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“I am,” she answers, eyes still locked on the dancer. “I was a dancer back in California.”
“A dancer leaving California for New York,” I muse, because California is the hub of dance in the United States. No dancer would leave California unless they needed to, or they wanted to do musicals. “Do you want to be on Broadway?”
“No.” She laughs softly. “My love is hip hop. Modern. I really loved being in music videos.”
I nod once, slowly. “Now I’m really confused why you’re on the East Coast.”
She inhales, stiffens a fraction, then shifts her body so her hip breaks contact with mine. The loss of warmth irritates me more than it should.
“It’s complicated,” she says quietly.
I tilt my head, letting my gaze track the soft curve of her mouth beneath the lace. “Avoidance,” I murmur. “Nice touch.”
“No avoidance,” she counters softly, as the waiter returns with both of our drinks and slides it onto the table. “I just don’t have to tell you everything. Or anything.”
My pulse ticks once, and I find myself licking my lips.
“And why is that?” I ask, sliding the smallest bit closer, to make sure our hips touch again.
She turns her face toward mine, lips parting just slightly. “Because you only paid for the night, and I don’t give any of my clients any personal information about me.”
“Hmm,” I lean back against the plush couch, lifting my glass to my lips and taking a sip of the chilled liquid. “So Elara’s not your real name?”
"It is," she nods, taking a small sip of her drink. The way her lips touch the glass makes my jaw tighten. "I told you that before you were a client."
My gaze darkens as I watch her, every controlled movement she makes seems designed to unravel me. The curve of her throat as she swallows, the intelligence flickering behind those eyes—she's devastating, and she knows it.
"And what do I get as a client?" My voice drops lower, rougher around the edges—a barely restrained hunger threading through each word.
I can't help cataloging every detail: the way the dim light plays across her features, how her presence seems to fill the entire room despite her stillness. Beautiful doesn't begin to cover it.
"Anything you want," Elara says simply.
“And if I want you?”
Her foot slides up my calf, slow enough to be intentional, light enough to be lethal. I close my eyes for half a second, letting the sensation slice through me. When I open them again, nothing in the room exists except her.
“You’ll have to earn that,” she whispers.
This is ridiculous. It’s like she was born to seduce me. Manipulate me. Bring me to my fucking knees, always saying the right thing. At the right fucking time. I open my eyes, the world sharpening to a single point: her. The club’s swelling erotic music becomes the pulse in my veins. I stand, offering my hand. “Then let’s go earn it.”
She downs the rest of her drink eagerly, before slipping her hand into mine.
I lead her deeper into the club, past the couches and curtained alcoves, past the dancers and the bodies twined in shadows. The further we go, the darker and more private the layout becomes. The music shifts, a lower hum, sensual, hypnotic. The air grows thicker, scented with amber and heat and lust.
We reach a corridor lined with tall mirrored panels—bronze-tinted glass framed in black metal. They look like decorative walls, seamless and elegant, but she doesn’t know what they really are.
One-way windows into private rooms for people who want an audience.
Behind each room are scenes that would make the flirting we’ve been doing all night look innocent.
I stop in front of the first mirror. She steps to my side and looks at our reflections.
“What is this?” she asks softly.
I angle her closer with a hand at the small of her back. “Watch.”
Behind the window, a woman is strapped to a Saint Andrew’s cross, her body taut against the restraints, arms and legs spread wide in perfect submission. The dim light glides over her skin, highlighting the flush of exertion, the sheen of sweat. A man stands before her, his hands moving in long, fast strokes forcing her to the edge. Her head tilts back, lips parting as her body trembles, the cords of her neck straining as she teeters on the brink—until she shatters, her cry muffled by the glass but no less potent.
