Chapter 3 Leanna
LEANNA
I’m wearing a tiny, tiny dress tonight, paired with expensive, sky-high heels that dare anyone to challenge me. I flip my hair, square my shoulders, and strut to the front door with the kind of confidence that makes people move out of the way.
When I reach the bouncer, he looks me up and down with absolutely zero expression on his face. Wow, I hope he plays poker—he could totally bluff his way to a win.
“I’m new,” I say. “I, uh, wasn’t sure where to go to check in.”
His eyes narrow, but he nods and punches a keycode into the door, opening it for me.
“Vasiliy will be in the office. Third door on the left. He will get you settled. Next time, use the employee entrance located at the back. He will give you a unique code.”
The man’s accent is thick, his voice low. I swallow down a ripple of anxiety and step inside.
The club is exactly what I expected—dark, pulsing with secrets. A short hallway leads into a cavernous room, dimly lit with a deep amber glow. A sleek bar stretches along one wall. Semi-private booths, carved from rich, dark wood, curve in a circle around a central stage
Onstage, a woman dances.
She’s tall and willowy, her limbs long and graceful. Her costume is as ornate as one on the Las Vegas Strip, featuring crystals, fringe, and a large headpiece that appears to weigh as much as she does.
She’s a lovely dancer. I watch her for long minutes, kind of transfixed, not just by her movement, but also by her wide, perfect smile and her bright blue eyes, which cut through the darkness, shining in the glow of the stage lights.
Well, shit.
I can’t just stumble up there in my tiny, silver dress and my red-bottomed Louboutins. But, it needs to be said that I also don’t back down on a dare.
So I just need a new plan.
I see a hallway along the wall opposite the bar. This probably heads backstage. If I can get back there, I can probably slip on a costume and take the stage between performers.
I’ll probably have about thirty seconds before security comes and kicks me out. I’ll just admit I’m there on a dare, just a drunk college girl being silly.
Once I’m in the hallway, I realize I’m in an area reserved for private dances. One door is open, and in the middle of the room stands an ornate black velvet chair, illuminated by a red spotlight —the only source of light I can see.
Some doors are closed, and the dampened sounds of music are coming from within. I pass at least five doors before I see one slightly cracked, a masked man sitting fully clothed on a red velvet chair. I poke my head in further, trying not to alert the man that I’m there.
There are various pieces of equipment in the room. A black leather sex swing suspended from the ceiling. A massage table, draped with a black, satin sheet. A red velvet chaise stacked with pillows.
Curiouser and curiouser. I grab my phone and snap a quick picture, sending it to Rylee with a text: Gonna dance on this guy real quick.
New plan indeed. A slow smile plays across my face as I step inside and shut the door with a quiet snick.
I take slow, deliberate steps toward the man without fully looking at him. I guess I expected something… off. Burly, maybe. Ugly. Creepy, even.
He’s none of those things.
At least, I don’t think so.
He’s big. Tall and broad-shouldered in a way that screams fitness.
His posture is tight like a predator, like he might pounce at any moment.
He’s in a plain, white, button-down shirt and dark dress trousers, and bare feet.
But I can’t see his face because he wears a dark mask that covers his face to just above his mouth. The eyes are just indentations. He cannot see me, I don’t think.
I lean in closer to confirm.
“Where is Sarah?” he asks, his voice low and accented.
“She’s sick tonight,” I lie. “I’m her replacement.”
“No replacements,” he says.
I can’t tell how old he is, but I’d guess not much more than thirty. He has a sensuous mouth, with a fuller bottom lip than the top.
“Aww… give me a chance, big guy. You might like me.”
That tension never leaves his body. There is something really, really hot about this whole scenario, and I find myself genuinely conflicted.
I want to laugh this off like a joke. I want to shake my butt a little, take a selfie, and then run for it. That was my plan, kind of, but now? Now, some bizarro part of me really wants this guy to want me to dance for him.
The man’s jaw is tight, but he nods.
And I realize I have no idea what to do.
“Er…” I start.
Well, that’s sexy.
