Addicted to her

The club had no clocks-just the slow, addictive pulse of lights and money and the kind of music that blurred time into sensation.

Sasha King stood in the back hallway, back pressed against the cool tile, a slow breath held in her throat. Her lashes were thick, lips lacquered in venom-red gloss. Her outfit-or what barely counted as one-clung to her curves like static, rhinestones shimmering against dark skin like tiny stars. Her heels were tall enough to make any man kneel.

And they would.

They always did.

"Vyxen," the manager called. "You're on in sixty."

She didn't flinch. Vyxen was her name here-onstage, in private rooms, on whispered lips when men dreamed they could afford her. Sasha was the girl who paid rent. Vyxen? She was the fantasy that paid cash.

The second the bass shifted-heavy, deep, throbbing-she walked out like sin given form.

The velvet curtain parted, and she stepped onto the stage bathed in red light. The crowd roared. Phones flicked up like desperate hands. Sasha didn't smile. She didn't need to. She moved with the slow control of a woman who knew she could make a room beg with a single roll of her hips.

Every head turned.

Every drink forgotten.

All eyes on her.

She circled the pole like a predator, fingers trailing along the silver metal as if she was teasing it, not them. Then-snap-she gripped it tight and spun, legs flying wide before hooking into a split that landed her smoothly on the floor, ass high, arch deep.

The money started raining.

Not bills-tributes.

She felt the weight of a hundred eyes crawling over her bare skin, but none of it touched her. Not really. She was in control. They could want her, worship her, scream her name. But they could never have her. Not unless she let them.

And tonight?

She wasn't feeling generous.

She bent backward until her spine curved like a bow, breasts on display, thighs parted just enough to taunt. Her fingers slid down her torso, slow and slick, dipping under the sheer strip of fabric that barely covered her pussy. A whisper of a moan left her mouth-just loud enough to echo through the bass-heavy air.

They went feral.

One man stood up, arms in the air, chanting her name like a goddamn sermon. Another smacked the table like he was calling a dealer at a blackjack table. Somewhere, a champagne bottle popped. Sasha let her lips curve. Her nails dragged along her thigh, and she flipped her hair as the beat dropped-hips rolling, tongue flicking across her bottom lip.

Then... lights out.

Final pose. Legs wide, arms high, breathless.

The crowd lost its mind.

Curtain closed.

She didn't bow.

Backstage smelled like glitter and sweat and cheap vanilla perfume. Sasha peeled the rhinestone bodysuit off her glistening skin and let it fall into her locker. Beneath it, she wore a barely-there black g-string and matching pasties-club standard-but her skin still buzzed from the rush.

She caught her reflection in the cracked mirror.

Eyes sharp. Hair wild. Chest heaving.

Still got it, she thought, pressing a cold water bottle to her throat.

One of the newer girls, Bambi or maybe Lola-whatever-peeked in.

"Private request. Big spender. Asked for you."

Sasha arched a brow. "Name?"

The girl shook her head. "Didn't leave one. Just said 'the red one.'"

Of course, Sasha thought. That was how the real money played. Quiet. Anonymous. Dangerous.

She dressed slower this time-slipping into a see-through robe that did nothing to hide her curves and heels even taller than before. Her lips got a fresh coat of blood-red gloss. Her nipples still tingled from the cold backstage air, and she didn't bother covering them.

If they were paying for a fantasy, she was going to serve it hotter than hell.

She stepped into the hallway and made her way toward the VIP suites-past the drunk hedge fund babies, past the security guard who always pretended not to stare at her ass, past the money. Always past the money.

Because Sasha wasn't here to chase it.

She was here to make it chase her.

The VIP door was gold-plated and silent. She knocked once.

Then opened it.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Dim lights. Velvet walls. Gold trim everywhere. One chair in the center, and it was empty.

Typical.

Some of these high rollers liked to play games. Liked to act like gods behind smoke and shadows. Sasha didn't care. They could hide all they wanted. When she performed, they came undone, not her.

She moved to the small, private stage in the room-barefoot now, heels in one hand, hips already swaying to the slow beat playing low from the ceiling.

