His to Ruin: The Strippers' Sessions.

The bass assaulted Aiden the instant he stepped past the velvet rope. Each thump traveled up through the soles of his Italian loafers, rattled the loose change in his pocket and settled deep in his chest like a second heartbeat.

There is the unmistakable musk of aroused bodies grinding each other together in the strobe-lit dark.

The air inside Pulse was dense and warm, saturated with layers of scent: the acrid bite of cigarette smoke drifting from the outdoor patio, the sticky sweetness of spilled tequila and rum, the expensive floral notes of designer perfume clinging to women who moved like they owned the room and beneath it all, the primal.

Red and violet lights sliced across the crowd in sharp, erratic arcs. Shadows stretched and contracted with every pulse of the music. Men in tailored shirts stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar, eyes fixed on the stage.

Women in glittering dresses laughed too loudly, heads thrown back, champagne flutes catching the light like liquid diamonds. The floor vibrated underfoot. No one here was sober and no one here wanted to be.

Aiden did not come to drink. He did not come to lose himself in the crowd. He came to hunt.

His gaze moved methodically across the main stage, dismissing the two blondes currently twirling around separate poles, their movements practiced but mechanical. Then he found her.

She owned the center pole.

Lena wrapped herself around the chrome like it was an extension of her body. Her long, thick mahogany hair cascaded over one shoulder in glossy waves, igniting with each spin. Bronze skin shimmered under a thin layer of oil that made every curve gleam as though she had been dipped in liquid gold.

The silver bikini top strained valiantly against breasts so full and heavy they shifted with even the slightest movement, round and soft, the dark-pink nipples already stiff and clearly visible through the sheer metallic fabric. The matching thong was barely more than a glittering string that disappeared between the firm, rounded cheeks of an ass sculpted by hours of deliberate and punishing work.

Every deliberate roll of her hips sent that ass jiggling just enough to draw low groans from the front row.

She dropped into a deep squat with her legs spread wide. The silver thong pulled taut across her pussy and outlined plump lips already swollen with arousal.

A dark wet spot bloomed at the center of the fabric. She dragged two manicured fingers, nails painted glossy black, down the front of the thong, pressing firmly against her clit through the material.

She rubbed slow, teasing circles while her hazel eyes, lined in thick, smoky black, locked directly onto Aiden’s across the crowded floor.

Her lips curved into a slow, filthy smile.

The kind of smile that said she already knew exactly how his cock would feel sliding down her throat, how his cum would taste on her tongue, and how loudly he would groan when he finally buried himself inside her.

Aiden felt his dick surge hard against the confines of his trousers. The thick length throbbed once, insistently, leaking a bead of pre-cum that soaked into the silk of his briefs.

He turned to the floor manager hovering near the bar, a short, nervous man in a cheap charcoal suit that strained across his narrow shoulders. Aiden peeled five crisp hundred-dollar bills from the silver money clip in his pocket and pressed them into the man’s clammy palm.

“The brunette on the center stage,” Aiden said, voice low enough that only the manager could hear over the music. “In the private room right now and no interruptions. Another five hundred if she’s inside waiting in under three minutes.”

The manager’s eyes widened. His fingers closed greedily around the cash. “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.”

Three minutes later, Aiden stood alone in the VIP suite.

The room was designed for one purpose: sin without witnesses. Black leather sectional sofas curved around three mirrored walls that reflected every angle in crimson light.

A king-sized bed dominated the center of the space, with sheets the deep and arterial red of fresh blood. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat sweating in an ice bucket on the side table beside two crystal flutes.

The air carried the faint scent of leather polish, previous sex, and the sharp citrus bite of cleaning solution someone had used to wipe down the surfaces between clients.

The door clicked open.

Lena stepped inside barefoot. Her sky-high silver heels dangled from one finger. The bikini top and thong were gone. All that remained was a black lace thong so sheer it was practically transparent.

The dark shadow of her shaved pussy lips showed clearly through the delicate fabric, plump outer lips framing a glistening pink slit, clit already swollen and peeking out like it was begging for attention. Her nipples stood rigid and dark rose, each pierced with a tiny silver bar that glinted every time her chest rose and fell.

“Hi, handsome,” she purred. Her voice was low, smoky, and laced with promise. “I’m Lena. You just dropped serious money to get me all to yourself.”

Aiden did not answer immediately. He let his gaze travel over her body with deliberate slowness, starting at the glossy black polish on her toes, up the long, toned legs, lingering on the heavy sway of her breasts, the narrow dip of her waist, the generous flare of her hips and the way her thighs pressed together as though trying to trap the ache building between them.

He crooked one finger.

“Come here.”

She obeyed with exaggerated sensuality. Each step made her hips roll and her tits bounce gently. When she was close enough that he could smell her warm vanilla body oil, clean sweat and the sharp, sweet tang of aroused cunt.

He hooked two fingers into the delicate waistband of her thong and tugged her forward until their bodies were almost flush.

“Take it off,” he ordered. “Slowly.”

Lena’s lips curved. She hooked her thumbs under the lace and peeled the thong down inch by torturous inch.

She bent at the waist as she dragged the fabric over the generous curve of her ass, giving him an unobstructed view of the tight pucker of her asshole and the dripping slit beneath. A thin, glistening string of arousal stretched between her pussy lips and the thong as she finally stepped out of it. The fabric landed on the carpet with a soft and wet sound.

She straightened. Completely naked now except for the heels she later slipped back on, making her legs look impossibly long.

“Your turn,” she said, voice husky with want. “Show me what I’m about to wreck myself on.”