Chapter Text
The glitter clung to Josie like a second skin, catching every pulse of neon as she wrapped around the pole.
Each spin flirted with gravity, with decency, with the line between performance and temptation.
That’s when Josie saw her.
She knew the Sin Bin’s usual suspects—the broken-hearted, the bored, the bridal party dragging dead weight toward a ring.
But this one? She didn’t belong. Money clung to her like perfume, but so did unease.
The kind of woman who probably translated cuneiform for kicks and had no business watching Josie grind to bass-thick beats.
Definitely a repressed lesbian. Probably dared to come. Maybe even dared to stay.
Normally, Josie wouldn’t care. But this woman?
She looked like sin, sculpted in silk worth more than Josie’s rent.
Auburn hair that screamed to be fisted, cheekbones sharp enough to make a jewel thief weep, and a V-neck that was practically criminal—just enough cleavage to make promises her mouth might regret.
Josie almost contemplated using her teeth to unbutton it—almost—before reminding herself: this was a hustle, not a hookup.
And speaking of hustle, Hope's bachelorette crew had already gone feral for Busty Boob Lulu doing death-defying stunts on stage left.
As Lulu spun into her signature aerial splits, a hurricane of singles erupted from the crowd.
Josie smirked, hiding a wince. Lulu had strength and sparkle, sure—but subtlety?
Not her brand.
Josie preferred seduction to spectacle. Artistry over acrobatics. But tonight, that kind of thinking wouldn’t pay her bar tab.
Refocusing, she turned her hips toward a soccer mom having a full spiritual awakening in aisle two.
Eyes glazed, clutching her drink like it was a holy relic.
She wasn’t here to pine after rich girls with glacier-melting eyes. She was here to stack cash. It’s called the daily grind for a reason.
But no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, every time she snuck a glance, the auburn-haired stranger was still there.
Watching.
Devouring.
Eyes the color of summer storms pinned her in place, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It was more than curiosity.
It was hunger disguised as interest, and it cut through the noise like a knife.
When Josie finally peeled off her leggings—slow, deliberate, the crowd roaring in appreciation—she felt that gaze hotter than the lights above.
She risked a glance.
Bingo.
Rich girl was blushing.
Not just pink—flushed, from neck to hairline. White teeth teasing her bottom lip like they couldn’t decide whether to bite or beg.
And then—a wink.
Oh, baby.
Josie tossed back a wicked smirk, heart drumming faster than the beat.
Rule #1 in the game? Always leave them wanting more.
So she turned away, throwing some love at the rest of the room, grinding until her abs burned, hips aching, sweat slicking her skin like oil.
Josie wasn’t planning to give that stranger another thought.
She had bills. Boundaries. A firm no-clients policy.
But fate, chaos, or Lulu—probably Lulu—had other ideas.
“Saltz Shaker,” came a familiar voice over the music, tapping her shoulder, “you’ve got a request.”
Josie winced at the name. Saltz Shaker. A pun on her last name that sounded like a bad dad joke with a pole.
Still… it was growing on her. Had a certain trashy-chic flair. Better than Josie Saltzman, anyway.
She followed Lulu’s manicured finger to the usual gaggle of partygoers—beer hats, pink sashes, the works. It reeked of prank.
“If this is some no-homo dare,” Josie muttered, adjusting a heel, “I’m not responsible if someone loses an eye to a stiletto.”
Lulu—real name Penelope, currently in school for speech pathology, and pole dancer by night—snorted so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
“Oh please,” she said. “If that redhead is giving off ‘no homo,’ then I’ve been filing my taxes wrong, watering fake plants, and absolutely misusing my vibrator for years.”
Josie rolled her eyes but looked anyway.
And there she was—her mystery woman—now draped in cashmere like it was armor, sitting straight-backed as if afraid the seat might judge her.
Avoiding Josie’s gaze like it burned.
Cute.
Alright. So the rich girl wanted to pretend she wasn’t interested?
Fine.
Josie could play that game too.
Hell, if the prize was a lap dance from that glorious creature?
