Page 16 of Devour
“Pray I don’t,” he says.
Then he leans in. Slowly. His breath brushes my skin as he reaches behind me to untie the bindings around my wrists.
His scent fills my lungs, masculine smell, mixed with the faint odor of tobacco and scotch.
My heart stutters in my chest. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just breathe—shallow and quick, wondering if I’ve just made a deal with the devil. He stands to his full height.
“Get up.”
I scramble to my feet, not daring to hesitate, afraid he might change his mind. His grip is firm as he grabs my arm and pulls me through the door.
We passed a few of his men. One of them stops mid-punch at a bag to stare. Others glance our way—some with smirks, others with pity in their eyes. Like they think I’m a walking corpse.
My gaze flicks to the one who hit me. If looks could kill, his glare would’ve dropped me on the spot. I quickly look away.
Luca doesn’t stop until we’re inside one of the club’s VVIP rooms. The contrast is jarring—upstairs, everything gleams with glamour and music; “Bad Intentions” by Niykee Heaton is playing. Down there, it shadows and secrets.
If someone had told me there was an underground basement beneath Eden’s Club where shady deals, interrogations, and God knows what else took place, I would’ve laughed. Now I know better.
He pours himself a drink, the crystal glass catching the dim light, then sinks into the leather lounge chair facing me. My throat tightens. Now what?
Does he want me to strip like last time while he fucks me over his desk? I glance at the low table. It wouldn’t work. I’d have to get on all fours, my ass high in the air, and even then, I probably wouldn’t reach his ribs.
This man looks like a freaking 6 feet 6 inches of pure intimidation. Or maybe he wants me to stand on the table this time…His voice snaps me out of the spiral.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, his gaze heavy. “Dance.”
He nods toward the chrome pole in the center of the table. I hesitate, then slowly climb up. My fingers wrap around the cold metal, I hear “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak plays.
This is… better than what I feared. I’m not much of a dancer. But I’ve watched the Strippers. I’ve picked up some moves. Enough to survive this night.
So, I move like my life depends on it because it does. I let the music consume me as I move around the pole, my hips swaying and moving sensually to the music.
His gaze never leaves me as he leans back in his chair, taking a casual sip from the glass. As the song nears its end, I slide down the pole and squat low, spine curved, hips tilted toward him.
One hand wrap around the metal behind me, and the other slips between my parted knees, resting lightly on my inner thigh.
I don’t dare meet his eyes, but I can feel his stare devouring every inch of me.
CHAPTER TEN
Luca
Who the fuck taught her to dance like that? It took everything in me not to drag her down the table and take her right here against the goddamn chair.
Soon, I tell myself. I should’ve fucked her in the meeting room made her scream my name with her legs wrapped around me but no.
I want the men to see. I want them to know exactly who she belongs to. If anyone lays a hand on her? They answer to me.
The little kitten’s teasing me again. Her skirt had ridden up during the dance, and now her blue panties peek between her parted knees. Her chest rises and falls like she’s run a marathon, not just danced.
“Take off your clothes.” She obeys without a word, stripping for me. “Lie back on the table. Spread your legs wide.”
I stand, drink in hand, and move in front of her. She does as she’s told. Legs open. Body displayed like a feast. She looks like whipped cream with a fucking cherry on top, exquisite and trembling.
She’s trying to be brave, but I see a slight tremble in her thighs. I smirk, placing my glass beside her on the table.
