Every time a man touches her—even just a hand on her waist, a finger trailing down her arm—something violent twists in my gut. I want to break their fucking hands. Want to make it clear she's off-limits. That she's mine.
One of the senior members, some guy named Petr, is talking to me about shipment routes. I nod at the appropriate moments, make sounds that suggest I'm listening. But I'm watching her. Always watching her. She knows I'm here. I can tell by the way she moves, the careful way she doesn't look in my direction. She's aware of me the same way I'm aware of her—like a magnetic pull neither of us can ignore.
I wait until she's close, bringing drinks to a table near our booth. Then I lean over to the man beside me. "We're done here. Take the others and go."
He looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "But we haven't finished?—"
"We're done," I repeat, and there must be something in my voice because he stands immediately. They all do, filing out without another word.
Now it's just me in this booth, alone, surrounded by an invisible barrier that keeps everyone else at a distance. Exactly how I want it.
I wait until she finishes her set, watch her head toward the dressing room, then I catch one of the ushers. "Get the girl. Sofiya. Bring her to me."
He nods and disappears. I sit there, my heart doing things it hasn't done since I was a teenager. Racing. Pounding. Making me feel alive in a way I'd forgotten was possible. My cock throbs with the need for release.
When she approaches, I stand. Can't help it. She looks up at me, and I forget how to breathe. Even in her heels, she barely reaches my chest. The size difference should make me feel protective. Instead, it makes me think about other things. About how small she'd feel beneath me, how I could pick her up and position her anywhere I wanted her, and how I'd have to be careful not to break her as I held her against a wall and pounded into her.
"I want a private dance," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. "One of the VIP rooms. Now."
I see her inhale, see the slight tremor that runs through her body. Fear or anticipation, I don’t know. She understands what I'm asking. Understands I want her alone, in a private space, with no witnesses.
She also understands she doesn't have a choice.
"Of course," she says, and her voice is steady. Professional.
I walk toward the back of the club and listen to her footsteps behind me. Small clicks of her heels against the floor. She follows without hesitation, and that trust—even if it's forced, even if it's part of her job—does something to me.
We pass the regular VIP rooms, all occupied with men who don't matter. I know exactly where I'm going. The private room at the end of the hallway most people don't even know exists. The Pakhan's room. The owner's space.
I open the door with the key I'm not supposed to have, and we step into luxury. Real luxury, not the cheap imitation therest of the club trades in. A pole in the center. A circular couch against the back wall. Dim lighting that makes everything feel intimate, dangerous.
I close the door behind us. The click of the lock engaging feels like a promise.
"Dance for me," I say. It's not a request.
She moves to the center of the space, and I watch her grip the pole, watch her body start to move to music I barely register. My entire focus is on her. The way her hips roll. The way her body curves. The way she performs excellence like it's second nature.
I sit back on the couch, spread my arms across the back, try to look relaxed even though I'm wound tighter than I've ever been. My cock is harder than ever, pressing against my pants in a way that's probably obvious, but I’m too far gone to care.
She's beautiful when she dances. Hypnotic. But I'm not watching her the way those other men watch dancers. I'm studying her, cataloging every movement.
I see evidence of training in her movements and discipline. This isn't natural seduction. This is learned behavior, perfected through repetition. She understands the mechanics of desire, knows what men want to see, and she gives it to them. But underneath that performance, I can see something else. Something real. The tension in her shoulders , and the careful way she positions herself. The fact that she's watching me as much as I'm watching her, the furtive glances she keeps giving the locked door.
She's a weapon pretending to be a woman. Either way, she's exactly what I thought she was.
"You're good at this," I say. "The dancing. But not because you're naturally seductive. You're good because you understand the mechanics. You understand what people want to see. You don’t actually give a fuck about seducing anyone."
She doesn't respond, just keeps dancing. Moving around me in a slow spiral that makes my pulse race. She's close enough that I can smell her perfume mixed with sweat, can feel the heat radiating off her body, can see the way her skin glows in the dim light. I want to touch her and lick the sweat off her body. I want to grab her hips and pull her down onto my lap. Does she taste as good as she looks? I want to hear what sounds she makes when she comes apart on my tongue, on my dick. But I don't. Not yet.
"How long have you been doing this?" I ask.
"A few years," she says, keeping her voice light, keeping her movements fluid.
"And before that? What were you before that?"
She turns away from me, lowers herself toward my lap, forcing me to stare at her back, and creating distance even as she gets closer. The air between us feels charged, electric.
"Different things," she says. "Nothing important."