Totally. Fucking. Worth it.
⊹︶︶⊹
Hope Mikaelson felt about as thrilled as a nun in a porno shop.
She should’ve been home, curled up on the couch with Andre and a glass of wine—not here, trapped in a haze of cheap vodka, pounding bass, and neon regret.
But no. Her parents guilt-tripped her into flying out for Maya’s wedding—“You have to be there for family, sweetheart,” blah, fucking blah—and now she was playing third-wheel to a bachelorette party straight out of a reality TV nightmare.
The girls had insisted this would help her “forget about Landon,” like they weren’t secretly celebrating that the band-boy disaster had finally exited stage left.
It had been a brutal few months.
Heartache. Loneliness.
The kind of ache you don’t sleep off—you endure. And now she was supposed to “let loose” in a bar called the Sin Bin, of all places?
Yeah. No. Her anxiety was tap dancing across her spine, and the music didn’t help—too loud, too bright, too much.
She slammed into a seat like gravity gave up and lit the fuse on a cheap beer, praying no one would puke in her direction tonight.
Most of her cousins were semi-functional humans, but Maya and Ethan were walking bayou trainwrecks in glitter heels.
Hope was here to supervise the chaos, not participate in it.
Still… the dancers?
They were worth the eye strain.
Bodies glittered and twisted under the lights, sweat gleaming on skin like temptation itself.
Her cousins were in full throttle—shots, lap dances, high-pitched shrieks—and Hope did her best to stay detached.
Right up until her eyes landed stage left.
And stayed there.
There was a woman on the pole. No top. Just confidence, glitter, and muscle wrapped in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She wasn’t dancing—she was commanding.
Tall. Tan. All golden strength and liquid sex.
The sway of her hips made Hope forget how to swallow. Her smile was downright illegal—slow, knowing, dangerous.
Legs long enough to break hearts, abs carved like sin, and the kind of control over her body that whispered you couldn't handle me.
Something deep inside Hope clenched—hard—and suddenly that cold beer bottle between her thighs wasn’t there for hydration.
She looked away.
Tried to.
Goddamn it.
She wasn’t gay. Not really. Maybe a little bi-curious blip back in high school, but nothing she ever acted on. Then came Landon.
The safety net. The slow, inevitable drift into routine. Into numb.
And now?
Now she was wet in a strip club because some goddess on a pole smiled like she already knew every single one of Hope's darkest fantasies.
Fuck.
Hope shifted in her seat, subtly angling the bottle between her legs for some pressure, some relief, anything.
Her skinny jeans clung a little too tight now, and her thoughts were spiraling somewhere between I want to taste her and God help me.
The woman moved like poetry set to bass, a sensual cascade of curves and muscle and attitude. She peeled her leggings off slow—deliberate—and it felt like the air got sucked out of the room.
Hope's jaw clenched. Her thighs pressed together.
The dancer’s legs looked strong enough to pin her to the wall, and her neck—God, that smooth, glistening neck—was practically begging to be bitten.
Hope imagined grabbing those hips, dragging her in, claiming every inch. There was something birdlike about her too—elegant, sharp-boned, untouchable.
And Hope wanted to shatter that.
She closed her eyes. Took a slow breath. Tried to calm the racing fire under her skin. This was stupid. This was a show. Just hormones and stress and tequila.
Except then… the dancer looked right at her.
Really looked.
Heat lanced through Hope like a live wire.
The woman’s gaze was steady. Knowing. Like she’d felt Hope’s eyes the whole time and was finally ready to play, and than fucking winked.
Hope's entire face felt like it was on fire.
Unfortunately, so did her cunt.
"Made a friend?" Maya inquired, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Thanks to her aunt Keelin, Hope usually enjoyed her cousin Maya's company, but at the moment, with that knowing smirk plastered on her face, she wasn't feeling it. "Nope."
"Aww, Hope, loosen up. Live a little," Maya urged, playfully nudging the stubborn heiress. "You need to get some, cher."
"Who needs to get some of what now?" Ethan asked, appearing as if on cue. Oh, great, now Hope had to contend with both Machado siblings. "Hope? Awwww, is there someone special you've got your eye on?"
