Option 2

The silence stretches between you, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning and your own shallow breathing.

Sienna's eyes hold yours for one more beat, then she pushes off from the counter with fluid grace.

"Option two it is," she says, voice low and pleased.

She moves around the desk, heels clicking against marble, and your heart hammers harder with each step. She's not rushing. She's taking her time, letting you watch her approach—the sway of her hips in that pencil skirt, the way her blouse catches the light.

You should step back. Give her room.

You don't move.

Can't move.

She stops directly in front of you. Close. Too close. You can smell her perfume now—something dark and expensive that makes your head swim. She's tall enough in those heels that she's nearly eye-level with you, and she holds your gaze with an intensity that pins you in place like a deer in headlights.

"Don't move," she says softly.

It's not a request.

Your hands stay pressed over your cock—barely covering it, fingers slick with precum that's been leaking steadily—and you stand frozen while she maintains that eye contact.

Then she lowers herself.

Slowly.

Her knees bend, body descending in one smooth, controlled movement, and she never looks away. Not once. Her eyes stay locked on yours as she sinks down, down, until she's crouched at your feet, face level with your inadequately covered groin.

Your cock throbs so hard it hurts.

She's right there. Right fucking there. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath, close enough that if you moved your hands even slightly she'd see everything.

Her fingers reach for the towel.

The fabric brushes against your calf as she lifts it—a whisper of terry cloth against bare skin that makes you shudder. Then it's moving upward, sliding along the inside of your thigh, and you bite back a sound as the edge of it drags across your balls.

She notices. Of course she notices.

Her lips curve into a smile, eyes still holding yours, and she stands.

Rising slowly, towel in hand, and she's still too close. Still in your personal space. You can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the perfect curve of her mouth, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.

She doesn't step back.

Instead, she shakes the towel out with a crisp snap that makes you flinch, then begins folding it. Right there. Inches from your naked body.

Her movements are precise, methodical. Fold. Smooth. Fold again. The fabric makes soft sounds as she works, and you're hyperaware of everything—the cool air on your exposed skin, your cock straining against your palms, the way she's deliberately taking her time.

"You know," she says conversationally, not looking up from the towel, "I meant what I said earlier."

"About what?" Your voice comes out strained.

"About the look." She finishes the final fold, then her eyes lift to yours. "And the body." Her gaze drops deliberately—down your chest, your stomach, to where your hands are pressed over your obvious arousal. "You also more than cover the last thing a good stripper needs"

Your cock jerks violently against your palms.

She smiles, slow and satisfied, then steps back—finally—and turns toward the desk.

"Now," she says over her shoulder, voice returning to that professional tone as she walks away, towel folded neatly in her hands, "let's see about getting you a key."

You stand there, naked and hard and completely exposed in the empty lobby, watching her return to her position behind the desk.

She sets the towel down, perfectly folded, then looks up at you with those knowing eyes.