Page 33 of Ruthless Lullaby

What on earth is wrong with you?

I silently curse myself and this whole situation. I know I should look away, focus on my performance, and ignore the magnetic pull that draws me to this man. But I can't. I'm helpless against the raw, primal energy that seems to emanate from every pore of his being.

He saw the damn photos. Of course, he did. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me. He saw everything. My tits, my ass, my pussy, the whole goddamn package. He saw the video too, as I was screaming from my own orgasm, bucking my hips against my fingers. And rightfully so, he fired me for it. Because Maron Korolev is a merciless guy - one small mistake was all it took for him to kick me out of the company without a second thought. Okay, maybe‘small mistake’is a bit of an understatement.

My screwed-up mind immediately churns out the imaginary dialogue I’m going to have with him after the event.

"Mr. Korolev, I’m sorry about the pictures. They were meant for my boyfriend."

"What pictures, Miss Williams? Oh, you’re talking about your amateur porn content?"

Or

"Why weren't you at work today, Miss Williams?"

"Because my contract was terminated, Mr. Korolev."

"Terminated? That must be some misunderstanding, Miss Williams. I would never do such a thing, even if you had sent me nudes and a video of yourself masturbating."

But there's no conversation to be had, at least not right now. Maron Korolev continues to eye me with the same expression that turns my vajayjay into a dripping wet sponge, and my body into one giant mass of wanton desire. He remains seated, his broad, muscular figure still and unreactive. Even his eyelashes don't flutter. I start to wonder if he's even breathing. All he does is watch me, his cold gaze fixed on my struggle with a growing hunger forming under my panties.

Swallowing hard, I plaster my brilliant stage smile back on through sheer force of will. But inside, I'm reeling, barely keeping my rising panic and arousal at bay.

"What a privilege to perform for such... distinguished guests this evening," I say carefully, letting my gaze slowly roam over each undoubtedly dangerous face in the crowd.

Maron's lips curve into a cruel smile, sending a series of shivers down my spine.

"The privilege is ours,” he injects.

Asshole.

He knows what he’s doing.

My fake smile feels tighter than ever as I give a slight nod. As the starting notes of my first song fill the room, I take a steadying breath.

Just get on with it, Mindy.

Survive this night, get paid, and hit the road, Jack.

That's all that matters right now. Finish the gig, get paid, go home. Nothing else. Maron Korolev can go screw himself.

Pushing aside my fear for the umpteenth time, I open my mouth and begin, allowing the sultry lyrics to flow. I take center stage as I gradually ease into my first number. The men sitting around the plush lounge areas seem a little taken aback at first. Their attention is on me as they sip their drinks, eyes roaming over me appraisingly.

That’s it, Mindy, keep going.

As I sing, I find my gaze constantly drifting back to Maron, like he's the only person in the room. At least the only person Iknow. Each time our eyes meet, I feel a jolt of electricity course through me. A spark of something primal and forbidden that I know I should resist. Maron Korolev is a mystery, an enigma that I find myself desperate to unravel, even as my instincts are screaming at me to run as far away from him as possible.

As I transition to the second and then the third song, allowing the music to flow through me, a voice suddenly rings out. "Hey doll, why don't you lose some of those clothes?" One of the men leers, emboldened by alcohol or just his own arrogance.

I freeze briefly but quickly recover my poise. He’s probably joking. Not that it’s funny, but hey, who am I to judge? Shortly after I recover my stance and continue with the performance, more crude shouts and whistles follow from others in the crowd.

"Yeah, put on a real show for us!"

"Come on gorgeous, don't be a tease!"

"Start losing those clothes, what do you think we’re paying for?

It hits me like a ton of bricks – these are anythingbutjokes. Kevin's previous warning about these men “not worth messing with" suddenly has a much more sinister implication. I'm not just here as a form of entertainment - Iamthe entertainment.

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