"No," Hope stated flatly.
"Yes, there is," Maya countered, waggling her eyebrows suggestively at her brother. "She's smitten."
Hope revised her earlier assessment. She actively loathed Maya now.
Ethan shifted his chair closer, a gleam in his eyes.
"So, who is it that's captivated your attention? Come on, spill. Who's the lucky person?"
Hope shot him a glare, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
"Nobody. Drop it, Ethan."
Ethan, clearly unconvinced, followed her line of sight toward the stage. His eyes widened incrementally, a slow, appreciative grin spreading.
"Oh, shit." He breathed a mixture of surprise and blatant admiration, coloring his tone. He'd never pegged his cousin as someone who swung that way. "The stripper with legs that seemingly go on forever and a chest that defies the laws of physics?"
Hope did her best to muster her best glare, but the smug look on the handsome man's face showed Ethan had more or less figured out her dirty little secret.
"It's totally her you're into, huh?" He began to snicker, and Hope instinctively tensed, bracing herself for the inevitable barrage of teasing.
However, both Ethan and Maya shocked her by not making a big deal about her attraction being aimed at another woman.
A wave of relief hit Hope so hard, she almost forgot the potential consequences of shrugging like it was no big deal and admitting it—instantly shattering her carefully constructed “totally chill, not at all flustered” facade.
"She’s definitely easy on the eyes, I’ll give her that," Maya teased, smirking in a way that made Ethan snort-laugh.
"Well, if anyone here deserves a little indulgence tonight, it’s you," he announced, eyes glinting with pure mischief.
And then he stood up.
And started walking.
Oh God. Oh no. Abort mission.
Ethan intercepted the stripper Hope had been very obviously appreciating earlier, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
The brunette nodded, then turned and—oh hell no—headed straight for Hope.
oh fuck, the leggy, mocha-skinned goddess she had been quietly (and not-so-discreetly) lusting over all evening is coming over.
Hope immediately felt an overwhelming, primal urge to vanish from existence.
To spontaneously combust into a sparkly puff of glitter.
To sprout massive angel wings and launch herself into the stratosphere.
Literally anything to get out of this slow-motion social train wreck.
'God, if you're listening, strike me down with lightning.' Hope thought desperately, 'Please. I haven't been to church in ages, I've been a terrible wife, I'm currently residing in a den of iniquity, and I'm harboring intensely lustful thoughts. Surely, one of those transgressions is sufficient to warrant a divine smiting, right?'
God had decided that enduring this excruciating experience would better serve them because no heavenly bolt of electricity materialized.
The object of her recent admiration did, however. Come over, that is.
Hope didn't—not—never mind.
“I heard someone asked for a dance,” the brunette purred, her voice low and velvet-smooth, sliding over Hope's skin like silk and smoke.
The sound of it sent a shiver skating down Hope’s spine, pooling between her legs.
Oh no.
That voice was trouble—playful, dark, and decadent. The kind that made you ache to hear it gasping against your throat, breathless from pleasure.
Up close, the dancer was even more devastating. Young—around Hope’s age—with a face that could’ve been carved from moonlight. Innocent beauty wrapped in sheer, carnal confidence.
Her dark brown eyes held stories—intense, magnetic, and wholly unreadable. They locked on Hope like they knew exactly what she needed before she did.
“It’s actually for my cousin,” Ethan chimed in, unbothered. “She’s visiting from New Orleans.”
Hope barely heard him. The dancer turned, slow and deliberate, flashing Hope a smile so rich, so indulgent, it should’ve been poured over skin and licked off slowly.
“Hey there, chérie,” she teased, voice sliding over the word like a lover's hand. “Looks like it’s my job to give you a proper Mystic Falls welcome.”
Hope swallowed hard—loudly.
The brunette closed the distance between them with the confidence of someone who owned every room she stepped into.
She planted her hands on the back of Hope’s chair, leaning in until her breath teased across Hope’s lips.
