Chapter 3
T he door to Ian's office looms before me, dark wood and frosted glass promising secrets kept and confessions made. I raise my hand to knock, then pause, nerves twisting my stomach into knots.
What does he want from me? The question has haunted me since his text message yesterday. Since Richard Blackwood handed me that envelope with its weighted offer and unspoken expectations.
Nothing comes without a price. Especially not when it involves men with power over me.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and knock twice. Sharp. Decisive. The opposite of how I feel inside.
"Come in." Ian's voice, muffled through the door, sends a shiver down my spine.
I turn the handle, stepping into his domain.
The office is surprisingly understated. A large desk, a few filing cabinets, a couch that looks more functional than comfortable. No personal touches. No photographs or mementos. Just a space for conducting business.
Ian sits behind the desk, his large frame making the furniture seem almost delicate. He looks up as I enter, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Claire." He says my name like it's a secret we share. "Thank you for coming."
I nod, not trusting my voice. I cross to the chair in front of his desk, lowering myself into it with a grace born of years on stage. Armor donned, walls up.
"You wanted to talk," I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Ian leans back in his chair, studying me. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. After everything with Theo."
Surprise flickers through me. Concern was not what I expected from this meeting.
"I'm fine," I say automatically. The lie I've told so often it almost feels like truth.
"Are you?" Ian's gaze doesn't waver. "Because what he did—what he threatened to do—that's not something you just shake off."
I look away, focusing on a point over his shoulder. "I'm used to men trying to take things from me."
Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken understanding.
"I'm not Theo," Ian says finally, his voice low. "And I'm not going to ask you for anything you don't want to give."
My eyes snap back to his, searching for the catch. The hidden agenda. "Then why did you help me?"
"Because it was the right thing to do." He says it like it's that simple. Like decency isn't a foreign concept in the world we inhabit.
I want to believe him. Want to trust the sincerity in his eyes and the steadiness of his voice. But experience has taught me caution. Has taught me that men only offer favors when they expect something in return.
"And the contract?" I ask, hating the way my voice wavers slightly. "Richard's offer?"
Ian's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "That's between you and him. I don't know the details."
Frustration wells up inside me, mingling with the fear and uncertainty. "But you work for him. You must know what he wants from me."
"I work for him, yes." Ian leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "But I'm not privy to all his business dealings. What I do know is that he values talent and loyalty. And he sees both in you."
The words hang in the air between us, a compliment and a warning wrapped in one.
"I'm just trying to survive," I say, the truth of it burning my throat. "To get through school and make a future for myself."
"I know." Ian's expression softens slightly. "And I respect that. More than you know."
Something in his tone makes my pulse jump. Makes me wonder about the man behind the stoic exterior. The man who stepped in to save me without being asked.
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "When I’m nothing more than your run of the mill stripper?"
Ian holds my gaze, unblinking. "Because you're strong. You're fighting for something better and you refuse to let this world break you."
His words hit me like a physical force, stealing the air from my lungs. No one has ever seen me like that before.
"I'm not unbreakable," I whisper, the confession scraping my throat raw.
"No one is." Ian's hand twitches on the desk, like he wants to reach for me but thinks better of it. "But you're a survivor. And that's rare in this business."
The air between us feels charged, electric with unspoken tension. I'm suddenly aware of how close we are, separated only by the expanse of his desk. Aware of the way his eyes dip to my lips, just for a moment, before locking back onto mine.
I should leave. Should thank him for his help and walk away before this goes somewhere dangerous. Before I let myself hope for things I can't have.
But I don't move. Don't break the connection crackling between us.
"Claire..." My name is a rumble in his chest, a question and a plea rolled into one.
And something inside me snaps.
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. Ian watches me, his body coiled tight like a predator, his eyes tracking my every move.
I round the desk, stepping into his space. He looks up at me, his pupils blown wide with hunger, as I place my hands on the armrests of his chair, caging him in.
"You want me," I breathe, my face inches from his. "Tell me you don't."
His eyes blaze into mine, dark with barely leashed desire. "I can't do that."
And then I'm kissing him, my lips crashing against his with a desperation that burns through my veins like wildfire.
He responds instantly, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other snaking around my waist to pull me flush against him.
His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, tasting faintly of coffee and something darker, uniquely him.
I straddle his lap, my knees sinking into the leather chair on either side of his hips.
My skirt rides up, the thin fabric of my panties the only barrier between us.
His hands slide under my shirt, calloused fingers stroking the bare skin of my back, leaving trails of electricity in their wake.
Every touch brands me, marks me, ruins me for anyone else's hands.
I grind against him, feeling his cock harden beneath me, thick and insistent against my core. A groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my breasts, and I swallow the sound with my mouth. I want to consume him. Want him to consume me.
This is reckless. Dangerous. Everything I swore I would never do again. But right now, with his hands mapping my skin like he's discovering new territory, I can't bring myself to care.
I break the kiss, panting, and reach for the buckle of his belt. His hands still mine, gentle but firm.
"Claire, wait." His voice is rough gravel, strained with desire. "We don't have to?—"
"I want to." I cut him off, my fingers deftly undoing his belt, the metallic clink sending a thrill down my spine. I pop the button of his jeans, drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. "I need to."
Understanding flashes in his eyes, followed by a heat that makes my core clench and weep. He lifts his hips, allowing me to tug his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his erection.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly. He's magnificent—thick and long, the head already glistening with precum. My mouth waters at the sight. I circle my thumb over the sensitive tip, spreading the moisture, watching his jaw clench and his eyes flutter.
