“I’m the club manager, Alejandra. If you need anything at all, gentlemen, you’re welcome to it. I’ll leave you to enjoy the show now.” Within the darkness, only the podium is lit, and the pole is gleaming in the low light.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a long sip of the strong liquid. A burn trails from my tongue down my throat and warms my chest as I savor the alcohol. A much-needed drink after the long day.
I watch Alejandra walk out, her hips swaying back and forth, and my cock jolts at the sight. I’m tempted to ask for an hour alone with her. I’ve always loved women who are curvy, voluptuous, and delicious.
“I look forward to it,” I murmur under my breath, tipping my glass in a cheers gesture. Just then, the curtain opens, and two women stroll into the room. One is what I would call a tigress, and I know immediately she’s for Dominic. Her body is lithe, long, tanned legs, and an ass you could bounce a penny off. Her tits are more than a handful, and I imagine he would want to slide his cock between them, at least I know I would.
Her eyes are green, the color of a forest. Deep and endless. She takes two steps up to Dom, and he’s on his feet. “Hi,” she greets in a sultry, sinful tone, and his smile says it all.
“Hello,” the girl before me smiles. She’s shy, perhaps new to this job, but I’ll be fucked, she’s incredible.
“Darling.” I smile, crooking my finger, calling her closer. She settles herself, straddling my lap. “You’re quite a sight,” I tell her, lifting my hand to grip the dark chocolate curls that hang down her shoulders. Her breasts are a handful, perhaps a B-cup. But it’s her body that’s got me hard as fuck.
“I’m Antonia,” she tells me. Sweet little Italian girls are too tempting. “You’re from England?” Her question is pure curiosity, and I nod.
“I am, darling.” My hand trails down her arm, feeling the silky skin beneath my fingers. “How about you move those hips?” I lower my chin, my gaze dropping to her thighs. The tiny pair of panties she’s wearing cup her cunt like a second skin. Her pussy lips taunt me, and I’m dying to touch her, but we can’t. I’ve been to many strip clubs before.
The rules.
“Make me come with those moves,” I order, and she continues her little lap dance. Moving her hips over my groin, rubbing her core over my growing erection, causing me to drop my head back and close my eyes. The sensation is incredible. Her heat is intoxicating, and it doesn’t take long before my balls tighten, and my release is close. “Stop,” I urge, gripping her hips to stop moving.
“But I thought—”
“How much for the whole night? Perhaps even early morning, if you can handle me.” I wink, and she moves off me, taking the hint.
“Two thousand,” she responds. I trail my eyes over her, the small wet spot in her panties evidence she’s clearly up for some fun.
“Good,” I tell her, downing the rest of my drink. “Get your stuff. I’ll ensure the payment is made before we leave.” She nods, turns, and heads back to the door they entered through. Her ass is mine tonight, and I can’t wait to fuck her until she’s screaming.
“You’re leaving?” Dom questions shocked at my choice of taking someone home because he knows it’s not who I am. The beautiful, leggy tigress is perched on his lap.
“I am. I have a kitten to play with.” I chuckle, rising from the sofa. I shake my best friend’s hand, leaving him with his girl. Being single for so long hasn’t been my choice. My heart was broken, shattered, and that’s left me wary of meeting someone for any long-term relationship. Yes, I could have a different woman in my bed every night, but that’s not who I am. This is a treat for me, something I don’t usually do. I may watch the show, but I don’t always touch.
If I were to find someone who truly captured my attention, perhaps I would be willing to give a relationship a try, but right now, I should take a page from Dom’s book and enjoy this time.
Chapter 3
Elisabet
Stepping into the Donovan International building is like walking into one of the opulent boutique stores in France or Italy. It’s luxurious, modern, and looks as if money drips from the paint that adorns the walls. Taking small steps toward the reception desk, I allow my eyes to take in every square inch of the welcome area.
White walls, black carpets, and furniture the color of a decadent burgundy greet me, along with a stunning receptionist who is perched on a chair behind a desk that seems to swallow her.
“Good morning. How can I help you?” she asks. Her smile isn’t plastered on; instead, it’s genuine.
“I’m here for my ten o’clock with Mr. Donovan,” I inform her, giving her a kind grin of my own. She nods, taps away on the keyboard for a few seconds before picking up the phone and dialing a number.
“Mr. Donovan, your appointment is here.” Her voice is lowered, but I can hear every word. “Yes, sir. I’ll show her in.” When she hangs up, she rises from her chair and rounds the humungous white oak desk. “This way.” She turns toward the long hallway, which takes us into a smaller area where there are two elevators that look like they’re from a 1950s movie.
I glance her way, taking in her outfit, which is immaculate. Black pencil skirt, bright red blouse, with shiny, onyx heels. Her dark hair is pinned neatly in a bun on the back of her head, and she leads me toward the silver metal doors.
Once they slide open on a soft ding, we step inside, and she pushes the button for the top floor. Fifteen. It’s not a skyscraper, but I’m sure Mr. Donovan has a lovely view. Silence follows us up to the offices, until the doors open and my guide gestures to the floor without stepping out of the elevator.
“He’s waiting,” are the only words she utters before pushing a button, and the doors whoosh close, leaving me on the landing outside two ornate wooden doors. With my hand on the gold doorknob, I twist and push. A soft whoosh beckons me inside, and I’m met with an office that’s both elegant and modern with delicate touches of grays and blues in the large rug under a glass coffee table. The black-and-white artwork that hangs on the walls compliment the faux leather furniture, along with a dark oak floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one wall. It’s not the space I pictured when I thought of him.
Something about the playboy made me think he’d be seated in an office filled with the usual toys affluent men of his stature have surrounding them. Perhaps more glass, less wood, and for some reason, I thought he’d have his accolades hanging on the walls. But when my gaze trails over the room, it’s all monochrome, except for a lone colorful painting that hangs opposite his desk.
There’s something sad about it. The colors are a stark contrast to each other—reds, yellows, with hints of dark blue and green—almost as if the artist wanted the viewer to feel the pain of the subject. A woman with dark hair, porcelain skin, and pale blue eyes. She’s dressed in a bright red dress.
“Ms. Rossi.” His voice teases my name in a baritone, which sends a shiver skittering up my spine. I didn’t realize he was British, but the accent is familiar, from when I visited. I can’t place where exactly he’s from, which causes me to wonder how long he’s been living in America.