Dean
Sitting in the entertainment room, I wait.
Tom said she came recommended by Kate, and Kate knows how specific I am. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. If Kate sent this girl, she must need help. And I’m all for helping—when it benefits me.
I expect another generic dancer, another girl who thinks the right smile and enough skin will get her through the door. I expect to be unimpressed.
Then she walks in.
And fuck me.
I see her legs first. Long, toned, sinful. The tight leather dress clings to her, riding higher with every hesitant step.
She moves as if she doesn’t belong here.
That catches my attention.
Women who walk into my club always know exactly what they’re doing. But this one? She’s unsure, her shoulders slightly tense, her head held high as if she’s forcing herself to be here.
Interesting.
Then she stumbles.
Normally, that would bore me. I have no patience for weakness. But I don’t look away.
I can’t fucking look away.
She scrambles up, adjusting the dress that’s barely covering her ass, and I get the full view.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My fingers twitch against my glass. That ass was made for my hands.
Then she moves.
She’s not a dancer. That much is obvious. But fuck, she doesn’t need to be. Every sway of her hips, every unsure but determined movement is better than anything I’ve seen in this place in years.
Then, she drops to her knees.
Fuck.
My cock hardens instantly, my thoughts spiralling somewhere they shouldn’t. I imagine her kneeling in front of me, looking up with those wide, innocent eyes, waiting for me to claim her mouth.
Shit.
I shift in my seat, jaw clenching.
I signal to Tom to cut the music. I can’t sit here another second.
I move to leave.
And then—she crashes into me.
Her body slams against my chest, soft, warm. Perfect.
Her scent floods me—lavender, soft and sweet, like she’s untouched by this world.
I barely hear her breathless “Sorry.”
My control snaps.
I lean down, letting my lips brush her ear. “The pleasure was all mine.”
She shivers.
I feel it.
Fuck, I feel it.
I force myself to step back, to walk away, because if I don’t, I’ll pin her against the nearest surface and ruin her.
I’m pacing.
Brooklyn Lane.
The name alone is a gut-punch to my chest.
I should send her home. I should let this go.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
She has no idea who I am to her. No clue of the history that binds us together.
The doors swing open.
I should sit. I should compose myself.
But I don’t.
I watch.
She walks in slowly, scanning the office, taking in every detail. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not licking her lips, batting her lashes, leaning forward to push her tits together.
She looks nervous.
Like she’s trapped.
Like she knows she just stepped into the lion’s den.
I move without thinking.
Coming up behind her, I let my chest brush against her back, pressing just enough for her to feel me.
Her breath hitches.
Good girl.
I let my lips brush her ear, my voice dropping low. “You like it?”
She inhales sharply. “It’s beautiful.”
Not as beautiful as you.
I think it.
Then I say it.
Fuck.
That wasn’t planned. That wasn’t me.
She spins around, and my eyes devour her.
Her gaze crawls up my body, slow, hesitant, innocent—but dangerous.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She doesn’t know that every second she spends not looking away is making it harder for me not to touch her.
Our eyes lock.
Emerald green.
I stop breathing.
My entire world tilts.
Then—recognition.
“Brooklyn.”
Her breath catches, her cheeks paling. She knows.
And, fuck me, I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
But that doesn’t stop the throbbing between my legs.
“Mr. Walker,” she whispers.
The sound of my name on her lips makes my jaw clench.
I should step back.
I don’t.
I let my fingers brush her waist, just enough to remind her who’s in control.
“So,” I murmur, taking her in. “You’re my clumsy little dancer.”
She flushes, shifting on her feet.
“I’m sorry, if I’d have known—”
“Do I make you nervous?”
My voice is low, sharp, sliding down her spine like a blade.
She doesn’t answer right away. But I see it.
The way she squeezes her thighs together.
My cock twitches.
She’s playing a dangerous game.
“Brooklyn.” I murmur her name like a warning. “I asked you a question.”
She finally meets my gaze. “No, Mr. Walker. You’re just… not what I expected.”
I smirk. “No? What did you expect?”
She doesn’t answer. She turns away.
Wrong move.
I grab her waist, yanking her back.
She crashes against my chest, small hands bracing against me, her lips parting in shock.
Her body is soft everywhere.
Her breath came in trembling gasps.
I press my nose to hers, just close enough to make her ache for me.
“Brooklyn,” I murmur, my lips barely an inch from hers. “You don’t want to start this game with me.”
A soft sound escapes her—a breathy, desperate little moan.
Fucking hell.
I should stop. I should step back.
“Then put me down,” she whispers.
I hesitate.
I don’t want to.
But I do.
She pulls away, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling too fast.
“I guess I don’t have the job.” She lets out a small laugh.
I cock my head. “No, Brooklyn. You don’t want the job.”
She folds her arms, pushing her breasts up higher, testing my control.
“How do you know what I want?” she challenges.
I smirk. “Call it a hunch.”
I shouldn’t have given her my number.
I shouldn’t have offered her another job.
I shouldn’t have let her walk away.
But as the elevator doors close, as I stare at the space where she just stood, I already know.
She’s mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I sink into my chair, rubbing my jaw, still smelling her fucking lavender scent on my clothes.
Tom steps into the room, smirking. “She’s something, huh?”
I drained my bourbon in one gulp.
“She’s trouble,” I mutter.
Tom chuckles. “Since when do you back away from trouble?”
I don’t.
And I won’t.
Brooklyn Lane is off limits.
But I’ve never met a limit I wasn’t willing to push.