She set her shoes down like weapons.

And then she got to work.

The robe slid off first. Just a shrug and a turn, and it hit the floor like silk on fire.

Now it was just her. In that barely-there thong, nipples hard and bare, legs long and slick under the red light.

She didn't dance this time.

She seduced.

One hand ran down her neck. The other slipped between her breasts. She dropped into a slow squat, spreading her thighs, ass nearly kissing the floor as her fingers moved over her body like it was someone else's hands.

This wasn't for show anymore.

This was for her.

She tilted her head back, biting her lip, eyes closed as her fingers trailed over her stomach, dipping between her legs and brushing her clit through the thin fabric.

"Mmm..." Her moan was soft, but it filled the room.

She wasn't acting.

She was hot. She was wet. She was already so damn close.

She tugged her thong to the side, letting her fingers slide over her slick folds. It felt too good. Too good. Her other hand came up, pinching a nipple until she gasped.

She didn't care who was watching now.

Let them see her lose it.

Her middle finger circled her clit, faster and faster, back arching, breath coming quick. She slid two fingers inside, fucking herself slow, then hard, her other hand rubbing fast little circles until her legs started to shake.

She was gonna come.

"Oh, f-fuck..."

And she did.

With a shudder and a cry and her head thrown back like a goddess taking every ounce of pleasure the world owed her.

Her body trembled, slick and raw and glowing.

Then... slow clapping.

From the corner.

Sasha froze.

She turned, heart pounding, but couldn't see a damn thing through the shadows. Just the shape of someone sitting back in that chair. Watching. Still.

She didn't speak. Neither did they.

She reached for her robe without a word, wrapped it around her body, and walked toward the door.

But just before she left, she heard it.

A voice, low and smooth. "Next time, I want you on your knees."

She didn't look back.

Sasha leaned against the locker room wall, robe still clinging to her damp skin, heart still beating faster than it should.

Whoever that man was-if it even was a man-he knew how to leave a mark without touching her. The voice still echoed in her ears like heat on skin.

Next time, I want you on your knees.

She blew out a breath, smirking to herself.

Cocky bastard.

She stayed quiet, hidden in the corner near her open locker, cooling down before slipping into her black hoodie and sweats. Stage makeup still smeared sexy across her face, glitter stuck in places glitter didn't belong.

That's when she heard them.

Two girls at the far end of the locker room. Loud. Whispering, but not really.

"She really thinks she's Beyoncé or something," one of them said with a dramatic eye roll in her voice.

"Oh please," the other giggled. "Miss Sasha King with her 'I don't do lap dances unless they wire it in advance' attitude. Like girl, this is a strip club, not Milan Fashion Week."

They both laughed.

"She made what? Over two grand tonight? You saw her stage set. The floor looked like it rained money."

"I heard someone sent champagne back just because she didn't pour it herself."

"And she gets private requests without even working the floor first."

"Mmhmm. It's giving... pick-me energy."

More laughter. More jealousy.

Sasha didn't move.

She didn't need to.

Let them talk.

She could've walked out, told them exactly what they were lacking-stage presence, confidence, rhythm-but that wasn't her style. Sasha didn't explain. She let the money do that.

Instead, she waited until they left.

Then walked over to her locker, pulled out her bag, and checked the roll of cash stuffed inside.

Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five dollars.

And a note scribbled on a torn napkin.

"Next time, wear nothing but heels."

No name.

No number.

Just a challenge.

She smiled. Tossed it in the bag. Closed the locker.

Outside, the air was thick with the city's usual mix of heat, streetlights, and low-grade chaos. Her Uber pulled up before she even hit the curb.

She slid into the back seat, body sore, throat dry, still a little high off her own orgasm and the power that came with it. Her phone buzzed-group chat blowing up. Some guy from last week still texting. Another girl from the club begging to borrow her red bodysuit.

Sasha muted everything.

Tonight was done.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow the game started all over again.

But for now...

She just leaned her head against the window, heels off, hoodie up, and let the city roll by, glitter still stuck between her thighs like a secret only she got to keep.