Page 147 of Blood & Throttle
She’smyproblem, and I’ll burn every goddamn district left standing if someone tries to take her from me.
I drop into one of the busted old booths, using my forearm to swipe the trash off the table—empty bottles, glitter-stuck flyers, a heel missing its pair. The surface’s still sticky with whatever the last party left behind. There’s a pole mounted dead center, rising from the table like it’s daring someone to remember how to move.
I lean back, arm stretched along the torn leather and light another cigarette, inhaling deep. The bass thumps beneath my boots, low and steady, looping the same haunted, glitched-out track over and over, like the club itself forgot time was supposed to move forward.
She steps out of the hallway like a fucking problem I asked for and still wasn’t ready to solve.
The lights hit her first, neon bouncing off every glittering inch of skin, every sharp pink strap hugging her body like sin incarnate. The top’s barely there. Shimmering, triangle-cut with gold studs lining the edges, the kind of fabric that clings when it’s supposed to tease. Her pierced nipple glints every time she shifts, just enough to make my jaw lock.
And the bottom?
Fuck me.
Pink straps cut high on her hips, crisscrossing around her waist and thighs like a blueprint for obsession. That glittery little scrap between her legs might as well be a target. There’s silver shimmer in every curve, every shadow. The way she walks in those clear platform heels—slow, intentional, one step at a time—makes my cock ache and my fists clench.
I kiss my teeth and shake my head, breath caught halfway between a groan and a growl.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, and fuck, if it doesn’t make me harder.
She heads straight for the pole in the middle of my booth like it’s hers now. Grips it. Owns it. Starts to climb—grinding, spinning, hips rolling like a goddamn goddess with blood on her tongue and me on her mind.
No words.
Just that look.
That smirk.
That promise in her eyes that tonight, I’ll be ruined.
And I can’t fucking wait.
I kiss my teeth and shake my head with a dark smirk. “You tryna kill me, Little Stray?”
She twirls once, slowly. “Depends. That a complaint?”
“More like a fucking warning.”
She walks right up to the pole in front of my table and curls a hand around it like she owns the damn place. Like she owns me.
“Funny,” she says, eyes flashing. “You brought me to a strip club, Reaper. You didn’t think I’d put on a show?”
My hand drops to my thigh, fingers curling slow around the ache in my jeans. “I thought you’d try. I didn’t think I’d be two seconds from losing my mind.”
She leans into the pole, dragging one heel up her leg, slow as sin. “What can I say? I like making you suffer.”
I groan under my breath. “You like making me hard.”
She shrugs, playful and smug. “Same thing.”
I palm myself once shamelessly. “You gonna fix that, or just keep teasing me?”
Her grin turns wicked. “Patience, Reaper. Gotta earn it.”
I laugh, dark and low. “I’ve earned it ten times over.”
“Then sit back. And watch.”
One swing and her body stretches long and dangerous, hair flying, tits bouncing. My jaw tenses. She’s not teasing. She’s fucking taunting.
