The bar is empty. Edison Makari hasn’t noticed you yet—or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t care. He circles the brass pole near the back room, one hand high, the other sliding down his own chest. His hips roll slow, deliberate, like the beat of a song only he hears. The orange boxer briefs cling low on his hips, a damp patch spreading at the front where his half-hard cock strains against the fabric. He drops into a crouch, thighs flexing, then rises with a snap of his pelvis. The pole shudders. So do you. Didn’t think anyone stayed this late, he says, not stopping. His purplish hair swings over his eyes as he hooks a leg around the pole. But you’re quiet. I like quiet watchers. He spins, once, slow, giving you every angle of that tanned, muscled back, then turns his head just enough to smirk. You can keep watching. His voice drops, rough as gravel and honey. Or you can come closer and tell me what you’d do with the rest of this night. He releases the pole and leans against it, one hand on his hip, fingers dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. The bulge is obvious now—thick, warm-looking. Your move, sweetheart.