23. Dante
Dante
Y es, I opened the door and walked through.
No, I haven’t decided what the fuck I’m doing.
I’ve been standing here forever, watching Riley fidget beneath a stark beam of spotlight center stage.
She tugs at her hem.
Adjusting that trench coat is pointless. It hides fuck-all beneath it.
I blow out a breath. She looks naked.
My dick knows she’s not.
Not yet.
Shut up.
She hasn’t looked my way once, but I’ve memorized every nervous movement.
The stutter in her breath each time the stage creaks beneath those impossible heels.
The oversized ring she spins anxiously on her right thumb—probably her father’s.
It triggers an unconscious twist of my own simple band. A gift passed from my nameless grandfather to my father, then down to me on my eighteenth birthday.
I shove the memory away.
Right now, it pisses me off that I noticed at all.
I shift my focus.
To the stilettos cutting into her feet. She likes them. Or maybe she likes the pain.
I’m not sure which, but I intend to find out.
I shove my hands into my pockets and stare, which I think she likes, too. Could’ve stayed here, just watching her, all damn day.
Then Pom shatters the moment with all the finesse of gum popped mid-sermon.
“Are you done gawking? Or should I charge admission?”
My mouth curls, voice dipping dangerously low. “You’re the one who wanted to audition.”
Her fidgeting halts. Completely. “Dante?” Her gaze finally crashes into mine.
I take a step closer. “You should leave.”
“Leave?” She lifts her chin defiantly. “If I wanted to leave, I could’ve done it forever ago.”
“Forever ago?” I glance at my watch. “You’ve been here exactly twenty-three minutes.”
Her eyes widen. “You knew I was here?”
I shrug. “I figured you’d take the hint and leave. But since subtlety isn’t your thing, let me spell it out for you: you need to go. My driver will take you anywhere.”
Preferably out of the country.
She shakes her head, frustration creeping into her voice. “You don’t understand. I…” Her words falter, hesitation pooling between us before she finally whispers, “I need a job. Somewhere…safe.”
There it is again, that goddamn word she loves tossing around me. Safe.
She thinks I’m her safe space. I’m not. But I’ll happily give her the prettiest cage.
She squares her shoulders, chin lifting defiantly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Fuck .
My dick twitches, painfully interested. I need to end this before my cock starts calling the shots.
“No, Pom. You don’t get it. A job with me means you do whatever the fuck I say. Go. This is your last warning.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just stands there, double-dog daring me to act on it. The defiant pout of her lips tests every ounce of restraint I have not to act on a dozen filthy fucking impulses.
I step closer.
Her breath hitches, eyes widening even further. I catch the faintest whiff of fear and dollar-store soap. My nostrils flare, hunger gnawing at the back of my throat—because apparently, I can’t get enough of the cheapest goddamn soap on the planet.
Or her fear.
“Remove your shoes,” I order.
Riley plants a hand on her hip, skepticism blazing in her eyes. “Why?”
Why, indeed.
Why the fuck am I continuing this farce of an audition?
Dragging her just beyond the edge of her comfort zone?
Especially when I can’t even begin to count the ways I want to punish this petulant little brat for every last one of her sins.
And believe me, I can count pretty goddamned high.
The answer’s obvious.
I need a lobotomy.
I take another step toward her, voice dropping low and harsh. “Because I said so.”
And because her feet are raw, reddened beneath the cruel bite of those straps that are obviously killing her.
Slowly, reluctantly, she obeys.
God, if Enzo had even the slightest suspicion what I’m up to at this moment, my dick really would need a wake.
But this disaster is his own goddamned fault.
Who hands a bunny to a wolf and says, “Take care of it?”
“Now, the trench.”
“My coat?” she asks, swallowing hard. Her nerves force her to suck in that lush lower lip, biting down.
My dick rises instantly to full attention.
“You can leave anytime,” I say, motioning toward the door.
Her wide eyes dart to the exit and the tempting offer to run like hell.
But instead—slowly, at a pace worthy of a fucking striptease—she unfastens her belt. Then the buttons, one by torturous one.
The trench coat hits the floor.
Blood rushes to my cock like a goddamned firehose, because holy fuck.
Her dancer’s outfit is transparent.
Fine. It’s not.
But it’s skin-toned and painted on. Her tight nipples and every lush, perfect curve on display, like Aphrodite rising from the sea.
What the fuck was she thinking? Walking in here wearing… that?
Does she want me to lose my goddamned mind?
Mission fucking accomplished.
I tug from my pocket the one thing I should’ve left behind—the one thing I refused to start the car without—and dangle it right in front of her.
Her sharp inhale betrays her, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
She takes it, eyes narrowed in suspicion, those bright green irises flecked with sparks of gold.
“Why the blindfold?” she asks. Her voice isn’t timid—it’s intrigue, wonder, and far too much inquisitiveness for her own good. Like some part of her already senses there’s something deeper lurking behind my request.
Oh, there’s so much more to it.
But all I say is, “My club. My rules.”
She accepts it, delicate fingers skimming over the fabric, fascinated.
If she overthinks this, it’ll lead to more questions. Questions I have neither the patience for nor answers to.
The asshole in me emerges. “Now or never, Pom.”
She rolls those big, beautiful eyes. Then, surprisingly, slips it on.
I select a song from my app.
Teddy Swims’ Lose Control feels about right.
The music starts, deep and demanding.
I pour myself a drink, settle into a chair, and watch her body slowly come to life.
I know the situation is delicate.
This girl has Handle With Care stamped all over her incredible body—so much so, it takes every goddamned ounce of my restraint to keep from doing something real fucking stupid.
