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.
