“Damien,” he says, and my heart flutters in my chest.So this is a Damien moment…
“No, Damien,” I echo. “But I am a girl, and as a girl, I’m not always going to be comfortable in my own skin.”
“What part of your skin aren’t you comfortable in? Because I’ve seen a lot of it, and I have no problems whatsoever,” he says.
“I don’t exactly look twenty-two anymore,” I say as a starter.
“Why would you want to look twenty-two?” he asks. “Real men don’t want a twenty-two-year-old.”
Tell that to my ex…
“Real men want real women,” he says.
“Even ones with stretch marks?” I ask.
“Women who are with me do not question themselves…or their bodies,” he tells me as he puts his hands on my hips, running them over the curves, around to my ass and pulling me against him. He’s looking down at me. I look up at him, feeling like I have no other choice. His very stare is commanding. Magnetic. “You belong in these clothes, Annelise. They showcase you just enough to make heads turn, but not enough to share what belongs only to me.”
My chest rises and falls, and Damien’s eyes flicker from mine to my mouth and back. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Right here in a dressing room. Not at the Opal Room. Not in the Velvet Lounge. But here, in the middle of the day. Not at work.
We stand there for what feels like hours and also only like a few quick seconds, the moment is broken by Miss Personality herself.
“Shall I package everything up then?” she asks and we step apart. I clear my throat and turn my back to him.
“Can you unzip me?” I ask. He tugs it down with much less thought than he slowly zipped it up only moments before. Then he opens the curtain, looking back at me momentarily.
“Annelise?”
“Damien?” I ask and his scowl returns.
“Never wear pants to work again,” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I match his tone before shimmying out of the dress and reaching for my other clothes.
How am I ever going to survive this man?
Chapter 13
Damien
I’ve never cared for pole dancing. It might be an unpopular opinion, especially in this industry, but I stand by it. Some men call it art. Most men will admit it's sex. I prefer my women wrapping themselves around me, not around a dirty pole while competing for the attention of a room full of expensively dressed, seedy men.
Still, part of owning a gentleman’s club is being seen in that club, so once in a while I do my diligence by grabbing a drink at the bar and taking a seat in the back with Diego. He would prefer front and center, but I don’t want or need the attention.
“Where is your head at, boss?” Diego asks.
I turn to him. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, you’re off the clock, having a stiff drink while watching some of your most talented employees, and your eyes are glossed over. You look like you’re about a thousand miles away. Either that whiskey is loaded or you have something on your mind.”
“I own a hotel and a club,” I start in. “I manage over eighty people, and that’s not including the ones that report to me from the sister hotels. I always have something on my mind.”
“You also have people working under you whose job it is to do the worrying for you when you’re not in the office. By the way, that’s one of your assistant’s duties,” he says with his eyes locked on the stage as a girl in a black thong does a spread eagle.
Speaking of Annelise. I’d be lying if I said that’s not where my mind was. That’s where my mind has been all day. Although she showed up to work today looking like Hillary Clinton, I still wanted to undress her right then and there. Partly because those pants were hideous and because I still want to explore every inch of her body. I want to drive her wild. I want to devour her. I want–
“You really need to learn when to clock out, brother,” Diego cuts in, saving me from the daydream that might have ended up as a wet dream if I’d allowed it to go any further.
“Kind of hard to do,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “My assistant showed up at work today in slacks.”
