My shoulders locked, my hand flexing tight around the railing.
Nat put down her fork. “I’ve heard bad things about that place and the girls who strip there.”
Lyla shrugged. “I don’t really strip, Nat. I do an aerial pole routine. I don’t wear much, but I do keep my clothes on. And as long as I keep the clientele panting and reaching for their wallets, I’m good. All the boss cares about is money.”
A few seconds passed in silence.
Then Lyla smiled. “Besides, you’re not one who can talk. You get groped almost every night you work. You know we do these kinds of jobs so we can afford to live in this luxury apartment. It is what it is.”
“I hear you,” Nat muttered, picking up another forkful of chicken.
My whole body snapped to attention as Lyla turned and walked out of the kitchen. I gave her a few seconds—just long enough to disappear around a corner—and then moved.
I kept low as I crossed the fire escape. There was only one window at the far end of the unit, and it was half-covered by crooked blinds. It could belong to any of the roommates.
But it was the only shot I had.
I crept to the edge and stopped short, crouching just outside the frame.
Lyla walked in and flicked on a small lamp sitting on a nightstand.
A soft amber glow spilled across the narrow bed that was pressed up against the wall beneath the window. At the foot of the bed, a heap of books lay scattered on the floor.
I exhaled slowly. I’d gotten lucky; it was her bedroom, and she still had no idea I was watching her.
Lyla crossed to a tiny dresser, toed off her sneakers, and tugged open the top drawer. She grabbed a huge T-shirt and tossed it onto the bed. Then she turned to face the window and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans, shoving them down in one clean motion before stepping out of them.
My eyes locked onto her hands as she crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her pink sweater, pulled it over her head, and tossed it onto the dresser.
No bra. No fucking bra under that top. How the hell had I missed that detail?
I froze, every part of me locking up tight.
She stood before me in a pair of pale pink underwear that clung snugly to her hips. That perfect dancer’s body—compact, muscular—was fucking exquisite. My hand gripped the metal railing so hard it creaked.
My eyes raked over her body—which was now concealed by nothing more than those panties—as she arched slightly and reached a hand up to her bun.
She pulled the tie from her hair.
Blonde waves spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a damn perfume commercial. My cock jerked. I imagined wrapping that hair around my fist and guiding her mouth until she knew what the wordobediencereally meant.
I’d never wanted to be a man with no conscience more than I did in this moment.
She grabbed the tee from the bed and yanked it over her head, remaining oblivious to the fact that a man was crouched outsideher damn window, a man who was watching her like he’d never seen a woman before.
Her body was stunning, but what hit me even harder was how thin she was. Her ribs protruded just a bit too sharply, and there was a faint concave dip beneath her sternum. That wasn’t due to discipline or vanity. That was from skipping meals to make a few dollars stretch.
And it pissed me off.
The girl was working herself into the ground. But she wasn’t asking for help or using the money from her parents’ estate. She was surviving in Manhattan solely on what she earned at the coffee shop and strip club.
The Sacrifice wasn’t just sketchy, it was a fucking death trap. According to Nat, she walked home alone every night. And she didn’t lock the windows I’d been staring through either. Her apartment was open season for anyone with bad intentions and a little creativity.
She started pacing—making tight movements back and forth across the room, like her thoughts were running too fast to settle. She seemed aimless. Something still had her wired.
She’d said she was going to take a nap before heading to the club. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
That was on me.
