The front bell jingled, and Veronica didn’t need to look up to know who had walked in.
She was bent over the counter, arranging a display of high-end lubes and various vibrators when the scent of clean sweat and cardboard drifted in with the warm air. She smiled to herself—slow and knowing.
“Morning, Miss Veronica,” Derek said, his voice as familiar as the hum of the mini-fridge under the register. That easy drawl was part of their rhythm now.
She looked up, brushing a lock of black hair from her face. “Running late again?”
He shrugged, hefting a medium-sized box onto the counter. “Blame the construction on Main.”
Veronica reached for the tablet, fingers dancing over the screen as she signed the delivery confirmation. Derek’s eyes lingered on her hand, then drifted down her blouse, which—by chance or design—had one button too many undone.
“Looks like the new silicone models finally arrived,” she said, tapping the box. “You want to stick around and help me test one?”
He laughed, low and warm. “You’re gonna run that line into the ground one of these days.”
Veronica leaned forward, her voice soft and intimate. “And you’re still gonna fall for it.”
Before he could reply, she grabbed his arm—no hesitation—and led him through the familiar red curtain into the back room where she taught pole dancing classes to aspiring strippers. She did have twenty plus years as a dancer herself. The pole stood tall and polished under the soft overhead light. A playlist of sensual R&B pulsed faintly through the speakers.
She turned to him without a word and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.
Derek leaned against the wall, arms crossed—but his eyes said everything. Watching her was part of their ritual. No rush. Just heat, building slow and thick like summer air.
Veronica let the blouse slide from her shoulders, revealing a sheer black bra underneath. She hooked a heel around the pole and spun once, lazy and deliberate, her long hair swaying around her like ink in water.
Derek adjusted his stance.
Her skirt came next, dropped to the floor with a twist of her hips. She stepped out of it in nothing but her heels and the lingerie. The way she moved—confident, feline, unapologetically in control—made Derek’s breath catch.
She grabbed the pole with one hand, swung wide, arched her back, and then—still watching him—reached behind to unclasp her bra.
The garment fell.
He unzipped his jeans.
Veronica’s smirk widened. She spun once more, this time slower, every muscle defined and fluid, and by the time she faced him again, Derek’s hand was wrapped around his hard cock, stroking with practiced ease.
Her panties came off with a roll of her hips, a show of tease and promise. She stayed naked, circling the pole once more before walking toward him, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor.
When she reached him, she grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing it aside. Her hands ran over his broad chest, down his defined abs, her touch reverent, almost playful. She kissed one shoulder, then the other. Her fingers slid over the curves of his arms, the heat of his skin pulsing beneath her touch.
Then, with practiced ease, she sank to her knees.
Derek let out a breath—half groan, half surrender—as her lips wrapped around him. Warm, wet, unhurried. She moved like she knew exactly what he liked—and she did. Her tongue teased the underside, her hand pumping what her mouth didn’t take. His head fell back against the wall.
“Fuck, V,” he murmured, low and broken.
She hummed around him, her blue eyes watching his every twitch, every gasp. He reached down, fingers threading through her hair, gripping gently at first, then tighter.
After a minute, he tugged—firm, possessive—and pulled her to her feet.
Without a word, he turned her, pushed her across the floor, and bent her over the padded bench near the pole. Her palms pressed into the leather. He slid into her with one thrust, hard and deep.
She gasped.
Their rhythm picked up instantly—fast, rough, desperate. His hands gripped her hips, then one tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her. Veronica braced herself, taking every thrust with a satisfied moan that only made him go harder.
The sound of their bodies, the soft slap of skin, the breathless groans and curses—this room had heard it all before. And yet, every time, it felt new.
Derek bent over her, pressing his chest to her back as he whispered, “You love being used like this, don’t you?”
She shivered. “I love that you love it.”
He grunted, biting her shoulder, hips slamming into hers one final time as he spilled inside her, both of them gasping, shaking, spent.
Silence stretched out, heavy and warm.
Eventually, he pulled out, and she stood, adjusting her hair in the mirror. They dressed in silence—her blouse still slightly rumpled, his shirt half-tucked.
At the curtain, Derek paused.
“Same time next week?” he asked, grinning.
Veronica smoothed her skirt, eyes gleaming. “You better not be late.”
He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
And just like that, the red curtain swung closed behind him, leaving only the soft hum of music, and the faint smell of sex in the air.
***