“I’m Saltz Shaker,” she murmured, lips curling. “In case you need to know what to moan.”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Hope’s breath caught.
This one was cocky. Wicked. A little devil in glitter and heels. And Hope wanted to grab her by the hips, flip the game, and teach her how it felt to be unraveled.
But she knew better.
Saltz Shaker was here for the tips, not the tease beneath Hope’s skin.
Then, casually, she took Hope’s beer bottle from her hands—like it was a prop she didn’t need—and set it aside. One flick of her fingers, and the top button of Hope’s shirt popped open.
“Just helping you breathe, sugar,” she murmured, before sliding gracefully into Hope’s lap, her thighs settling around her, heat pressing intimately against heat.
Hope forgot how to inhale.
Saltz Shaker’s fingers found her auburn curls, threading through, gentle at first, then tugging Hope’s head back just enough to make her gasp.
Her hips rolled, slow and controlled, grinding in a dirty, delicious figure-eight sending molten heat flooding between Hope’s thighs.
Saltz Shaker was watching her like a panther, reading every micro-expression with a knowing gleam.
“You like what you see?” she asked, low and private, voice dipped in sin.
Hope couldn’t answer. Her fingers dug into the seat, knuckles white. She didn't trust herself not to grope the stripper's ass if she let go.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ethan with his phone out. Usually, she’d bark something at him, threaten to drown his tech in champagne.
But right now?
Right now, Hope was too busy pretending she wasn’t about to combust.
Saltz Shaker smiled like a slow flame. “Generally, it’s polite to answer someone when they ask you a question, chérie.”
“You’re grinding on my lap,” Hope managed, voice frayed. “And you expect me to form words?”
The dancer threw her head back with a laugh so rich and free it made Hope ache, made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t since Landon left. Not just wanted. Desired.
“Don’t worry,” Saltz Shaker whispered, rolling her hips again, this time slower, more precise—a sensual promise against Hope’s core. She grabbed Hope’s wrist and guided her hand up, palm pressed to taut, flawless abs. “Lucky you. The feeling’s mutual. So go ahead… touch.”
Hope almost whimpered. The dancer’s body was muscle and temptation, every inch a masterpiece. She wanted to claim her. Mark her. Lose herself in her.
Saltz Shaker was built for sin, and she moved like a siren made flesh—beckoning Hope into the deep.
Hope’s fingers tightened around the firm heat of her thigh, dragging down, leaving a mark that said mine even if only for the song.
“Get a real grip, sweetheart,” Saltz Shaker whispered, her breath hot against Hope’s ear. “Use both hands. You’ll need them.”
Hope obeyed.
She needed to.
The dancer moved again, ass planted against Hope’s lap, rocking just enough to blur reality into molten pleasure.
Hope’s thighs trembled beneath her, the friction unbearable, denim turning to torture against her soaked panties. She tried to breathe, tried to think. But Saltz Shaker moved like a weapon—every shift precise, calculated to destroy.
Then—oh God—Saltz Shaker dropped again, aligning their centers with devastating accuracy, and Hope saw stars.
Her grip spasmed. Saltz Shaker hissed, pleased.
The woman’s hand dipped beneath Hope’s shirt, a slow, teasing journey that traced heat over skin, nails skimming down in a sensual taunt that left fire in their wake.
“Turnabout is fair play,” Saltz Shaker said with a wink, her hand guiding Hope’s lower. Down, down, until her fingertips brushed the top of Hope’s jeans and paused—right there.
Hope could barely breathe.
Saltz Shaker pulled back her hand slowly, letting the heat linger like a ghost, then trailed her fingers up, across Hope’s chest, brushing over a hardened nipple beneath the fabric.
Hope arched into the touch, panting, mind empty of everything except the feel of her.
Then—
“Ah, ah…” The brunette’s voice turned playful, commanding. “Eyes up here, chérie.”
Hope’s gaze snapped up.
Saltz Shaker tipped her chin with a single finger, making her look—really look—into those bottomless brown eyes that held a hurricane of want and promise.
That look said I could ruin you, and you’d thank me.
