Page 15 of Ruthless God

I bat my eyes at him.

“You think?” I lean in, letting my hair drape against his arm. “Personally, I think I could have done better.”

His head tilts slightly, the movement slow, measured. “Oh? Could you show me here?”

He gestures to his lap, and that’s when I really notice just how big he is. Not just tall, but built, too. His thighs alone look like they could crush a watermelon. And Jesus, help me, because now I’m imagining things I absolutely shouldn’t.

I smile, keeping my composure. “Sure, I can.”

His hand moves with deliberate ease, sliding a crisp bill into the open neckline of my bodysuit. His calloused fingers graze against my bare skin, sending an unexpected jolt straight through me. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the moan threatening to spill out.

Jesus.

Focus.

I inhale, steadying myself before I move. This is where stripping becomes an art form. It’s not just about the dance. It’s about making him believe that, for these few minutes, he’s the only man I have eyes for. That I want him. That I can’t get enough of him.

Sometimes, that illusion is hard to maintain. A few nights ago, I had a client who smelled like Cheetos. No exaggeration. And when he tipped me? His money had orange powder stains on it. Disgusting. But I still smiled, still moved like he was the most interesting man in the room. He never had a clue.

But this man?

This man makes it easy.

His scent is driving me crazy. Bergamot and sandalwood, two of my absolute weaknesses. It’s masculine, rich, the kind of smell that lingers long after someone’s gone. And then there’s the way he watches me.

Not touching. Not reaching.

He just sits back, like a king on his throne, his gaze heavy with quiet intensity, drinking in every movement like he owns the whole damn place.

And the way it makes me feel?

Dangerous.

“What brings you in tonight?”

He snorts, the deep, rumbling sound sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. My nipples take notice, too.

“Who could resist dressing up for Halloween in May?” he muses, voice laced with amusement.

I laugh, the tension breaking just a little. “Right? But it’s been kind of fun.” I tilt my head, curiosity sparking. “So, why Ghostface?”

His masked gaze holds mine for a beat before he counters, “Why a clown?”

Touché.

I smirk, shrugging. “I love the movie.”

A pause. Then, “Same.”

“Does that mean you’re going to ask me what my favorite scary movie is?”

“Maybe it means I’m going to chase you with my knife.”

I laugh again. “That wouldn’t be a long chase.”

“Oh?”

“My boobs make it hard to run.”

---