I slide off his lap, sinking to my knees between his spread thighs. He watches me through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"You don't have to—" he starts again, but the words dissolve into a deep, guttural moan as I take him into my mouth.
I bob my head, taking him deep, hollowing my cheeks around his shaft. The taste of him—salt and musk and man—floods my senses. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to me as I worship him with my tongue and lips.
I lose myself in the act, in the power of reducing this strong, controlled man to base need and desperate sounds. His thighs tremble beneath my palms. His breathing grows ragged, punctuated by curses and my name—always my name, like a prayer or a confession.
But Ian isn't content to just receive. He tugs gently on my hair, urging me back up. I release him with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock for one obscene moment.
"I want more," he rumbles, his hands already reaching for the hem of my shirt. "I want all of you."
I stand on shaky legs, allowing him to undress me.
He takes his time, peeling my clothes away layer by layer, his eyes drinking in each new expanse of skin like a man dying of thirst. He kisses every inch he reveals—the hollow of my throat, the curve of my breast, the jut of my hipbone.
By the time I'm bare before him, I'm trembling with need, my skin flushed and hypersensitive, my thighs slick with arousal.
"You're fucking perfect," he breathes against my skin, his hands spanning my waist. "So goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you."
He pulls me back into his lap, settling me astride his hips. I can feel him, hard and hot, pressing against my entrance. The head of his cock slides through my folds, gathering my wetness, teasing my clit until I'm whimpering.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still, his eyes searching mine for any hesitation.
In answer, I sink down onto him, taking him to the hilt in one smooth motion.
We both cry out at the sensation, our voices mingling in the charged air. He fills me completely, stretching me just to the point of exquisite ache. I feel him everywhere—in my core, in my chest, in my fucking soul.
"Fuck, Claire," he groans, his forehead pressed against mine. "You feel like heaven. Like you were made for me."
I start to move, rolling my hips, finding a rhythm that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. Each stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through me. Ian meets me thrust for thrust, his hands guiding me, his mouth hot against my throat, sucking marks into my skin that I'll feel tomorrow.
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they're tight, aching peaks. When he lowers his head to take one in his mouth, I nearly come undone. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth—it's too much and not enough.
"Ian, please..." I don't know what I'm begging for. Harder, faster, more.
He complies with all three, his hips snapping against mine with bruising force. One hand slides between us, finding my clit with unerring precision. He circles it with deft fingers, applying just the right pressure to make my vision blur at the edges.
"That's it," he urges, his voice a dark command in my ear. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock."
The pressure builds inside me, coiling tighter and tighter at the base of my spine, until it finally shatters. I come with a broken cry of his name, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, my nails digging half-moons into his shoulders.
But he's not done with me. As the aftershocks still ripple through me, he stands suddenly, lifting me with him. I cling to his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist, as he sweeps his desk clear with one arm. Pens and papers scatter across the floor, forgotten.
He lays me down on the cool wood, never breaking our connection. The new angle allows him to thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes lightning arc through my veins. My oversensitive body sparks back to life, building toward another peak I didn't know was possible.
"You're going to come again," he tells me, his voice brooking no argument as he drives into me with relentless precision. "And I'm going to watch every second of it."
His thumb returns to my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. I'm helpless beneath him, caught in a storm of sensation, my body no longer my own but an instrument he plays with masterful skill.
"Ian, I can't—I can't—" I gasp, my back arching off the desk.
"You can," he growls, his rhythm faltering as his own release approaches. "Come with me, Claire. Now."
The command in his voice tips me over the edge. I shatter again, harder than before, my vision whiting out as pleasure crashes through me in violent waves. I feel him follow, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills himself with a hoarse shout of my name.
We stay like that for a long moment, sweat-slicked and panting, our hearts thundering against each other.
Ian presses his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breath ghosting across my face.
His weight on me is grounding, keeping me from floating away on the tide of endorphins flooding my system.
"Claire, I..." He starts, then stops, seeming to search for words.
I place a finger against his lips, silencing him. "Don't. Don't say anything."
Because I know what comes next. The regret, the awkwardness, the realization that this was a mistake. A moment of weakness, of need, that can't be repeated.
I disentangle myself from him, standing on unsteady legs. I dress quickly, avoiding his gaze, ignoring the way my body aches with the loss of him.
"I should go," I say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Thank you for... for everything."
I turn to leave, but his hand catches my wrist, stopping me. I look back at him, steeling myself for recriminations or apologies.
But his expression holds neither. Only a quiet intensity that makes my heart stutter.
"This wasn't a mistake," he says, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist. "And it wasn't a one-time thing. Not for me."
I stare at him, trying to process his words. Trying to reconcile them with everything I know about men and power and sex.
"I don't... I can't..." Words fail me, my throat closing around them.
"I know." He releases my wrist, but the heat of his touch lingers. "But when you're ready, I'll be here. For whatever you need."
It's a promise and an offer. One I'm not sure I'm ready to accept.
So I do what I always do when things get too real, too close. I run.
I leave his office on shaky legs, my body humming with aftershocks, my mind spinning with questions I'm afraid to answer.
Ian's words echo in my head, a temptation and a challenge.
When you're ready, I'll be here.
But will I ever be ready?
I don't know. But as I step out into the neon night, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Something that feels dangerously like hope.