Page 24

My pulse jumps as his icy blue eyes lock onto mine, observing me. It’s like our bodies react in tandem to the eye contact—he stiffens, and my muscles tighten.

His hair is perfectly styled back, the sides neatly faded. I could’ve sworn last night he had a more tousled look about him. The top buttons of his white shirt are undone, giving me a small peek of his tattooed neck and chest.

His eyes darken as I spin on the pole, holding his gaze. His perfectly symmetrical lips curl up on one side in a smirk. Goosebumps erupt on my skin, like an impending storm on the horizon approaching, and there’s no way to stop it.

I want nothing more than to lose myself in the dance, but I’m unable to. I’m too focused on how his throat bobs when I slide my chest along the floor with my ass in the air. How his fist clenches when I run my hands along my body.

My heart races as I continue dancing; I’m sure it’s almost ripping out of my chest. I spread my legs, holding onto the pole and swaying my hips downwards, almost looking like I’m straddling him.

He adjusts himself in the seat, taking a sip of his drink.

I’ve never felt this kind of pull towards anyone. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved. Like he knows me better than anyone, and we haven’t spoken a single word to each other. Like he already owns me.

My set finishes, and my eyes linger on him for a few seconds before I whip my left leg round to the front, out of my split, and leave the stage—all while trying to calm my erratic heartbeat.

Back in the dressing room, I change into a pair of denim booty shorts, ready to serve drinks on the floor.

To my surprise—or dismay—my dark-haired boss was nowhere to be seen when I made my way through the busy main floor to the much quieter lounge room. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a pang of disappointment at the fact that he was gone. Maybe this was my sign from the universe that I need to stay away from men, like I said I would. Especially powerful men like him.

The lounge is separate from the rest of the club. It’s quieter, more relaxed. Decorated the same, but only a low hum of music and quiet chatter between men in suits who act like they don’t want anything from the girls fills the room. It’s soundproofed.

Only a few can afford to book the lounge—the men are more respectful up here, which is why I chose to serve up here over the main room.

My phone buzzes incessantly in my back pocket as I saunter across the black carpet over to the table of men waiting for their drinks. They all eye me hungrily as I approach, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. They clearly don’t fit the more respectful description of the others here.

I bend slightly at the waist, probably giving the people behind me a nice view of my ass in these tiny shorts, placing their drinks on the table.

An attractive middle-aged-looking man with closely cropped brown hair leans towards me. “Can I get another one of your most expensive whisky, darling?”

My left eye twitches as I place the last drink on the table, skin crawling.

“Call me darling one more time, and I’ll make sure you’re cut off for the rest of the night,” I caution, then straighten my spine. He follows my movement, and I give him a sickeningly sweet smile before walking back over to the bar with my empty tray.

“Another whisky, please, Fred,” I request, sliding the tray over to him.

“Are you good?” he asks, blonde brows knitting with worry.

Fred can tell when a customer bothers me, and he likes to check in to make sure I’m okay. I’ve never gotten into trouble with anyone, but Fred is good at reading body language. The first time he asked me and I dismissed him, he pressed until I had no choice but to give in.

“I have it all handled,” I reply, giving him a wink.

“You let me know if anyone’s bothering you,” he smiles, showing his straight, white teeth, freckled cheeks pinching up.

The lounge is busier than usual today, so he scurries off to make the drink, swerving around Jessica, who’s also working the bar tonight.

Sitting on the bar stool, I pull out my buzzing phone.

Luke’s calling.

My stomach twists with nausea. Having a text from him is one thing, but when he calls, it’s another. It’s futile blocking him at this point. He’ll always find another way to contact me. I might as well save him the trouble.

A large frame slides into the stool next to me, filling the air with a heady scent of musk and sandalwood.

“You dance like you’re mad at the world, Camila,” a deep, husky voice murmurs in my ear, sending shivers down my arm.

I stiffen for a few seconds at the use of my real name.

Lowering my phone to the counter—screen down—I spin a fraction in my stool and glance up. His glacier blue eyes are already on me, his body dominating the space between us.