And Hope? She’d fucking beg.
Saltz Shaker traced her thumb along the edge of Hope’s mouth, her expression hungry and unreadable, as if trying to memorize the shape of Hope’s lips before tasting them.
And then came the final blow.
She bit her own lower lip—hard—and grinded down again, slow and merciless.
Hope shattered.
No words.
No thoughts.
Just heat and sensation and the woman in her lap who had turned her entire world on its axis.
The charged atmosphere, the raw desire, the echo of French teasing – a perfect storm that detonated in a supernova of sensation.
Sweet Mary and Joseph, Hope came with a filthy moan. It felt like a spiritual awakening, like a virgin exploding at the touch of the divine.
She slumped there, breathless, her clothes damp and clinging, every inch of her skin alight with frantic energy, as Saltz Shaker pulled away with feline grace, leaving Hope a quivering, ruined mess.
"As they say in NOLA," she purred, a knowing spark in her eyes. "Laissez les bons temps rouler!"
She gave a final, lingering wink, her gaze burning into Hope as if relishing the sight of her undone, gloriously debauched state. Then she slipped away, leaving Hope craving the aftershocks.
“Lawd have mercy,” Maya whispered, eyes big like she just seen the dead walking. “Tell me you didn’t just… come, sugar?”
Hope gave her a sharp look, still catching her breath like a woman possessed.
“If even one word of this makes it back to the family—”
“I swear on Titi Celine’s grave, I won't say anything ” Maya rushed out, nodding profusely. “I got sense, don’t worry.”
She knew better than to invoke that famous Mikaelson temper.
"You neee to relax, dude," Ethan said, a shark-like grin spreading across his face. Behind him, her sister discreetly pocketed her phone. "Our lips are sealed."
Hope sighed in relief at her cousin's assurance. Maybe some of his dignity could be salvaged after that stripper incident.
Her father would kill her.
⊹︶︶⊹
The bachelorette party continued in full swing, providing Hope the perfect opportunity to slip away.
She retreated to the bathroom, washing away any lingering traces of the club and splashing her face with cold water.
The heiress couldn't remember the last time anyone had such a strong reaction to her.
A rebellious impulse flickered within her, and Hope briefly entertained the idea of turning the tables on Saltz Shaker, wanting to see the stripper flushed, breathless, and as desperate as she'd been made to feel.
Looking more composed, Hope returned to her group, finding them engrossed in watching Ethan receive a lap dance from a curvy blonde.
Of course, Maya was filming.
'Just fucking great.'
Hope was no idiot. She made a mental note to confiscate that phone and delete all videos, including the one Maya took of her before Finch saw it and called off the wedding.
"Hey."
Hope froze, recognizing that voice.
"Hey," she replied, a shy smile gracing her lips as she turned to face Saltz Shaker.
Something inside the striper seemed to loosen.
"I'm Josie Saltzman," Josie blurted out, surprised she'd given her real name to a client.
It wasn't professional, but something about the auburnette made Josie want to be honest
Hope's eyes widened slightly, a spark igniting within them.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Hope Mikaelson...."
"Hope Mikaelson," Josie mused, as if committing the name to memory. "I have a feeling I'm going to be saying that name a lot."
Hope honest to fucking God whimpers at how forward Josie was, saying her name laced with such playful intent, making her knees go weak.
"So, are we going to do something about… this?" Josie gestured vaguely between them, a playful smirk on her lips. "Or are we going to keep pretending it's not happening?"
Hope feigned ignorance, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
"About what?"
A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched upwards.
About the fact that we should totally fuck each other's brains out tonight?"
Hope nearly choked on her own spit.
"Wha-what?"
"We should sleep together." Josie clarifies a little but is more classy in her words this time.
"Seriously?" She squeaked, and Hope thinks this might be a really good fever dream she might wake up from any minute.
Josie nodded, not missing a beat.
"I'm here, you're here, I'm hot, you're hot, we obviously have good sexual chemistry, we should totally fuck later."
"Of course, you don't see a downside," Hope muttered, though her body was thrumming with arousal.
