Page 9 of Submitting to Daddy
My chair scrapes the floor as I abruptly stand. Fueled with adrenaline and desire, I cross the room without thinking. Shoving my way through the crowd, my eyes are locked on her as she smiles and takes a bill from an older man in a well-tailored suit. They can try to buy her all they want, but she won’t belong to any of them.
A man reaches for her, and I shove him away before he can put his hands on her. I grab her wrist—not hard, just firm—and pull her into me. A startled gasp flies over her lips when she crashes against me. She looks up, and her eyes blow wide whenshe sees my face—a smile already playing at my lips. “Sorry, fellas,” I announce, loud enough to be heard over the surrounding commotion. “Raven has already been requested in the VIP suite.” A few men grumble, and one loudly protests. I shoot a look that immediately silences him, and he backs off without another word.
Her skin is soft, and her wrist is warm in my hand as I drag her away from the crowd. She doesn’t try to pull from my hold—not once. Madison is still staring at me as I walk us across the club and steer her to the open staircase leading to the VIP rooms. Not a word passes between us as I guide her up the stairs. We approach the room at the end of the hall, and the assigned personal host—who doubles as security—opens the door for us. Leading Madison into the room, I dismiss him as I usher her inside.
The VIP suites exude the same opulence as downstairs. Plush leather couches surround a sleek, mirrored stage bathed in soft, golden light. Music plays from the hidden speakers—much softer than the booming songs playing in the main room. Cinnamon and vanilla lightly scent the air—aromas that my research has found encourage spending. The recently dismissed personal host was our final detail for these luxurious rooms. The discreet service offering top-shelf bottle service and premium cigars, ensuring guests are afforded uninterrupted indulgence in their personal performances.
Shutting the door behind us, I finally let her go. She turns to face me, crossing her arms over her bare chest. Her cheeks are flushed, but her dark eyes are as sharp as glass. Huffing softly, she tightens her arms folded across her chest as she studies me in the low golden light of the VIP suite. Her expression is hard to read—half amused, half assessing—still guarded and sharp.
“Well…” she remarks coolly. “What do you want?”
I tilt my head, letting the silence sit between us for a moment before stepping forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. It’s warm and sweet with a hint of spice—orange and cinnamon, maybe. “I want to be the man who gets Raven’s first private dance.”
That earns me a quirk of her brow. Her lips twitch, barely breaking into a smile for a nanosecond. “First dances are expensive.”
I lean back in the middle of the leather couch and casually spread my arms along the top. “Did I ask for a discount?”
She holds my gaze for a second longer, not saying a word as she steps toward me—her hips swaying gently with the slow, sensual beat of the music softly filling the room. She slides into my lap with the same self-assurance she had on stage. Raven isn’t only confident, she is in complete control.
Her touches are careful but deliberate, and she moves against me with the throbbing rhythm of the bass. She doesn’t merely grind on my lap—sheperforms. Every movement has a purpose and lingers just long enough to leave me begging for more. Resting against my chest, she rolls her body against mine. With her head on my shoulder, I gravelly whisper, “When you said I’d be seeing plenty of you, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
She pushes from my chest and swirls her hips over my lap as she glances at me over her shoulder with a devilish glint in her eyes.Fuck…“Isn’t it?” she husks seductively, grinding her ass firmly against my hardening cock. “Because it sure feels exactly like what you had in mind.”
A deep chuckle rises from low in my throat. “You like being a brat, don’t you?”
“I like being paid,” she emphasizes with a sweet but wicked edge. Her movements become more playful, and her smirks more daring. This is no longer just a performance, and we both know it—this is flirtatious. The song ends, and she rises from me. “Time’s up, Mr. King.”
Breaking all the rules, I wrap my hands around her waist and drag her back into my lap. “We’re not done yet, firecracker.”
“It’s your dollar.” She shifts her weight, climbing from me just enough to turn and straddle my thighs. Tracing a finger over the buttons of my shirt, she asks, “You always this bossy?”
“Only when I’m truly interested,” I reply. “Which isn’t often.”
Her lashes flutter slightly, but she ignores my confession.
By the third song, her fingers are laced in my hair. She’s riding my lap so seductively, I can’t help but imagine her sliding over my cock. Chewing at her lower lip as she continues to teasingly circle her hips—barely brushing against my rock-hard cock. “Is that how you like it, Daddy?” That one fucking word nearly causes me to lose all of my resolve, and I fist the top of the leather couch to keep from putting my hands on her again. When she sees my reaction, she smirks—clearly pleased with herself.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I gruff.
“You’re paying for it,” she playfully shoots back. Her face brushes against mine, and her lips dust the shell of my ear. “I’m just giving you what you want,” she whispers, her warm breath blowing against my skin.
My voice, low and firm, I disclose, “I want you.”
The music winds down, and she slowly pulls away. Standing before me, she redresses with assuredness, well aware of howmuch power she holds in here. I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded stack of bills, more than enough to cover my dances and a generous tip, and offer it to her. She takes it without hesitation, grinning wide. “Tempting, but I have a firm rule.”
I rise from the couch, closing the distance between us. Towering over her, I ask, “Which is?”
With the bills still in her hand, she lightly fists the front of my shirt to lift herself onto her toes. Leaning in, she softly exhales against my jaw, “Sorry, Daddy… but I don’t sleep with clients.” She pulls back slowly, revealing a devilish grin. Her eyes not once leaving mine, she lowers herself onto her heels and walks toward the door. Her hand on the knob, she adds, “Or my boss.”
Before I can say a word, she turns and steps out into the hallway, swaying like she knows I’m watching every step. Which I am. Madison Roark is nothing like I expected—she’s so much more.And earning her is going to be fucking fun.
He’s watching me.
I feel it before I even step back onto the main floor again. His heavy stare cuts through the lights, tracking my every step like I’m the only woman in the room. I don’t have to look at the owners’ booth to know he’s there. I’ve seen him watching since my first set tonight—his tall frame, golden eyes, the subtle way his jaw clenched when I laughed too long with someone else.
Cillian fucking King.
I didn’t plan to end up in his lap tonight. But when he pulled me through the crowd withthatlook—the one that said I was already his—I let him. I danced. I teased. I leaned in closeenough to smell the bourbon on his exhales and feel the desire in his heated breaths on my skin.
