"Griff, do you want us to kiss?"

I glance up from my phone to see two strippers standing in front of me. The only thing that registers is that they're both brunette and have enormous tits that are covered in only the tiniest of bikini tops. The cocktail napkin under my beer is larger than the triangles of fabric over their chests. They're like hyper-sexualized cartoon characters with their long hair and shiny booty shorts.

Matthew and I are at Queen of Hearts, Miami's most famous strip club. Everywhere I look, there's a girl on a pole, a guy making it rain or packs of overeager dudes hoping to get a little action. This place is a study to hedonism, garish in pinks and purples and loud with music. Mostly rap or classic rock stripper staples. Sixty-thousand square feet of renovated warehouse space that's packed with everyone from grooms-to-be to NBA players to curious couples to...me and Matthew.

We've come to drop off product for his girlfriend, and he wanted to stay to see her dance.

Which means all the strippers want to dance for me in private. For me, there is sex in the champagne room, and I won't lie. I've indulged in that a time or three in my early twenties. What guy wouldn't?

But now? Hate to say it, but I'm bored with all this shit. The girls are all aware of who I am, and most want free drugs — or are blinded by the hope that they might become a permanent fixture in my life. One of the brunettes nuzzles the other's neck, presumably to arouse my interest. I take a swig of my beer and wonder if I should have another. Christ, I'm starving. Haven't eaten since lunch.

"We can also go in back, the three of us," the second girl says, sliding her hands over the other's tits.

I don't respond. They moan with pleasure, or pretend to moan, for my benefit. "Tell us what you want. We'll do anything."

"Sure, whatever." Stifling a yawn, I take out my wallet and hand them each hundred-dollar bills. Their eyes light up and they move as if they're both going to crawl on my lap.

I put my hand up in a stop gesture.

"Do it over there." I point at a group of young guys in polo shirts, fresh out of some convention. "For those guys. They need it more than me. I've got some stuff to take care of. Thanks, though."

They pout and strut off. The DJ plays a song, and Matthew's eyes are shooting lasers at the stage. Seeing his girlfriend get naked isn't my flavor of entertainment, so I focus on my phone, angling my body in the leather seat of the booth so I'm not facing the stage. I'm much more interested in what I'm looking at, anyway.

Juliette's Instagram.

For two weeks, since we last saw each other, she's teased me with her photos.

First, the shoe picture. I'd seen it that night, hours after our kiss. I was about ready to drift off to sleep when I clicked on her account. Her legs in those shoes were so fucking sexy that I couldn't help but think of her when I jerked off. How I'd softly kiss her, starting at her toes and working my way up. My fantasy kisses made it only to her inner thighs when I came.

These fantasies have become a sadly common scenario in my life.

Each day she posts a new photo, and each day I have a new, filthy fantasy about her. I actually get impatient and edgy if she hasn't posted by eight or nine at night. Usually I get my fix earlier, though, and there are some blessed days where she posts two or three times.

Her in class, looking bored and pouty at the camera. That one made me think of how soft her lips were when I kissed them, and how I'd nibbled on her plush bottom lip.

A close-up of a delicate gold necklace around her neck, which gave me thoughts of biting her.

A selfie with cleavage. Another selfie with cleavage. A third selfie with cleavage and fuck-me eyes. Maybe she didn't really have fuck-me eyes, but that's how I interpreted the expression. Those photos led to a never ending-porn loop in my brain of all the things I would do with her tits.

I'm thinking about this girl way too much. For the past two weeks, she's distracted me from my legendary focus. I should be making sure the dealers have wired money to China for chemicals, shifted cash to a bank in the Caymans, negotiated for that chain fast food restaurant in Aventura. I'm still doing all those things, but little by little, I'm letting Zoe pick up some of the slack.

Because I'm busy mooning over a teenager. I sigh and shift uncomfortably in the booth as my eyes slide to Matthew. He's fixated on the stage. He loves this shit here. Christ. I glance back to Juliette's Instagram.

Many of her posts aren't sexy, even though my dirty mind is always able to turn them into something lewd. No, most of the posts are things about her everyday life: school, her job at the diner, photos of palm trees and coffee and books. Her friends and cute dogs and cupcakes. Normal girl stuff. Sweet, innocent stuff.

