“Ms. Ketchum, you’ve got a client asking for a lap dance.”

I don’t even glance at the manager as he pops his head through the door. I’m too busy reattaching my eyelashes. Can’t have them falling off on a dude while he’s trying to get off, or worse, hanging from my eye like I’m some kind of hot mess. Hell no. I’m a pro.

“Give me five,” I call, and he disappears.

“Oh my God, Ella, what is this? Like, your third lap dance tonight?” one of the new girls asks, her eyes wide like I’m her fucking hero or something.

I shrug. “Something like that.”

Looking at the costumes, I reach for a brown wig and tuck my long blonde waves inside. I like to change it up, especially when I’m doing lap dances.

With one last glance at myself in the mirror, I head out toward the semi-private booths where we do the lap dances, a sultry smile on my red lips.

I know I look fucking hot. There’s a reason I’m one of the most in-demand strippers at the club. I’m good at what I do. I can make a guy cum without even touching him. Though it’s a lot more fun for both of us if I do touch.

What can I say? I like sex. A lot. Everything about it.

So when I graduated from Harvard with a degree in economics right in the middle of the financial crisis, working on Wall Street was the last thing I wanted to do. Stripping was the obvious alternative.

Why, you ask?

Because if I learned one thing about economics, sex is a booming business that isn’t going anywhere, no matter what the economy is doing.

Stripping is fucking smart. The fact that I love to cum on the regular is icing on the cake. A cake made of fat stacks of cash.

Plus, I’m the one in charge of my body. If I want to feel good, and I get off on making other people feel good, too, I don’t see the problem. Best choice I’ve ever made.

When I push through the doors separating the back from the main floor, the music that was just a bunch of muffled beats starts pounding through my body. My steps automatically fall in time with the pulsing bass, my hips swaying. Every eye falls on me, even the ones that should be occupied by the tits and asses flashing on stage and in their laps.

I’m used to it. I fucking thrive on it.

When I get to the booth where my client is waiting, I can tell he’s already hard. Just by looking at me.

I fall into character, letting the sensual beat of the music and the lush colors and fabrics of the club settle in, putting me in the right mood.

I smile down at the man, trying to ignore the fact that his comb-over does nothing to hide that he’s balding. His eyes widen when I bite my lip and reach out for him, resting my hand on his shoulder, dipping my finger under his collar teasingly.

“What can I do for you tonight, sugar?”

I lean forward, giving him a great view of my tits that are spilling out of my bra. He’s practically drooling.

Ugh. I have to admit, this guy might be a challenge for me to really get into. But I get straight to work, pulling on his tie and yanking his face right into my tits. He moans, his whole body quivering, and I fight the eye roll.

Best thing to do here? Lose myself in my own fantasies.

So I straddle this dude’s lap and start writhing on him, tipping my head back and letting my thoughts drift.

I can almost pretend he has strong, wide shoulders, ripped abs, and a cock that will make me scream as he rams me with it.

Dipping down, I grind my pussy against his cock, and hello, he actually does have some decent equipment. I focus on that, rubbing myself on him over and over. Then I run my hands up his chest and neck, imagining my favorite fantasy—dark, dangerous eyes, almost as black as the hair I grip in my fists.

Fuck. There goes that. His thin strands of hair slip through my fingers.

Okay, new plan.

I stand and turn, bending over so he can get an eyeful of my ass. I run my finger inside my thong, working him up even more. I can see his legs shaking as he watches.

Then I back up, straddling him again, this time in reverse, and I squeeze my tits, rolling my nipples between my thumbs and index fingers as I lower my hips, rubbing my ass all over his slightly above-average cock.

I touch myself, determined that I’ll get something out of this too. My pussy throbs when I rub my clit, and I feel myself get wet.

I figure this guy knows it, too, because he starts mumbling and groaning, gripping the booth on either side of his thighs. I’m driving him crazy, I know it. I rub my ass harder on his cock, then some desperate, strangled cry rips from his throat. I stop, looking down, not sure if I should be shocked or not.

Dude has just cum in his pants, and all I did was grind on him. I mean, I know I’m all kinds of fuckable, but seriously?

I get up, all respect for this guy gone. He holds out a wad of Benjamins, looking at me like I just rocked his world, and I take them, stuffing them into my panties and turning my back without another word.

I walk to the bar, needing a drink after that bullshit. Some of the girls come up to me, eyes wide in awe as they see the fat wad of cash. Five hundred dollars. That brings me to a cool three grand today, and the night is still young.

“Shit, Ella,” one of them says, “you have to be a fucking millionaire by now.”

I smirk. Try multi-millionaire. I have this gig wrapped up.

Holding up the shots the bartender sets out, we toast to our fortunes and knock them back.

I slam it back on the bar and scan the room, looking for my next job.

Just then, the front doors fly open, and all eyes zero in on the man entering as if he’s the fucking king of the world.

But holy shit. Tall, dark, and handsome, he’s my favorite fantasy come to life.

He dominates the entire room with his presence, just standing there in the door with an arrogant smirk on his mouth. A mouth that makes my pussy throb just imagining what it would feel like between my legs.

He scans the room, and I can’t take my eyes off him.

I see the other strippers I’m hanging with looking at him the same way, and I pull rank.

“Sorry, girls. I call dibs.”