Chapter 2
Olivia
I stood outside, fingers on the handle, the metal's chill seeping through my skin. The hallway stayed quiet, except for faint music from the distant stage, bass thumping the walls into a subtle shake.
I took a deep breath and pushed it open.
The room hung dark, just a dim yellow wall lamp in the corner casting a warm glow on the carpet. Smoke thickened the air, heavy with cigar and whiskey scents, plus something else—a cloying, uneasy sweetness.
Then I saw him.
It was him.
I knew it.
But now, with him fully in view, I realized the stage's shadows had only shown me an outline.
He sprawled on the floor, half-propped against the sofa, dark suit jacket tossed aside somewhere, white shirt a wrinkled mess, collar undone.
His brown hair tousled, losing that irritating precision from before.
Glass shards littered the carpet, a shattered bottle spilling whiskey mixed with blood—a cut on his palm still oozed.
Even in this mess, his features cut sharp—deep brows, high nose, jawline like it was ruler-straight, trimmed beard adding to that aggressive handsomeness.
Sweat beaded on his temples, brows furrowed, breath coming fast, chest heaving.
Not drunk. Drunks didn't look like this.
Fuck.
Drugged.
And it looked bad.
I should've turned and left.
God knows the trouble I'd dive into if I stayed.
This wasn't my problem—some stranger, a guy who'd eyed me with contempt. What he looked like now had nothing to do with me.
My hand already gripped the handle.
But right before I twisted it, he let out a low groan.
It sounded... painful.
My fingers froze.
Damn it. Fine, Olivia, just a quick check, then go.
I bit my lip, let go of the handle, and turned back.
"You," I started, voice shaky, "you okay?"
He opened his eyes, dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, whites shot with red.
"Get out," he rasped, anger barely contained.
Okay. Cut him some slack. He was just a not-so-lucid patient.
Damn! This asshole with a temper!
I took a deep breath and pointed at his hand. "You're hurt."
"None of your business."
"I can help—"
"I said get the fuck out!" His voice spiked, then he tried standing, body swaying hard, crashing back down.
I sighed and walked over.
"What the—" He eyed me warily.
"Shut up." I crouched, dodging glass, and reached to help him up.
His body burned hot, heat radiating through his shirt. It took real effort to haul him onto the sofa. I pressed close, almost draped over him, catching his scent—whiskey, cigar, sweat, and something raw, masculine.
It made my heart race for no damn reason.
"Get out," he muttered weakly.
I ignored him and grabbed his hand. The cut wasn't deep, but blood seeped, maybe glass still in there.
"You need this cleaned," I said, standing. "I'll grab stuff from the bathroom."
"Who do you think you are?" he called after me, mocking. "Saint Maria?"
I ignored that too and pushed into the bathroom.
It sprawled big and clean, a stark contrast to the smoky room outside. I rifled the cabinet, found a first-aid kit with iodine, swabs, bandages.
He still slumped on the sofa, eyes half-closed, face flushed, breath ragged. Shirt gaped open, exposing a toned chest, collarbones sharp in the low light.
I sat beside him with the kit, pulled his hand.
His eyes snapped open, locked on me.
Those eyes... even now, they held you captive. Deep green like gems, shadowed sockets, long lashes, carrying an unspoken danger.
"What the hell do you want?" he asked.
"To stop the bleeding." My voice wavered.
"I don't need it."
"You do." I forced myself not to stare at his open collar, his heaving chest. "Your temp's through the roof."
"So?" He watched me, suspicious, guarded. "Playing savior? Or waiting for thanks, then—"
"Then what?" I cut in. "You pay me?"
He went silent, just stared.
That look sped my pulse.
I looked down, hiding my face, picked glass from the wound with a swab, then slapped on a bandage.
It barely covered; the cut ran long.
"Make do," I said. "No proper wrap here."
He stayed quiet, staring.
It unnerved me.
"I just don't want anyone dying on me," I explained. "Simple as that. I'll call your family soon, or an ambulance—"
"You want to help." He cut me off, lips curling in sarcasm. "But you know what I need most right now?"
He yanked me close, other hand clamping my waist, fingers digging in hard.
"To pin you against the wall and fuck you," he growled in my ear, voice rough, brutally honest. "I'm rock hard. Seeing you makes me want to rip off that ridiculous coat, see what's underneath."
I crashed into his chest, felt his heat, and—
And his hardness pressing my stomach.
My face burned.
"But I won't." His fingers slid up my waist, stopping under my ribs. "Because I won't let you win. Tell me, who sent you?"
