Grayson liked the quiet hours best, no crowd, no music, just the weight of his own thoughts and a knife moving steady through a crate of limes. It almost felt calm, until Jax's voice inevitably ruined it.
"You're cutting those wrong."
Grayson didn't glance up. "They're lime wedges, Jax. Not architectural models."
"Yeah," Jax said around his coffee, "but yours look like they've been through a divorce."
Grayson finally looked over, brow raised. "You want to do them?"
Jax took a slow sip of his coffee. "Nope. I'm more of a supervisor."
Grayson rolled his eyes and went back to slicing, deliberately slower this time.
Jax peered over the bar. "Also, that glass has a lipstick stain on it."
Grayson glanced at it. "It's clean."
Jax shook his head slowly. "Nah. That's definitely lipstick."
"It's polish," Grayson said, already reaching for another lime.
Before Jax could fire back, the sound of shoes on polished concrete cut through the quiet. Kane appeared first, immaculate as ever, Connor trailing just behind him with that unbothered, cat-who-got-the-cream grin.
Kane's gaze swept the bar, landing briefly on Grayson before he said, "Where's the dancer?"
Grayson didn't even look up from his cutting board. He jerked his chin toward Connor. "His idea."
Connor grinned wider. "You're welcome."
"I didn't say thank you," Grayson said.
Connor leaned on the bar, lowering his voice. "You will."
Before Grayson could respond, the click of boots drew all eyes toward the entrance. Even Grayson's hands stilled on the knife. Holly was all long legs and easy confidence, hair tumbling in loose waves over bare shoulders, her black lingerie set catching just enough light to be dangerous. Not overdone, she didn't need to be. She moved like she already owned the space.
Jax let out a low whistle. Kane didn't so much as blink.
"Afternoon," Jax said, straightening up.
"Hi," she greeted smoothly, eyes flicking to him with a polite nod. "I'm Holly."
Connor's grin was automatic. "Not here for a repeat performance, I see."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Not unless you're footing the rent this time."
Kane's expression didn't shift, but Grayson swore he saw the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Show us what you've got," Kane said simply.
She didn't bother with small talk. Just walked past them toward the stage, hips swaying in a way that made Connor openly watch her go.
The sound system clicked alive, and Chris Brown's Under the Influence slid into the air. Holly took the pole like she was taking someone's breath away. It wasn't frantic or overdone, it was a slow burn, all hips and deliberate turns, legs hooking around the steel like silk wrapping around skin. She used the beat like she'd invented it, every roll of her body timed to pull the gaze in closer.
Even Jax had gone quiet.
Grayson's jaw tightened, trying not to show how impressed he was or how much he hated that Connor couldn't look away. Kane stood with his hands in his pockets, face unreadable, but his eyes tracked her every move like he was watching for flaws no one else could see. By the time the song faded, Holly had dropped into a slow crouch, arching her back before she rose to her feet, chest rising with the rhythm.
She stepped off the stage and stopped in front of Kane. "So," she said, a faint gleam in her eyes, "am I hired?"
Kane's gaze flicked over her, then he gave a small shrug. "We'll see."
She didn't push it. Just turned to leave the stage area, brushing past Connor on her way. He tilted his head toward her. "Dancers here go topless. Think you can handle that?"
She didn't stop walking. Just reached back, hooked her thumbs into the straps of her bra, and peeled it down. The lace dropped to the floor without ceremony.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, bare and unapologetic. "Can you?"
Connor's smirk faltered for just a second. Jax laughed under his breath. Grayson was still standing there with the knife in his hand, unsure if he wanted to laugh, groan, or throw it. And Kane? Kane was already walking away, like the entire thing had gone exactly how he'd expected.
Grayson set the knife down a little harder than necessary and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. Without a word, he cut through the side door and into the back hallway. Holly was in the dancers' prep room, slipping her bra back on and fastening the clasp like she had all the time in the world. She caught his reflection in the mirror before he could say anything.
"You here to critique my routine?" she asked.
He leaned against the door-frame. "Here to ask if that little topless stunt was necessary."
Her lips quirked. "I was told dancers go topless. Just proving I can handle it."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
Holly turned, brows lifting. "Then what is it?"
"Connor."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."
"I'm serious, Hol." He stepped in closer. "He's got his sights on you. And I don't care how confident you think you are — Connor doesn't play fair. If he wants something, he gets it, and he doesn't care what's left behind."
She smirked faintly, picking up her jacket. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Stay clear of him." Grayson said, voice low.
"Relax, Gray. I can handle myself."
"You say that now," he muttered.
She slipped her arms into her jacket, brushing past him like the conversation was already over. "You worry too much."
"Not enough," he said under his breath.
That's when he felt it, the shift in air, the quiet presence that always hit before the voice.
"Well," Kane drawled from the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. "Isn't this cosy."
Holly didn't flinch. She just adjusted her jacket, glanced at Kane once, and then walked past him without a word, heels clicking against the concrete. Kane didn't move aside for her. Only when she was gone did his gaze cut back to Grayson.
"Something I should be aware of?" Kane asked, smooth but edged.
"Just telling her to watch herself," Grayson said.
Kane's mouth curved — slow, knowing, a little dangerous. "With Connor?"
"With anyone," Grayson shot back.
