The words curdle in my stomach.
“How many girls have there been before me?” I ask quietly, mostly to myself. He doesn’t hear the threat under my voice. He hears an opportunity.
“Enough to know what I like. And what I don’t.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. “Want me to call him? Tell him his girl’s not performing? Get you replaced with someonewho knows how to do the damn job?”
He still thinks I’m something he purchased. Something disposable. But beneath my fear, there’s something else rising—something molten and ancient and cold at the same time.
Who does he think I work for?
He slurs something about how girls these days have no respect, no gratitude, no spine. He’s not even looking at me now—just talking, rambling, proud of himself.
And I’m watching him like a scientist studies a specimen.
“I’ve got a room upstairs,” he says suddenly, slamming the empty glass on the table. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me drag you.”
My stomach flips. My skin crawls. Every nerve in my body screams for me to run.
But I don’t move. I breathe. I stand slowly, the dress riding high as I slide out of the booth. He grabs at my waist like I’m already his, and I let him—for a moment.
Just long enough.
Let him think I’m weak. Let him think I’m scared.
Let him think I’m just another name in his phone, just another body he gets to ruin and forget.
He doesn’t know.
He has no idea who I really am.
And he’ll never see what’s coming.
I follow him through a shabby door behind the bar and up the stairs, each creaking step a countdown. The hallway smells like mildew and cheap floor polish. His cologne hangs in the air like a chokehold, musky and arrogant, clouding my lungs. He’s muttering something about how “this better be worth it,” and I pretend to be too nervous to talk. I guess I am.
The room is exactly what I expected—stained rug, saggingtwin bed, one dim lamp casting long shadows across the walls like watching eyes. He shuts the door with a flick of his wrist and turns to me, that smarmy smile curling across his face.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he slurs, reaching for my waist again.
I let him. Let him pull me close and mash his mouth against mine. His lips are wet, forceful, and taste like whiskey and rot. I kiss him back with all the tenderness of a corpse, letting him paw at my hips, my breasts, my ass. His hands are everywhere, greedy and uncoordinated. My stomach coils tighter with every touch.
I pull away just enough to breathe and flash him a coy smile. “You want me to be good, don’t you?”
“Damn right,” he pants, stumbling backward toward the bed. “Get on your knees and suck me off.”
I take a step closer, eyes wide, voice light. “Not yet. Let’s have a little fun first.”
He flops onto the bed with a grunt, spreading his legs like he’s king of the world. His fly is already halfway down. I crawl onto the mattress slowly, straddling him with practiced grace, dragging my fingers down his chest as my heartbeat hammers in my ears.
“Tease,” he groans, eyelids fluttering as I start undoing the buttons on his shirt. One. Two. Three. My hands tremble, not from nerves, but from the force it takes not to drive my knuckles into his throat.
“You like slow, don’t you?” I whisper, licking the sweat from his collarbone. He grunts approval.
He’s drunk enough not to notice when I slide his sleeves down just to his elbows, not fully off his arms, then tie the wrists around the bed’s iron headboard. I knot them together gently, playfully, like a game. He’s at my mercy now.
“Whoa now,” he chuckles, “getting kinky, huh?”
I giggle, soft and breathy. “Don’t move.”
He won’t. Not yet. He thinks this is foreplay.