They regarded each other with tension for a moment. Josie knew this was a serious conversation, but her tights were soaked and would start feeling tacky and gross any second, so she needed to get the auburnette to commit soon.
"Is there a downside?" she asked teasingly.
Hope shook her head, a whirlwind of reasons battling against the undeniable pull towards Josie.
"I'm leaving for New Orleans after my cousin's wedding." She starts to list the reasons why this was a bad idea. "I have a kid. I am newly divorced. Oh, and we are total strangers to each other."
Josie tilted her head, considering each point.
"Okay, so you're only here temporarily. That makes things easy; there's no pressure for a relationship. You have a kid? I'm great with kids! We are both strangers to each other, and you are newly divorced... well, that means you deserve some fun with someone you barely know." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Besides, none of that changes the fact that I made you..." she paused for effect, "...you know."
Orgasm.
That word and unspoken desire was a raw invitation, a dare that resonated deep within Hope, shaking the very foundations of her carefully constructed defenses.
"It's still complicated." Hope groaned.
It was a last futile attempt to resist the magnetic pull.
Josie grinned, a flash of playful mischief in her eyes.
"Honey, life is complicated. But sometimes, the best thing you can do is embrace the chaos. Now, are we going to stand here and debate the merits of casual sex, or are we going to find a place where I can show you just how uncomplicated it can be?"
"Oh my God..." Hope squeaked again, and the sound was higher pitched than she intended.
Josie would have found it amusing, but the way the older woman's face fell gave her pause.
"You've never done this before, have you?" she asked tenderly, her voice softening.
Hope sighed and shook her head, a blush creeping up her neck.
Pouty lips curved into a confident smirk.
“Look, I get it—you’re nervous,” Josie said. “So here’s the deal: I’m officially issuing you a no-strings-attached, expires-at-midnight, satisfaction-not-guaranteed free-sex-tonight voucher.”
She shrugged, grin wicked and entirely unapologetic. “And if you feel like helping me, purely in the name of science, test out my new mattress…” She tilted her head. “You know where to find me. Bring pajamas. Or don’t. I’m flexible.”
Josie then leaned in close, her brown eyes darkening as if she were about to kiss Hope right there.
The air crackled with anticipation, and the auburnette was mesmerized by their closeness, the scent of Josie's perfume intoxicating.
A bold hand found her waist, and Hope quietly moaned, "Josie..." trying to capture that tempting mouth in a kiss.
She kind of wanted Josie's tongue counting her teeth, if Hope is being honest with herself.
God, she wanted to fuck this goddess in front of her.
Like she really wanted to, even though it’s reckless to let a woman she just met fuck her when she had never done this before.
But a part of Hope, the one who had been trapped in a loveless marriage and the responsibility of practically being a single mother, wanted to be reckless.
"Just think about it," Josie tempted, and she pulled away, puckering her lips at Hope teasingly, a silent invitation.
The lights in the Sin Bin dimmed, casting long shadows as Josie disappeared into the crowd, a whirlwind of glitter and suggestive movement, strutted away.
Her hips swayed with a deliberate tease, each undulation a promise of forbidden pleasures.
Hope watched, transfixed, her mind a blank canvas painted with raw desire. For a moment, all that existed was the intoxicating allure of the dancer, the unspoken invitation hanging heavy in the air.
Then, as the spell broke, Hope's gaze snapped back into focus.
She felt a subtle pressure in her hand, a secret transaction that had occurred amidst the chaos of the moment.
It was the note Josie had so slyly slipped into her palm.
Unfurling the crumpled napkin, Hope noticed Josie's delicate script, the letters dancing across the paper with a playful elegance.
A smudge of crimson lipstick adorned the edge, a sensual signature that sent a shiver down the auburnette's spine.
Beneath it, scrawled in haste, was an address—a destination.
No, it was more than just an address. It was a promise of wicked delights, a map to a pleasure she hadn't dared to imagine.
Later, Hope would down a quick shot at the bar and stare at the napkin for an hour before finally pocketing it, the image of those perfect lips burned into her mind.