Kane's smirk deepened, and for a moment, his eyes dipped, not to Grayson's hands, or his shirt, but his throat. "You get this worked up over her," he murmured, "and I start to wonder where the hell that energy is when it's me."
"You don't," Grayson said slowly, "own me."
Kane took one step, then another, the air between them tightening with each inch he closed. "Say that again."
Grayson opened his mouth, but Kane's hand was already fisting in his shirt, dragging him close until there was no space left between them. His voice dropped to a rasp. "You start telling me what I don't do, and I'll make sure you're eating those words."
Before Grayson could fire back, Kane was already moving, steering him down the hall with the kind of force that didn't allow for hesitation. They slipped past the heavy curtain into the dancers' dressing area, perfume and powder hanging in the air. Kane found an empty cubicle, pushed him inside, and let the curtain fall shut.
A wide mirror took up half the wall, the reflection catching Grayson mid-breath—shirt rumpled, pulse hammering. Kane stayed behind him, eyes in the glass.
"You think I'm here to talk about her?" Kane asked, stepping in until Grayson could feel his breath on the back of his neck. "I'm here to remind you where your focus should be."
Grayson's reply barely made it past his lips. "Kane—"
Kane kissed him hard enough to cut him off. It wasn't tentative, it was possession, teeth and heat, the kind of kiss that stole whatever will you thought you had. His hands roamed with purpose, one gripping the back of Grayson's neck, the other dragging down his chest, slow enough to make him shiver.
"Face the mirror."
Grayson hesitated, and Kane's hand tightened in his hair, the smallest pull tilting his head back. "Not a request."
He turned. Kane stood behind him in the reflection—tall, immaculate, eyes sharp enough to cut. Kane's hand slid lower, palming him through his jeans, the smirk in the glass darkening when he felt how hard Grayson already was.
"First time," Kane murmured, not asking.
Grayson nodded.
"Good," Kane said simply. "Then you're going to remember exactly who did this to you."
The first button of Grayson's shirt popped free under Kane's fingers, then the next, until the fabric was sliding from his shoulders. Kane's hand skimmed over bare skin, pausing at his waistband before making quick work of his belt. The sound of it sliding loose felt loud in the small space. Kane dropped it to the floor.
"Eyes up," Kane said, pulling Grayson's gaze back to the mirror.
Grayson's jeans were shoved down, pooling around his ankles. Kane's palm cupped him through his underwear, squeezing just enough to make Grayson's knees twitch. He leaned in, voice brushing his ear. "You're going to keep your eyes on me while I fuck you."
Kane's own clothes came next—belt, zip, the dark fabric opening just enough to free him, already thick and heavy against Grayson's lower back. He reached for a condom in his pocket, the foil tearing with his teeth, rolling it on with unhurried confidence.
"Bend forward." Kane said softly.
Grayson braced himself against the narrow counter beneath the mirror, his own reflection looking back—flushed, wide-eyed, a pulse pounding at his throat. Kane stepped in, one hand gripping his hip, the other guiding himself to press against him.
The first push was slow, almost cruelly so. Kane's breath was steady, his control absolute, as he eased in inch by inch. Grayson's fingers curled against the counter, jaw tight. His reflection showed every flicker—every gasp—he couldn't hide.
"That's it," Kane murmured. "Breathe. Take me."
Grayson did, the stretch burning in a way that made his toes curl. Kane's hand smoothed down his spine, grounding him as he sank the last inch. For a moment, he stayed there, filling him completely, watching in the mirror as Grayson adjusted.
"Look at yourself," Kane said.
Grayson lifted his eyes, meeting Kane's in the glass. That was when Kane started to move.
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, dragging every inch back out before sliding in again. The second was deeper. By the third, Kane had found a rhythm—firm, unhurried, each push angled to pull a sound from Grayson's throat.
"You feel that?" Kane asked, his voice curling into the space between them. "That's mine."
His free hand slid forward, wrapping around Grayson's cock, stroking in time with his hips. The combination made Grayson's breath stutter and his legs threaten to give.
"Keep your eyes up," Kane warned. "You look away, I stop."
Grayson didn't dare.
Kane's pace picked up, hips snapping forward harder now, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the small cubicle. His hand around Grayson's throat tilted his head just enough to keep him locked on the mirror.
"You like that?" Kane murmured, voice dark silk. "Being bent over where anyone could walk in and see you take my cock?"
"Fuck—" Grayson's voice cracked.
"Say you like it."
"I—yeah, I like it."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I like it," Grayson groaned, knuckles white on the counter.
"That's better," Kane said, his smirk dangerous.
The strokes on Grayson's cock got faster, timed with the hard, relentless drive of Kane's hips. Every thrust hit deep, the heat and friction pushing him closer with each pass. His reflection—mouth parted, eyes glazed—was almost too much to look at.
Kane leaned in, breath hot at his ear. "Come for me."
The order tipped him over. Grayson came hard, spilling over Kane's hand, his body clenching tight around him. Kane followed seconds later, driving deep before stilling, his grip tightening just once before easing.
He pulled out slowly, stripping off the condom, and leaned close enough that his words brushed over Grayson's skin.
"You belong to me," Kane said quietly. "Don't forget it."
When Kane stepped back, zipping up like nothing had happened, Grayson was still braced on the counter, breathing hard, the mirror showing exactly how completely he'd been undone.