chapter 2
Chapter 2
James wasn’t sure what time he had gotten home, but he knew one thing—he was lucky to have made it to his bed, where he now lay with a brutal hangover. His head pounded, his mouth was dry—the consequences of far too much whiskey the night before.
Dragging himself up for a glass of water, he drank deeply, hoping to chase away the lingering fog in his mind. But as the cool liquid hit his throat, memories of the night before came rushing back.
And then, him.
The midnight dancer.
The way his hips moved, the intensity of his eyes, the star tattoo on his back… It was too much. James had gone to the strip club to confirm his sexuality, not to end up getting a lap dance and talking to a stripper for hours.
As he started making breakfast, more memories surfaced—memories he wished he could ignore. He now remembered how he had, quite literally, made a belt out of cash around the dancer’s waist. And when he ran out of space, he had found new ways to give him money—trailing it along his thigh, slipping it under the lace fabric of his stockings.
And the dancer had let him. No, he had encouraged it.
By the end of the night, James had spent $5,000 on him.
Two hours of private dances. Two hours of heat and tension so thick it had been suffocating.
James wasn’t sure if the dancer was like that with everyone, but he had caught him giving him a specific kind of look—letting him touch, letting him get away with things he normally wouldn’t.
James liked that. He liked feeling like the dancer was his. He was possessive, and he had made sure the dancer stayed with him all night, outbidding any other man who even thought about getting his attention.
Now, James wasn’t stupid. He knew it was all part of the job. That was the dancer’s role—to make him feel special.
But even if it was fake, James had let himself enjoy it.
James lasted exactly two days before he found himself back at the club.
The first day, he pretended he was fine—he went to the gym, hung out with his friends, even forced himself to go on a date with some girl Sirius had set him up with weeks ago.
She was pretty, charming, and completely wasted on him.
Because the entire time she was talking, all James could think about was him.
The Midnight Ballerina.
The way he moved. The way he looked at James like he knew something James didn’t. The way he let him touch.
It was infuriating. Addicting.
James didn’t want to admit it, but he wanted more.
So, on the second night, after half a bottle of whiskey and a failed attempt at distracting himself with Netflix, he grabbed his wallet, withdrew another ridiculous amount of cash, and got in his car.
Before he could even process what he was doing, he was back in the dimly lit club, sitting in the exact same seat, sipping another whiskey as he waited.
He told himself it was just curiosity. That he wasn’t obsessed. That he was just here to confirm what he already knew—that last time had been a one-off, that he had just gotten caught up in the moment.
But then the DJ announced, "Midnight Ballerina," and James felt his pulse skip.
The dancer stepped onto the stage like he owned it, bathed in low red lighting.
Tonight, he wore a sheer black top cropped just above his ribs, lace stockings, and nothing else but the tiniest pair of silk shorts James had ever seen.
And then he started moving.
James exhaled slowly, gripping his glass a little tighter.
He wasn’t obsessed.
He wasn’t.
He was just… invested.
And then, mid-spin around the pole, the dancer’s gaze landed on him.
He didn’t falter, didn’t miss a beat in his performance, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition. Amusement.
He remembers me.
James smirked, relaxing back in his seat. But the dancer didn’t look away. No, he held James’ gaze, rolling his hips deliberately slow, dragging out the moment like he was performing just for him.
James didn’t break eye contact, not even when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a bill, and held it between his fingers.
The dancer caught the movement, lips quirking slightly.
The challenge was clear.
And James was more than ready to play.
James wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but for the rest of the dance, the Midnight Ballerina seemed focused on him.
He played to the crowd, of course—arching his back, running his hands down his own body, teasing the men around him just enough to keep the tips flowing.
But every so often, his gaze would flicker back to James. Like he was making sure he was still watching.
James was.
He had never been so captivated in his life.
It was ridiculous, really—he had seen attractive people before. He had been with attractive people before.
But there was something about this dancer. Something about the way he moved that made it impossible to look away.
It wasn’t just the way he danced. It was the way he owned the space around him, the way he carried himself with the kind of confidence that felt almost untouchable.
It made James want to touch.
The song ended too soon, the lights shifting as the next dancer prepared to take the stage.
The Midnight Ballerina spun one last time around the pole, collected a few final tips, then stepped off.
And then—
James saw it.
The moment the dancer finished greeting his regulars, flashing them polite smiles as they slipped bills into his waistband, his gaze found James.
There was no hesitation this time. No teasing detour to make him wait.
He walked toward him like he knew exactly what he was doing to him.
James’ grip tightened on his glass.
“Back so soon?” The dancer’s voice was smooth, just the right amount of amused as he stopped in front of him.
James smirked, leaning back in his seat. “What can I say? You give good service.”
The dancer hummed, running a hand over his own hip like it was a casual movement, like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. “And here I thought you were new to this.”
“Still am,” James admitted, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out another bill—a hundred again, same as before—and slid it easily under the lace stocking on the dancer’s thigh. “But I know how to tip well.”
The dancer’s lips quirked. “Clearly.”
James wanted to see how far he could push this. How much of this game was just routine and how much was real.
So he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just enough to make it feel like a secret.
“Do I get another private dance tonight?”
The dancer tilted his head slightly, letting his fingers trail over James’ shoulder in a way that was just light enough to drive him insane.
And then—
“I don’t know,” he murmured, watching him closely. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
James grinned, heat curling in his stomach. “Try me.”
The dancer exhaled a soft laugh. Then, without breaking eye contact, he took James’ hand in his own.
“Come with me, then,” he said, guiding him toward the back of the club.
And James?
James followed.