“Push the black button on the wall behind you,” he instructs, a hint of annoyance in his voice. More to himself than to me, he mutters, “I will have a discussion with Vasiliy about training.”
I step toward him. “What do I call you?”
“No names,” he replies flatly, “Not tonight.”
“Okay. Then…no name, what do you like? What does Sarah do that you like?”
His mouth twitches.
Amusement?
It’s impossible to tell.
I suddenly feel ridiculous for asking, and while this is supposed to be just a dare, I hate how much I care.
“Push the button. Then move your body.”
As I push the button, the door automatically locks. It sends a ripple of anticipation down my spine.
Fear? No. Not quite. It’s heavier. Hungrier.
Anticipation, thick with heat.
Music plays. A low, husky female voice sings a song that evokes a sense of yearning. It’s a sexy song, and I find myself swaying to it almost without thinking.
“Do I touch you?” I ask.
“If you’d like,” he says.
“Where?”
“Just move. It will come to you.”
So I do. I just move.
I start behind him, swaying, hands on his muscular shoulders, dipping down, down, down.
I swing myself around, straddling his lap, but not sitting. I dip again, this time just a tease, my dress rising up over my hips, exposing my black, lace thong.
He can’t see me.
I think to myself as the strap of my dress falls from one shoulder. My breast is bare as the thin fabric falls down. The air in the room is pleasantly cool, and my nipple puckers instantly.
“Do you want to touch me?” I ask.
His hands find my hips as I move. He never leaves the chair. Never takes off the mask.
But those hands. Those hands roam over my dress.
One hand finds that exposed breast. Strong, calloused fingertips stroke the soft skin there, fingernails lightly scrape at the puckered nipple. It’s a sensation that sends a shot of white-hot lightning into my core.
The other finds my ass beneath my dress. Skin-on-skin there, but he doesn’t try to do more, to take more. He just holds me there as I move slowly, sensually.
I lose track of time while I dance for him. I forget why I’m here. I am hot and cold at the same time, and my skin burns wherever he touches me.
He is respectful, never trying to undress me or kiss me. It is intensely sexual, what is happening, and yet we have done nothing beyond a dance and simple touch.
As a new song plays, I find my way to his lap. He’s hard beneath his trousers, and I am nearly panting like a dog, arousal like a flame in my belly.
Would it be horrible to let myself come for him? Perhaps I am supposed to make him come?
“Do you need to come?” I blurt. It should break the spell, but his hands tighten on my ass as he pushes me to ride him through our clothing.
“No,” he says roughly. “But it seems you do.”
Flames light my cheeks, I’m so mortified. “How do you know?”
“Your scent,” he says. “You’re wearing perfume. It smells like sugar and peaches. But your scent is musky now. Aroused. I want you to come for me. Can you?”
He takes my arms, pins them behind my back with one large, commanding hand.
His other hand rests on my lower back possessively.
We move.
No—I move.
Grinding.
Gliding against the hard length contained in those pants, perfectly aligned with the aching spot that’s already throbbing.
Every shift of my hips draws a gasp I try to swallow.
I’m soaked. Pulsing. Dizzy with want.
My hair tumbles down my back in a silky cascade, another brush of sensation against overheated skin.
I can’t stop staring at his mouth—those lips. Sculpted. Sinful. He licks them, slow and deliberate, and my mind goes wild.
I imagine them trailing along my jaw, closing around a nipple, sinking between my thighs.
The image alone is enough to tip me over.
I cry out as an orgasm rips through me. My head falls back, and my body goes rigid, my body trembling as the pleasure crashes over me in waves.
When the aftershocks hit, I slow my rhythm, panting, dazed.
He didn’t come; at least, I don’t think he did.
A chime goes off, light and airy, and the music quiets down, then fades away completely.
I assume that means our time is up. I’m suddenly embarrassed for what I’ve done.
What have I done?
I stand abruptly and ungracefully. I straighten my dress, covering myself. I’m so wet between the legs that I need a shower. My skin is hot, flushed.
“Thank you,” I squeak out, suddenly needing to be anywhere other than here, with this stranger whose lap I just came on.
