9. Michelle
MICHELLE
Aura is the most popular nightclub in Alton Hills, but during the day, you’d never know it was there. It’s just a black door set into a stone wall. There’s a name above it, technically, but it’s barely more than a scratch. Easy to miss unless you’re looking for it.
At night, it’s a different story. The bass vibrates up through the sidewalk as I approach. A bouncer in a suit holds post beside the velvet rope, and the line wraps halfway down the block. I stop near the front, just outside the crowd.
Everyone here looks the part in sparkly dresses and fresh blowouts.
I’m still in my work clothes—fitted navy skirt suit, makeup I applied at seven a.m., and my hair’s twisted up in a clip that’s probably crooked by now. I look like I’m here to conduct an audit.
The plan was simple: walk in, fuck Dean, walk out. I didn’t factor in the part where I’d have to wait an hour just to get through the door.
I knew this was a bad idea. And if he’s anything like his brother, he’s probably already inside with someone else.
I turn back toward my car.
“Blondie,” the bouncer calls.
I glance back. He’s lifting the rope.
“He said you’d bail.”
That stops me. I turn. His expression stays neutral, but there’s the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“Said you’d show, but chicken out before you made it through the door. Looks like he was right.”
Heat flares in my chest. That smug bastard.
The bouncer’s still holding the rope, watching. A few people in line are staring now.
I didn’t lose my nerve. I just didn’t want to wait in line. And now I don’t have to.
Fine.
I walk in.
“Office is down the hall, beside the bar,” the bouncer calls after me.
The club is all dark elegance. Blue light spilling over black leather and polished chrome. It’s clean, exclusive, expensive. Exactly what I’d expect from Dean.
I spot the hallway and slip into it. It’s longer than I expected, lined with unmarked doors. I keep going until I find one labeled Office.
I knock twice.
“Yeah,” Dean’s voice calls from inside, muffled.
I push the door open.
He’s sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, focused on a ledger. His forearms are tensed, pen hovering mid-thought. When he looks up, something in him shifts. He straightens slightly, shoulders pulling back.
“Michelle,” he says. He sets the pen down carefully. “This is a surprise.”
“Not too much of a surprise, apparently. Your bouncer knew who I was.”
“Told them to keep an eye out.” He leans back in his chair, eyes sweeping over me, unhurried. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
He knows exactly why I’m here.
“You got cameras in here?” I ask, my gaze sliding from the black leather couch to the desk.
He shakes his head.
I turn the lock, then take a quick, steadying breath before facing him again.
“It’s your lucky day,” I say, keeping my tone smoother than I feel. “Maybe your lucky decade.”
I circle the desk, heels sinking slightly into the thick rug, and slide onto the edge like I’ve done it a hundred times.
“I’m desperate. Tired. And you’re convenient,” I say.
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me. For a second, I wonder if I’ve miscalculated. Then that slow, dark smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. His gaze drops to my thighs, then drags back up.
“I can help you,” he says. He rises from the chair and steps between my thighs.
“But you have to kiss me this time.”
“I don’t do that.”
“That’s the price,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“Then I’ll find someone else.”
I move to slide off the desk, but his hands catch my thighs, holding me in place. His mouth is close enough now that all I’d have to do is lean forward.
But I don’t. I hold my ground.
“I told you,” I say quietly. “I don’t do that.”
He just stands there, heat rolling off him. His hands rest on my thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles along the inside, like he has all night. Like he’s waiting me out. Like he knows I’ll give in.
I won’t.
Finally, he steps back.
“Bend over the desk,” he says.
A low thrill shoots through me. I hate how much I like him telling me what to do. Hate that I want to obey. But I do.
I slide off the desk on unsteady legs and turn. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward until my palms flatten against the desk.
“Good,” he says behind me, and the word drags heat all the way down my spine.
He unzips my skirt and lets it fall in a soft puddle at my feet. My underwear follows, and then I’m bare from the waist down, braced against his desk.
I tense, waiting for the sound of his belt, the rough press of him taking what he wants. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his hands roam. They’re slow, maddening, and far too gentle. It goes on too long, teasing without relief.