“Why do you want to work here?” I finally ask.
She moves with the slow, seductive rhythm. “I need money. And a way to…disappear. Get off the grid.”
Off the grid?
This girl has no grid. Her social media is on life support; friends are non-existent. And Knox sure as hell isn’t a friend—not if he’s the asshole who shoved her into my lion’s den, auditioning as a dancer dressed in nothing but fucking cellophane.
I’ll make him pay for that.
Though if she’s trying to lay low from him, that I can do.
I can hide her from Kennedy too. For a while, at least.
For once, my evil core and I are in agreement. If Riley wants a high-paying job with an ironclad guarantee that no one will find her— done.
Because there’s something I want, too. Something that’s slipped through my fingers from the second she stepped into my path at Enzo’s wedding.
Control.
“Every dancer signs a contract.”
She sways closer, oblivious to just how dangerous her proximity is right now.
Not intentionally. Again, the blindfold. But she’s two moves shy of giving me a lap dance.
“Okay,” she murmurs, half-shrugging, her body moving with a siren’s seductive grace.
“There are rules,” I add, letting the booze seep deeper into my veins.
Her voice drops to a whisper, tinged with the innocent curiosity of a cat on its eighth life. “What rules?”
“Rule One: Tell no one.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone is about what I would expect since there’s no one to tell.
She sways closer, hips rolling seductively. So close, my fingers twitch, dangerously tempted to brush the delicate freckle high on her left thigh.
“Rule Two: I select your outfit.”
“With a blindfold?” she asks, adorably annoyed.
I smirk. “Call it a trust exercise.” For both of us. “Besides, clients enjoy a certain level of anonymity.”
“Clients,” she repeats, voice hesitant, momentarily forgetting what job she’s asking for.
As if I’d ever let another man near her and live.
“Rule Three: No other men in your life.”
Her steps close in, slow and deliberate. Another inch, and she’ll be straddling me.
“Other men?” she taunts softly. “Someone’s the jealous type?”
She has no fucking idea.
Am I a possessive prick?
Why yes. Yes, I am.
And that Fed Knox is already grating my last goddamned nerve.
Her voice dips lower, baiting me. “And what if I break the rules?”
I sip my single malt, savoring the burn, a smirk curling my lips. “Let’s just say little girls shouldn’t break rules.”
Yet every fucking inch of me thrums with the certainty that she will.
God, even from here, Riley smells like heaven and moves like hell.
Sin wrapped in the body of an angel—innocent, broken, and infinitely more trouble than I need.
Unconditionally off-limits.
Irresistibly forbidden.
And young.
So fucking young that my mind spins with a million different ways to “take care of it.”
The devil on my shoulder smirks.
You’re goddamned right, I’ll take care of it.
I rub my chin, studying the way her body carries the rhythm of the slow, sad ballad. My newest obsession wrapped neatly in bright-yellow Do Not Enter tape. But as long as I only look with my eyes , no harm done, right?
Whiskey scorches down my throat. I exhale slowly, tallying all the ways I’m damned. Because if she stays, it’s not a question of if Riley will be ruined.
It’s when.
The music fades, leaving silence heavy between us.
Her shiver is a mix of nerves and discomfort in an outfit that probably required lube to squeeze into.
“Well?” she finally asks, teeth sinking into that lush lower lip again as she crosses her arms.
Huh? “Well, what?”
She yanks off the blindfold, eyes blazing with irritation and bravado. “I got the job, right?” Her voice quivers just enough to reveal an intoxicating blend of hope and fear.
And she’s right to be afraid.
My body moves without permission, standing, retrieving the trench coat she discarded. Her eyes follow me cautiously, widening slightly as I approach. Blame it on the booze. Blame it on the lack of sleep. Blame it on my perpetual bad judgment.
I drape the coat gently around her shoulders, my fingers grazing her bare skin. Her breath hitches softly at the contact.
Fuck restraint.
My palm captures her jaw, fingers pressing until I’m one heartbeat shy of leaving marks. I angle her chin upward, forcing her startled gasp straight onto my tongue.
The taste of her slams into my system like straight whiskey poured down my fucking throat.
Then I steal the kiss I’ve been owed since the second she stepped into my world.
I kiss her as if I have a right to her soul—like claiming hers will fill the empty void where mine used to be.
Her lips part in helpless surrender, a silent plea crushed beneath the ruthless greed of my mouth.
And she melts into me. Not that she has much of a fucking choice.
I don’t do mercy.
I devour her.
A pure, brutal act of possession.
Her body arches into mine like it’s coming home, dangerously familiar yet infinitely more addictive this second time around.
Fuck .
How wet is she right now—how fucking drenched and desperate is my good girl between those trembling thighs?
When I finally rip myself away, we’re both panting—breaths shredded, her heart slamming violently against mine, blood roaring beneath overheated skin.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady. “Go to Room Five.”
“Room…Five?” Pure disbelief drums through her voice. Along with enough hurt to drown us both.
“An outfit will be delivered. Your client will be here within the hour.”
I don’t need to look at her to know exactly what she thinks.
That I’m the world’s biggest asshole.
Good. Might as well drive that last nail straight through her fucking heart. “Room Five. Or go. For good.”
I walk towards the door.
Breaking her was never the plan. It’s just the price she pays for believing monsters have hearts.
If she goes…about fucking time.
And if she stays…she only has one client.
The man who’s been here the whole goddamned time, standing right in front of her, desperate, possessive, hanging on to a thread so thin it might as well be a fucking noose.
Me .