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“No,” I agreed. “I’m not.”

My hands came up, one closing over each hip, and she stilled, her entire body going rigid.

“Relax, little pet,” I murmured.

“I’m not your⁠—”

My grip tightened, cutting off the protest. With a single, controlled movement, I lifted her, adjusted my position, and then pulled her back down, so her fabric-covered pussy sat flush against my straining erection.

She gasped.

I held her there for a second, letting her feel the full length of me. Then I began to move her myself. I used my grip on her hips to guide her in a slow, purposeful grinding motion that forced her pussy against the hard ridge of my cock through the layers of our clothing.

Her hands flew to my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my suit jacket. “What… what are you doing?”

“I’m making you dance for me,” I said, my voice low and rough.

Her breath came in short, gasping pants now, her body no longer moving with her own will but entirely with mine. I ground her down, watching her face in the dim light. Her defiance warred with the rising tide of pleasure, her jaw tight, her lips parted.

I shifted slightly, changing the angle, and her eyes widened. A soft, helpless sound escaped her throat.

“There,” I murmured. “Right there.”

I kept her there, grinding her against that sweet spot, over and over. My grip on her hips was unyielding, holding her exactly where I wanted her. She was no longer Vesper, the untouchable dancer. She was Alessia, the woman whose body was betraying her mind, whose clit was swelling and pulsing against my shaft more intensely with every passing second.

Her movements became jerky, desperate. Her head fell back, the dark strands of her hair brushing against my wrist. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed mine.

“Let go, little pet,” I commanded, my breath hot against her ear.

She shook her head in a silent, desperate denial.

I could feel her fighting the tidal wave of pleasure building deep inside her. She wanted to maintain control, to keep a piece of herself for herself. I understood that better than she knew.

But I wasn’t going to let her have it.

I shifted my right hand, sliding it from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her down, forcing her clit harder against the seam of her bodysuit and my cock. My left hand tightened on her hip, holding her immobile as I drove up against her, once, twice, three times, short, quick thrusts that shattered the rhythm.

Her body arched, a bow pulled taut. Her eyes flew open as her mouth formed a perfect, silent O. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, her teeth sinking into the fine wool of my jacket as her orgasm tore through her. A choked, muffled sob broke from her lips as her entire body convulsed in a series of delicious, uncontrollable spasms. I held her through it, my grip firm, my body still, feeling every tremor, every shudder, every last moment of pleasure as it tore through her.

Silence descended, broken only by her ragged gasps.

The room felt too small, the air too thick with the scent of her release and my own barely leashed desire. I could feel the damp heat of her through her costume.

Slowly, as if her bones had turned to water, she pushed herself upright. Her face was flushed a deep, mortified crimson that spread from her cheeks down the elegant column of her throat and splashed across her chest. Her eyes met mine. They were dark with a storm of humiliation, fury, and the lingering daze of pleasure.

She looked beautifully wrecked.

And she was blushing.

I had seen women blush before. They did it when complimented, when embarrassed, or when they were caught in a lie. This was different. This was a full-body flush of heat and shame so intense, it seemed to radiate from her skin. It was the blush of a woman who had lost a battle with her own body and had been forced to surrender in a most intimate way.

And I’d caused it.

A dark, possessive satisfaction curled in my gut.

My gaze shifted past her shoulder to the smoked-glass wall to see that one of the Petrosyan men had moved. The taller one was no longer seated near the far end of the VIP floor. He had repositioned himself near the corridor leading to the service stairs, his body angled as if he were watching the main room below. He wasn’t. His attention stayed fixed on the reflections in the glass, waiting for the curtain to room seven to open.

His companion remained near the elevators.