“Just get on with it,” I snap.
He leans in, the hard line of his arousal pressing against me. The need is sharp now, clawing through me. I reach back for his belt, desperate to move things forward, but he catches my wrist and presses it flat to the desk.
“You asked for my help,” he says, calm and unbothered. “So now you’ll take it how I give it. Understood?”
He doesn’t move an inch. I try to wait him out, but it’s obvious he won’t budge. He’s not going to meet me halfway.
“I said, understood?” he repeats, firmer now.
I grit my teeth, every nerve pulled tight. I hate giving him the upper hand. Hate how much I want to.
“Yes,” I bite out, the word sharp in my throat.
His hand moves between my thighs again, fingers dragging slow. Never where I need them. No pressure. No rhythm. Just enough to make me ache.
Every time I shift and try to guide him even slightly, he pulls back.
“You really don’t like following instructions, do you?” he says, his fingers still circling the edges of where I need him. Infuriatingly close but never there.
Then, finally, he brushes right over the spot I’ve been aching for. Just once.
A whimper escapes before I can stop it.
“But I think you’ve been pretty patient,” he says, mock-thoughtful. “Do you think I should give you what you want?”
I nod, fast. I don’t care how smug he sounds. I need it.
His fingers slide inside me, deep, finding that perfect spot. Then he starts to move. Slow at first, then deeper, harder. Each thrust curls perfectly, building a steady rhythm that leaves no space for thought. The pressure winds tighter and tighter, and I feel my thighs begin to tremble.
His mouth finds my neck. The rough drag of his stubble is followed by the hot press of his breath just beneath my ear. Then his lips settle there in a soft, sucking kiss.
The sensation lands like a jolt, and that’s all it takes.
A raw moan tears from my throat as I come apart on his hand.
The release hits me hard, shuddering through me until I’m limp against the desk, my pulse hammering in my throat.
He moves without a word, pulling my underwear and skirt back into place.
When I come back to myself, Dean is holding me from behind. It’s been a long time since anyone held me like this. Since anyone held me at all.
I step out of his arms, the sudden coolness snapping me back to myself.
“You know,” I say, “you still haven’t shown me your evidence. That’s two chances now. It’s starting to seem like you’re hiding something.”
“Does it look like I’m hiding anything?”
I glance down. He’s got me there. The man is clearly packing.
“So, why the fingers?” I ask.
“They give me control,” he says. “Precision. They’re underrated.”
I guess he has a point—though most men don’t have a clue what to do with them. But it still doesn’t explain why he isn’t asking for anything in return. My mouth opens to ask what his play is.
“So,” he says, cutting me off. “Are you going to tell me why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset,” I reply, too quickly.
“You’re usually tense,” he says, his gaze fixed on mine, watching for a crack. “Tonight, you’re sad.”
The words land harder than they should. They’re too accurate. My practiced deflection slips right through my fingers.
How does he see it?
“You can talk to me,” he adds, and his voice is so sincere it stops me cold. Just like that hug, I can’t remember the last time someone asked what’s wrong and actually meant it.
The realization makes me feel pathetic. Desperate. Like if I stay another second, I’ll crack open and spill everything, just because he asked. And that scares me more than anything.
So I pull myself together.
“What’s next? You going to hand me a journal and a scented candle?”
I slip out from between Dean and the desk and make it halfway to the door before his voice follows me.
“If you need something, anything, you come to me.”
I step into the hallway, the club’s bass thudding beneath my feet. The noise helps. It gives me something to focus on that isn’t this feeling in my chest, whatever it is.
When I make it outside and sink into the driver’s seat, the quiet wraps around me and the weight of it all settles in. I close my eyes, like that might be enough to shut it out.
I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length for so long, I forgot what it feels like to be reached for.
The fact that he even noticed I was upset, it shouldn’t matter. But it does. It feels nice.
God, that’s pathetic.
I thought I was past this. Stronger than this. I know exactly how things like this end.
I can’t afford to be weak. Not again.