Gregory Hills sat in his usual shadow-soaked spot at the club as his whiskey glass condensed on the table.
One hand cradled his tablet.
The other… oh, the other…
It was sunk deep into warm flesh, the taut curve of a dancer's ass pressed into his palm like a peach too ripe for the market.
Her skin smelled of cherry body oil and sweat, a glow catching the strobe lights with every twist of her hips.
All around him, the club buzzed with speakers and bodies. The stage was ablaze with movement: heels clacking and girls moving like serpents in heat.
One bent low, her hard nipples brushing his chest before she giggled breathily in his ear. Then she whirled, ass cheeks clapping like a round of applause.
He didn't look up. He didn't need to. The real entertainment was tactile; raw heat in his lap, hair brushing against his thigh, and the vibration of sound from the speaker matching the slow, circular motion of the dancer grinding down on him.