"It wasn't—not me!" His touch sent electric jolts through my waist, making me shudder, voice rising. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maria said someone paid a deposit, sent me to 208. I thought you—"
"Thought what?" He interrupted, laughed suddenly. "That I'd pay for a stripper in my room?"
"Stripper" hit like a slap.
"If you look down on the job," I heard myself say, voice ice-cold, "why come here?"
"I come here doesn't mean I want to touch the women here." But his eyes stuck to me, from face to neck to chest, like they'd burn through my clothes.
This fucking bastard.
Rage flared. I should've shoved him off and walked out without looking back.
But my body wouldn't move.
Maybe his voice, his eyes, or the way he fought it—that pained restraint.
Or that pull from the first glance, him sitting apart from the crowd, commanding attention without trying.
And now, here he was, vulnerable, unraveling, needing help.
"Shut up."
Courage surged from nowhere. I reached out and covered his mouth.
His body tensed instantly.
We locked eyes, my hand on his lips, his breath hot against my palm, scorching. My heart pounded like it might burst, from nerves or... something else.
"Every word you say insults me," I said, voice shaking. "But your eyes, your body, say different."
I eased my hand away, fingers trailing his lip, down his jaw, stopping at his open collar.
His skin burned; my fingertips zinged like shocked.
I should've pulled back.
I knew I should've.
I'd never done this—touched a man first, teased him, teetered on danger's edge.
I'd never even slept with anyone.
Twenty-two, still a virgin—a joke in New York. I'd always thought the first time should matter, with someone I really liked, at the right moment, not like this.
With a drugged stranger whose name I didn't know, in a strip club's VIP room.
This was insane; anger must've fried my brain.
"So which is real?" I asked, looking up. "You really look down on me, or just talking tough?"
He stared, chest heaving, Adam's apple bobbing.
The air shifted, grew hotter, thicker. My fingers slid lower, into his collar, brushing his collarbone.
His breath hitched.
"You..." His voice turned gravelly. "You know what you're doing?"
I didn't.
I really didn't.
I just knew I wanted to touch him, get closer, wanted...
No, snap out of it, Olivia! Leave now! Right now!
Then he moved.
In a blur, everything flipped.
He grabbed my waist, hauled me over, and pinned me to the sofa.
"What're you trying to prove?" he murmured at my lips, voice hoarse. "That I want to fuck you? Fine, I admit it. I fucking want to fuck you."
He crushed down on me, eyes darkening, staring hard, heavy breaths hitting my face. Sense screamed danger, but desire betrayed me. I got wet, heat pooling between my legs, nipples hardening against the fabric.
His fingers pinched a nipple, tugged hard, pain and pleasure crashing in. I rubbed my thighs together without thinking, my core screaming for more.
"Already turned on? Little slut?" He went on, dipping his head, biting my neck. "From your first move on stage, I wanted to drag you down, fuck you against that pole."
He bit deep; it'd leave a mark.
"But I thought I could hold back." His hand slipped between my legs, pressing hard over thin panties on that sensitive spot. "Thought I could watch and do nothing."
"Ah—" I gasped out.
"But you showed up." He looked up, eyes liquid dark. "You had to tempt me, prove I couldn't resist."
He yanked off my coat, tossed it, leaving me in sexy lace lingerie.
"Fine, I'll show you what you've proved."
I should've shoved him away.
Slapped him, laughed in his face, said he was no better.
But I didn't.
Because I wanted it too.
The realization hit sharp and clear, lightning through the bullshit.
I wanted him.
From that first look under the stage lights, from his hesitant fingers, from deciding to come here—I wanted him.
Pure, raw attraction. Every cell craved his rough handling, his brutal claiming.
His fingers hooked my panties' edge, ripped them off with a snap.
"You proved," he stared, eyes full of lust, "you're here to fucking seduce me."
His fingers plunged in without warning; I arched up.
"Ah... how dare you..." First time feeling this, I couldn't hold back the cry.
"Soaking wet already," he murmured, fingers sliding slowly in and out. "Mouth says revenge, body tells the truth."
"No..." I bit my lip, face flushing hot.
"No what?" He added a finger, sped up. "No, you don't want me to fuck you?"
His thumb circled that sensitive nub.
"Then why so wet here?"
Words failed. I bit my lip harder, fighting embarrassing sounds.
"Don't hold back." He ordered, other hand gripping my chin, forcing eye contact. "I want to hear you scream."
His fingers curved, hit that melting spot.
"Ah—!"
"That's it," he said, satisfied, then dipped, sucking my nipple.
Tongue and fingers worked together; I shook all over.
"Beg me." He lifted his head, eyes cruelly playful. "Beg me to fuck you."
"No..."
