Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Enzo some detoured.
I knew who caused it.
Every night after closing, the club turned from chaotic hell to empty void. Lights low, just the stage one on. Enzo appeared.
Always the same spot—booth front and center, whiskey on his right.
Then I'd dance for him.
No blaring music or slurred shouts. Just his dark eyes under the light. I was a grown woman; I knew what it meant.
This guy wanted me—steady, unrelenting.
I reminded myself to stay sharp. But twisting on that stage at night, catching his burning gaze on every move, a thrilling shiver shot up my spine, spreading to my fingertips. Like dancing on a cliff. One wrong step, shattered. But the danger made each step pulse with life.
Sometimes my body betrayed me. Bending low, glimpsing through my hair as his eyes devoured my dance and he touched himself—a heat flared in my belly, pooling between my thighs.
The outfit was thin; I felt the dampness in my panties. That thought burned my cheeks, but my body kept going, every sway bolder from the secret thrill.
I even started craving it. Days dragged as endless waits—washing glasses, stocking shelves, inventory in storage. Waiting for the door push. For lights dimming.
For the world shrinking to just us.
After each dance, Enzo raised his glass from the booth and invited me to the VIP room.
He said it casual, but we both knew: door closed meant one thing.
I never agreed, because I couldn't sort my head out.
This setup lasted a week.
Tonight, music stopped; I snatched up my fallen clothes fast. Drew's routines got racier—nearly nude, just short.
He wanted something to happen between Enzo and me badly. Probably benefited from it.
"You know why I come here every day, right?"
Enzo lounged in the seats, watching me dress piece by piece.
"I want to take you to the back room." His voice dropped low, just for us. "Strip you myself, pin you on the couch, kiss from your neck down."
I coughed hard twice; he didn't flinch.
"But no pressure." He refilled my water and set it by me. "I'm sure you'll walk in on your own."
He asked about the room every time this week; I shook my head each time.
He could force it, like the first time. But Enzo never got mad—just shrugged, downed his whiskey, stood, nodded, left.
No push. No threats. No impatience. Like routine—rejected? Fine, tomorrow.
I said no seven times.
But over those days, one truth hit hard: in this club, I was basically Enzo's mistress. He boosted my pay and kept me safe. Nights, in barely-there outfits Drew picked, I posed for him alone.
And I didn't hate it.
I liked the lights dimming. The quiet with just us. His focused stare, like I was the only thing worth watching. No denying—I kinda liked him.
So what scared me?
Light hit from above, shadowing his face half-dark. Black eyes gleamed faintly in the shade, lips curved slightly. He looked in no rush, like he had forever.
I stepped off the stage. Crossed the empty hall, past rows of chairs and scattered tissues, and stopped right in front of him.
"Okay."
Enzo's glass paused at his lips, then he set it down slowly.
"Let's go," he said.
Enzo headed to the VIP room down the hall. I followed, heart pounding in my ears. Palms sweaty, fingers clenching and unclenching. Corridor stretched long, walls lit with tacky neon—pink and purple flickers on his broad back.
Him ahead, me behind. Reminded me of that first day at the office, trailing to the elevator. Heart racing, palms slick, no clue what waited.
That time, I called it an accident. The room? Forced.
This time, I chose to step through.
Enzo opened the door and stepped aside for me.
I knew exactly what crossing that threshold meant.
But I walked in.