Page 15 of The Rules
She lets it slip, but not too fast, not too much. The fabric clings to her curves before falling away, a slow reveal that leaves the crowd leaning in, breaths held captive.
This isn’t stripping.
This is a seduction.
She knows where every pair of eyes are—who’s watching, who’s pretending not to. But tonight, she’s playing for one.
Blondie doesn’t look directly. Not yet. Just enough to notice.
His posture is relaxed, legs stretched out beneath the table, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows over his suit. But his focus? Unwavering.
Her gaze flicks to his hands first. No drink. No restless fidgeting. Just watching. Still. Patient. Calculated.
A slow smirk curves her lips.
Fingers skim down her body, teasing at the garter before rolling one stocking down, inch by inch. A measured performance, designed to hold attention without giving anything away.
Lashes lower as she flicks a glance toward the booth.
A silent question.
Are you watching, Mr.?
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t break.
The music throbs, a primal beat echoing her heart. Blondie offers him a fraction more—a subtle sway of her hip, a hushed rustle of silk as she releases the clasp of her corset, flashing a hint of flesh before twirling away. Each gesture is meticulous, designed to keep him teetering on the brink, denying him fulfillment.
Midway through the number, she dips low beside a velvet stool where a sponge rests in a crystal dish. Without looking away, she lifts it—slow, deliberate—and squeezes. Water trails over her chest and shoulders, catching the spotlight, turning her skin into liquid light. The chill tightens her skin, hardens her nipples beneath the rhinestoned pasties, but she never falters.
If anything, she leans into it. Owns it.
This is control. This is theatre.
She’s a master at this dance; it’s all about dominance and rhythm—feeding them just enough to ignite their desire, yet never quite sating it.
By the final beat, she knows exactly what she’s left him with. A tantalizing taste of desire, lingering long after she’s vanished into the shadows. Nothing left but the echo of unfulfilled promise, the ghost of want that will haunt him through the night.
The dressing room thrums with a low, steady hum of conversation, the warm glow of vanity lights casting soft halos over discarded silk robes and half-emptied glasses of champagne. Blondie kicks off her heels, the cool floor beneath her feet a stark contrast to the heat of the stage. She rolls out her ankles, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. The performance still clings to her skin—the weight of every stare trailing over her like spectral hands, leaving an electric charge in their wake.
The door swings open abruptly, and Luna bursts in, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You were absolutely on fire tonight! The hottest thing on that floor!”
Blondie arches a perfectly groomed brow, brushing a stray strand of golden hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance. “You say that every night.” Her voice is cool, detached, giving nothing away.
Rea leans against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “This time, it’s different,” she says, her tone laced with an unusual intensity.
Blondie’s gaze flicks between them—curiosity piqued, expression carefully neutral. “Oh?”
Luna nods, her grin widening. “You had a booking. Some corporate bigwig with pockets deeper than the Mariana Trench.”
Blondie hums softly, feigning disinterest. Men with money were a dime a dozen here, always seeking to possess what they couldn’t have.
“But then...” Luna draws it out, watching her closely for any flicker of reaction. “Someone else decided they wanted you more.”
She tilts her head, meeting Luna’s gaze in the mirror. Waits. Expression unreadable—but her pulse ticks a beat faster.
Rea’s smirk sharpens. Her eyes glint with amusement. “Didn’t blink. Didn’t haggle. Just laid down double, like it meant nothing.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.
A pause. A slow breath. Something tightens in her stomach.
