Page 60 of Bad Girl Dilemma

Instead, it makes me feelseen.

Because here, my submission isn’t weakness.

It’s currency. Power. A declaration of strength in surrender.

Dante’s fingers rest lightly on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd—less a nudge, more a silent tether. Every inch of my body is on display: black mesh corset, no bra, a collar so subtle most wouldn’t clock it as what it is unless they knew. And in here, everyoneknows.

“Eyes up,” Dante murmurs in my ear, breath hot. “Confidence, not apology.”

I nod and keep moving. Past sin-drenched lounges, curtained alcoves hiding moans and power plays, red-lit rooms where shadows become theater. The scent of sweat and sex clings to the velvet-lined air.

A near-naked server walks us to a curved booth, and Dante helps me into it.

The man loitering near us watches me with too much interest—his eyes skating down my thighs, lingering on the curve of my breast. I feel the heat of Dante’s glare before I even look at him.

“Eyes the fuck off,” Dante says sharply. The man flinches and vanishes into the crowd.

“Was that necessary?” I tease under my breath, my lips barely moving. “If I had a whip, I’d have used it.” His voice is dark silk.

I smile. I shouldn't be enjoying this. I shouldn't feel this wanted here, but I do. Not just for my body—but for what it means when I kneel for him. For what it costs me. That makes it mean more.

Drinks arrive. I sip my fruity cocktail, moaning at the sublime explosion of passionfruit and rum.

Dante’s brow rises at the sound I make, then his eyes roam all over me, ownership-stamping. “You want a tour after you finish that?”

I swallow. Nod. “Yes, please, Sir.”

Dark eyes flare. He nods. Pleasure explodes beneath my skin. A handful of weeks ago, I would’ve hysteri-sobbedinto my cereal if anyone had dared to tell me those three little words would make my pussy wet.

Now they spill freely with a terrifying willingness.

The moment I drain my glass, he rises. “Come, pet.”

The Gilded Cage is a cathedral of hedonism—smoke-laced air, velvet-draped alcoves, bodies in all shapes and sizes, in service, in pleasure.

I walk half a step behind Dante, my collar catching the low light with every breath. He’s calm. Controlled. But his loose hold on my wrist never leaves me.

I see thrones. Cages. A Saint Andrew’s cross lit like an altar.

My heart stutters at the sight of the naked woman tied to it. Head thrown back in abject pleasure as a man wielding a whip flays her. Thighs. Breasts. Belly.

Dante leans down, voice silk and steel in my ear. “Not everything here is for you, little thief. But everything I give you will be.”

The private room he chooses is all dark velvet and low lighting, the kind of place where shadows cling to the walls and secrets are expected, not hidden. A leather bench takes up the center, flanked by mounted rings, silk ropes, and mirrored panels. The glass wall on one side is tinted, but I sense we’re being watched.

That’s part of it.

That’s part of him.

Dante closes the door behind us, locking it with a soft, metallic click. I stand where he left me, breath shallow, body already alive with nerves and want. Because I know what’s coming. I asked for it. Begged for it.

And tonight, I aim to earn it.

He steps closer, circling. His eyes take in every inch of me—collared, dressed to tempt, already wet.

“You trust me, little thief?”

“Yes, Sir.”

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