"Not begging?" Fingers pulled out; emptiness hit.
"You—"
"Beg." He teased the entrance, circling but not entering. "Say you want me to fuck you."
I bit my lip, refusing.
But his fingers lingered, tormenting without relief.
"Say it," he commanded.
"I..." Voice trembled. "I want..."
"Want what?"
"You..." I shut my eyes, face burning. "Want you to fuck me..."
"Good," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed my lips.
This kiss shifted, no punishing bites, but something almost tender.
When he pushed in, pain tightened everything; my walls clenched uncontrollably.
"Fuck." He cursed low, body freezing. "You're... a virgin?"
I bit my lip; tears slipped down.
He stared hard, deep green burning in the dim light. For a hazy moment, he seemed like some greedy, feral beast on me.
Dangerous shivers raced from my spine to my lust-fogged brain; I let out a trembling moan.
He grunted and smacked my ass hard. "Relax."
But he didn't stop. He drove deeper.
His pace slowed, grew heavier, thick cock dragging slowly along my walls, then slamming deep, electric tingles buzzing my scalp.
Pain faded faster than expected.
Something else bloomed from it, slow at first, then rushing—like a tide, waves from afar. I grabbed for rational thoughts, told myself to calm, it's just physical.
But calm wouldn't come.
He angled different, hit a spot blanking my mind; I made sounds I didn't recognize, heard his low response, breath scorching my ear like fire.
Sanity crumbled.
I met his thrusts, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting skin.
He gasped low, like a beast sated.
"You fucking—" He stared, shock flashing in his eyes, and something else. "Why didn't you say?"
"You didn't ask." My voice shook.
He went quiet a beat, hand brushing my face, wiping tears. "Look at me."
I opened my eyes, met his gaze.
They looked deep in the low light, but soft now, somehow.
"Deep breath," he said.
I did; pain eased, replaced by a strange fullness.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded.
Then he moved, each thrust deep and heavy.
"You wanted to prove I couldn't resist," he rasped. "You did."
He shifted, hit that weakening spot.
"But you proved more."
His hand slipped to where we joined, thumb pressing the nub.
"You can't fucking resist me either."
Pleasure surged like waves; words gone, I clutched sheets, moaned brokenly.
"The way you look now," he stared, eyes terrifyingly dark, "even hotter than on stage."
"Know the difference?" He leaned close, whispered in my ear. "On stage, everyone sees. But this? Only I see."
Those words ignited; I tensed, then shattered, nothing left but mind-blowing ecstasy.
I heard myself cry out, felt him follow—a low roar, body collapsing, releasing inside me.
Morning light slipped through curtain gaps.
I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.
Memories flooded back.
Room 208. That man. Everything from last night.
My face heated, a mix of shame and sweetness twisting inside.
I turned—the bed's other side lay empty.
Just rumpled sheets, proof someone had been there.
He'd gone.
Why?
My stomach dropped, bad feeling sinking in.
My eyes scanned the room, landed on the nightstand.
A stack of bills, and a note.
I picked it up; one line.
"Good service. The extra's your tip."
Service. Tip.
Last night's tender kisses, heart-racing words—just bedroom sweet talk.
To him, I was just a stripper, a transaction.
Huh, that fucking piece of shit!
Fuck!
I stared at the note, crumpled it, tossed it with the cash into the trash, then grabbed my clothes.
Black lace, still damp, wrinkled mess.
I pulled it on, snatched my bag, went to the door, hand on the handle.
I stood a moment, didn't look back, then pushed out and left.
I quit the club job.
Went to Maria the next day, told her I was done.
After that, I got work at a coffee shop. That night's earnings covered some interest; the fat guy gave me three more months.
Life settled back—early rises, shifts, calls to Sophie, sleep.
Day after day.
I thought I could forget that night, forget him, forget those deep brown eyes.
But I couldn't.
Especially not in the coffee shop bathroom, puking my guts out over the toilet.
"Four weeks pregnant."
The doctor's voice stayed calm.
I sat in the exam room, staring at the test results, mind blank.
Four weeks.
From that night I thought was just an accident, impulsive payback.
Now it was a real life.
My hand pressed my stomach.
Still flat, nothing showing. But I knew a tiny life grew there.
Damn, so that night I should've at least made him wrap it.
"Want some vitamins?" the doctor asked. "Or..."
She trailed off.
I should've aborted.
I could barely feed myself; how could I raise a kid? And the father—that guy with the insulting note—didn't know, wouldn't care.
But I couldn't say it.
"I'll think about it." My voice rasped.
Outside the hospital, sun blinded me.
I looked down, fingers clenching the paper.
What now?
I didn't know.