Oh. My. God.
The door unlocks, and I slip out, shutting it behind me, walking as fast as I can until I find a restroom. I splash water on my face. My eyes are fever bright, my skin clammy. It feels surreal.
I try to clean myself up. And then I just laugh hysterically.
I laugh and laugh and laugh until I cry. And then I splash more water on my face and head back out into the central part of the club.
I’m almost to the exit when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
I freeze.
“And who are you?” a man asks.
I turn, forcing a big smile. “I’m Ana,” I say. “New dancer.”
“Bullshit,” he says.
This must be Vasiliy, the manager. He’s on the shorter side with shaggy, dark blonde hair, a long face, and eyes too big for his face. Impeccably dressed, though, in a suit that’s clearly been made just for him.
“I was filling in for Sarah,” I say, though it comes out more like a question than a statement of fact.
“Wrong again,” he says. “Imagine young Sarah’s surprise to find her client with another dancer tonight. She’s not one to make a scene, but she certainly wasn’t sick, and she certainly didn’t ask for a replacement. Not for this client.”
I try the cute-girl, megawatt smile that has worked to get me out of other sticky situations in the past. “Okay, okay…you caught me. I’m pledging a sorority, and all the pledges have been assigned a top-secret task to complete by the end of the night.
Mine was to infiltrate a private club and act as an employee.
We were supposed to get in and out without getting caught. I hope they’ll still accept me.”
Vasiliy folds his arms over his chest. His frown makes him look like a well-groomed basset hound. “This is getting tedious. Do you know where you are?”
“A…strip club?”
“A gentleman’s club. A private one, as you’ve discerned.
And one owned by people who get very nervous when they think someone is sneaking around where they aren’t supposed to be.
So, this is your last chance to tell me the truth about who you are before I go grab two huge security staff members who have no compunction about roughing up a young woman as long as it garners them the truth. ”
My heart feels like it might beat out of my chest. I feel eyes on me. I suppose we’re making a bit of a scene.
Shit. Okay. I blow out a breath.
“My friend dared me to come in and dance on the pole. Someone was on it, so I tried to sneak backstage. I found the private rooms and the man was alone, so I went in, and things just…I meant to, like, shake my ass at him and then run—”
“But you, instead, danced for him for the whole session,” he finishes.
I give him a weak smile. “Sorry?”
He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “If you knew what you just did, who that was…”
“Who was it?” I ask conspiratorially. “Like, a politician? An actor?”
“You will never know,” he says. “But, despite all that…weirdness…he liked you.”
“He…liked me?” I ask.
“He said you were clearly out of your league, clearly untrained, but he liked you. He’s asked you to come back as his exclusive.”
“His exclusive?” I feel like a parrot. “His exclusive…what?”
“His private dancer.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of my chest. “Mister, I’m not a…I don’t…I’m just a college student. For real. This was a dare that got out of hand.”
“Stop sputtering,” he says as he reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly organized stack of cash.
He hands it to me. “This is a fraction of what he’d be willing to pay.
He wants you to come back every Friday. Midnight.
He’ll always wear the mask. He’ll never see your face; you’ll never see his.
You can set your rates if he asks you to do anything other than dance. ”
My eyes probably look like they might bug out of my head. I start sputtering nonsense about all the reasons I can’t do this. But I look down at the wad of cash, and it must be at least a thousand dollars, and the thoughts are just rushing at me.
A thousand dollars to come on a man’s suit pants. It’s ridiculous.
He liked that?
Maybe he is a weirdo?
But…he didn’t feel like a weirdo. I’m pretty sure he was smoking hot. I was definitely, clearly very turned on by that whole thing.
And I kind of want to feel that again.
My dad would have a royal conniption if he found out. He might actually kill some people.
But he’ll never find out. No one needs to know.
“An hour a week?” I ask. “And…what about sex? Or all those contraptions in the room?”
“You can negotiate your limits as you go. He’ll never do anything you don’t consent to in advance.”
My face is absolutely burning. This is both unusual and embarrassing, yet intriguing and captivating.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”