the last. And I just sit in her lap like a throne, hips rolling in slow, exact circles. Feeding her just enough pressure to keep her throbbing, just enough friction to feel it everywhere.

I ain’t rushing it. Why would I? She’s already mine.

I lean in, lips at her ear, letting my breath tease every time she tries to speak. Every time her voice cracks or her nails press harder into my thighs.

“You like that, mamba?” I whisper, teasing her as I grind. “You like beggin’ for it?”

She groans, hips bucking up helplessly. Her hands are all over now—gripping my ass, my waist, my back like she can’t decide what to hold onto. Like her body’s short-circuiting.

“I’ll do anything,” she mutters. That makes me smile.

I slow your hips. Real slow. Just enough to make her whine. Then I grip her jaw again, tilt her head back like before, but this time there’s no warning.

I kiss her like a reward. Full, deep, tongue in her mouth while she moans into it like she’s gone stupid. Her legs are shaking under you. She’s grinding up like her life depends on it. Like she’s so close she could fall apart right there, with just me riding her lap and whispering filth in her ear.

“That wallet real nice,” I murmur between kisses. “Might keep you just for that.”

I feel her grip tighten like she liked that too much.

“And you?” I add, lips brushing hers. “You real fine.”

She whimpers. Literally. Head falls back. Eyes fluttering. She’s chasing something. Maybe a nut. Maybe just me. Either way—she’s fuckin’ desperate.

I lean back slightly, watching her crumble, my hands on her shoulders to pin her just enough.

“Damn, mamba… you ‘bout to cum from this?”

I grind deeper once—perfectly—and she chokes on a breath.

“God—yes. Please, please, I’m—”

I hush her with your mouth. Biting her lip just enough to shut her up. Then grinding again, eyes locked on her as her back arches and her hands tighten, trying to make it last, trying not to embarrass herself—

But it’s too late. She’s trembling under me. All while I’m still fully dressed. Calm. Smiling.

Mission. Accomplished.

Her chest is rising like she just finished running suicides, lips parted, flushed all the way up to her ears.

I lean in, slow and smooth, letting her catch your scent again—your lip gloss, your heat, the faint sweat at your collarbone.

I kiss her. One more time. But it’s not needy. Not even sweet. It’s final. Soft, full, and dangerous. A kiss that says “You did good.” A kiss that says “But don’t think it meant more to me.”

I pull back, one hand grazing her cheek, eyes unreadable. I stand. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just step off her lap, adjust my top, and walk toward the curtain like I didn’t just bring one of the most dangerous players in the game to her fuckin’ knees. I didn’t look back.

Can’t let her see that I enjoyed that more than she did. It takes a minute, but eventually she walks out too. Her friends light up, all of ’em ready to clown.

“So? How was it?”

“Dee, tell me she didn’t ruin you—”

“You good??”

But Diana was dead silent.

Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just walks straight past them—jacket in hand, head down, face unreadable—and straight out the door like nothing happened. Like that wasn’t the best thing that’s happened to her in years. Like she didn’t almost come in a fuckin’ chair.

Back inside, Mateo comes stomping up to me, waving a receipt like it’s the winning lottery ticket.

“Yo,” he says, wide-eyed, grinning like a madman. “Yo.”

I raise a brow, unbothered.

“She left a tip so fat I thought it was a fuckin’ typo. Cash. Like cash cash.”

I smirk, biting your lip.

Mateo shakes his head, half-laughing, half-hyped. “I love basketball. God bless America. You? You just made the hall of fame, baby.”

You wink. “Told you I never miss.”

He throws his hands up and walks off still muttering, “I gotta get that jersey signed or somethin’.”

I just sit back in my seat, relaxed, untouched, legs crossed like nothing happened.

That’s enough for tonight. Until next time, mamba.

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