Stuff that has no place in my world.

"Wanna lap dance?"

I look up, startled at the high-pitched voice, and see a girl in a tight-half shirt and bikini bottoms with her hand on her cocked hip. I scratch my chin. Maybe I should get a little dance, a little extra, to take my mind off Juliette. Neither my brain or my dick think this is a good idea.

"No, " I mutter. "Thanks."

She huffs off. If I wasn't known to management here, I'd probably be kicked out for not spending enough on the girls.

Back to Instagram. Each photo is a new revelation of what Juliette likes, reads and watches. Teen Vogue. Romance novels. The Walking Dead. I know that she loves spicy tacos, is very precise about writing in her planner and loves sunflowers.

The other day, I'd asked Zoe where I could buy sunflowers.

"Haven't you ever sent a woman flowers, Griffin?"

I shook my head. I'd given them bottles of champagne, cash, hits of ecstasy, lines of coke. No flowers, though.

Zoe rolled her eyes. "There's this thing called the Internet."

"Go to hell," I'd said. "I'm not looking to send flowers to anyone."

Not yet, anyway.

Zoe arched a black eyebrow. "Prince Charming, when you're ready to send a bouquet, let me know and I'll guide you through the process."

I couldn't help but grin when my sister said that.

Just like I can't help but sit here in this strip club and smile while looking at her photos.

"Hey!" Matthew hollers. "What are you doing? You should see these chicks on the stage. Alexis is so much better."

"Business." Out the corner of my eye, I see him shaking his head. I haven't told him about Juliette, but I suspect he's figured it out.

Tonight's post is the one that's makes me ache the most. Makes me want to be near her, hear her laugh, look into her green eyes. It's a video of her, at a pool, looking like a goddamned swimsuit model.

I'm guessing she was at her apartment complex; it seems like one of those community pools. She's sitting on the edge, her legs in the blue water up to her calves, smiling wide. Her hair is loose, and she's running her fingers through the locks in front, grinning.

She's wearing a white bikini with green and red tropical flowers. And her body is curvy as all fuck. The clip is exactly six seconds long, and the entire thing is her playing with her hair as it whips around in the breeze, and smiling for the camera.

Whoever took the video was pretty close, probably standing on the steps into the pool. I hope to Christ it was her friend Allison and not time pimply-faced, horny high school kid, and I'm immediately ashamed at my jealousy. Why should I care if she's found a boyfriend? She needs to be with a guy her own age. Even if it might rip my heart out.

I get a text from my sister and I tap over to the messages. She wants to know when I'll be home and if we should grab a late dinner at the Shore Club.

Soon. And yes. I'm fucking starving

I tap back to Instagram and my heart skips a beat when I see Juliette's posted something new.

It's another image of her at the pool, only this was taken from behind. Her little waist and her round, delicious ass are on full display, and my mouth actually waters as I expand the photo to get a closer look. Her ass is poetry and prose and perfection. The bikini isn't tiny or revealing, but it does accentuate her curves.

I groan out loud, the sound drowned out by the DJ's pumping bass.

I unzoom the photo and continue to stare. She's sweeping her hair to one side with her hand, and her head is turned slightly in the opposite direction. Until now, most of her photos were pretty typical of a teenager. Even the sexy video had a sheen of innocence, probably because of her sweet smile.

This isn't. It's an unabashedly sensual photo, and that's when I realize that I am being played, teased and tormented by a girl who is two weeks away from being eighteen.

And I'm loving every second of it.

Women never tease me. Take those two brunettes. Everything's on display and they're available in any way possible. Same for the rest of the strippers in this place — Matthew's girlfriend the lone exception. Women think I'm put on this earth to provide three things: money, drugs and a good fuck. All true, but it hasn't made for satisfying relationships.

Which is why I've probably never truly had one. What all of these girls don't know is something I'm ashamed to admit to anyone, even my sister: I've never been in love.

Never said those three words to any woman who wasn't family.

I glance up to see Matthew riveted to the stage. I'm about to ask him if he's ready to go when the DJ lets loose a deep Miami bass vintage cut. There's no use in even trying to talk. I take a sip of my beer and go back to the phone.

Juliette could have carried on with her life. She could've not posted anything at all, knowing I was watching. Instead, she does the thing that makes me want her more: reveal bits of her personality.

I tear myself from the phone and lean toward Matthew. "Bro, I'm headed out. You coming?"

"Nah, I'll just stay around here. My girl will give me a ride."

"Cool. And hey," I say, slipping out of the booth, "That new talent, the girls that were just hired? Feel them out. Get their stories. See if any would be good candidates for selling some shit. Especially if they work more than one club. We'll be needing a backup for this place soon."

Clapping him on the shoulder, I walk off. My chest feels lighter every step I take towards the door.. This place smells like cheap perfume, weed and a hint of desperation. Lately lots of places have smelled desperate: clubs, bars, parties.

What the fuck's wrong with me? I used to love my life. At twenty-five, I'm the king of Miami, rich and handsome enough to get any girl, and connected to every hot place in the city.

My eyes have the door in sight when someone runs smack into my chest.

"Oof," squeaks the stripper. She wobbles in tall, clear plastic heels and I grab her by the waist so she doesn't tumble over.

"Easy," I say.

"Griff?" she squeals, and puts her arms loosely around my neck. She has long, curly dark hair, and looks up at me with huge brown eyes. Pretty. Hot body, obviously. Plastic tits, but well-done, clearly an expensive job. She's wearing a sparkly silver bikini top and a matching silver skirt. I guess she's some sort of sex astronaut.

Maybe that's the theme here tonight and I didn't get the memo. Space sex. Who knows?

"Don't you remember me, Griff?" She taps a finger on my chest.

I grin at her and say nothing. A memory of a few hours of acrobatic, if not slightly soulless, sex comes to mind. Her name doesn't. She reeks of the perfume smell that's permeating the entire place. Peaches and sugar, if the two substances were developed by a mad scientist and made of chemicals. If the scent had a color in here, it would be orange day-glow paint.

"Rosalie," she purrs. "You called me Rose while you fucked me."

I did?

"Of course. How are you?"

"Better now that I've seen you. Going somewhere?"

I glance at the door, which is about five feet away. "Meeting family for dinner."

"That's so sweet. For such a bad guy, you're very, very good." She leans into me, her lips brushing against my ear. "Want to go into a private room? I'd love to have a repeat of what we did that night, only I'll start out on my knees this time."

She kisses my cheek. "And you were so good at what you did with your tongue. You made my pussy feel so good."

She giggles a little too loud, making my ear drum reverberate. I wince at the sudden dirty talk.

I linger on her face. Poor thing, she's trying to be as seductive as possible. And it could work... If I had another beer and looked at her through squinted eyes, I could pretend it was Juliette on her knees. At least I'd get a release from this crazed, edgy feeling.

I would't have to explain anything and I'd apologize for nothing. There would be no conversations, no shy glances, no awkward goodnight kisses.

Usually in this kind of situation I'd feel a twinge of desire or lust or something. My dick would get hard, or my heart would thump, and I'd get that want-to-fuck feeling.

Now? The image of ahi tuna tacos at The Shore Club pops into my mind and my stomach thunders with hunger.

And that photo of Juliette at the pool is far sexier than this stripper. I'll have a better time jerking off to that in my own bed. Alone.

The stripper licks her red lips and grinds her body up to mine. She's tight and works out, that's for sure. But I want soft curves and genuine smiles. This shit with the insincere one-night fucks is getting old and I know I'd regret screwing this girl in the morning. If not sooner.

"Sorry, doll. Gotta go." Holding my breath so I don't have to smell perfume, I plant a kiss on her cheek and walk out, knowing that whatever spell Juliette has me under is pretty fucking strong. Enough for me to turn down a blowjob from a pretty stripper. Enough to make my dick not even twitch when a pair of double-Ds are mashed against my chest.

As I press the ignition button in the SUV, I pause, letting the air conditioner blast in my face. An idea comes to me, and I grab my phone.

Within a few taps, I create a new email account. Then I swipe over to Instagram and start a new account there. I loathe social media, but this is a strategic move.

I need to think of a username. One comes to me, and I chuckle out loud.

I grin triumphantly while tapping the heart icon on one of her gorgeous photos, then I follow her.

When she logs on, she'll see that her latest fan is TheManFromBabylon.

____