Page 10 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Her hips sway just enough to make me wonder if she does this for effect, or if it’s simply how she moves.
Her legs are long.
Her heels are too high.
I don’t ask her name.
I’ll get it later, if I still care after.
The private rooms upstairs are soundproofed and scented with lavender, though I’ll never understand why.
I prefer the scent of sweat and whatever perfume clings to skin after midnight.
She closes the door behind us, but I don’t go for her just yet.
I lean back against the door, hands in my pockets, and let the silence stretch.
She’s waiting for a command, or at least a suggestion.
Instead, I study her.
She shifts slightly. "Something wrong?"
"No," I say, voice low. "Just deciding where to start."
Her eyes darken, just a little.
I see the hint of intrigue in the way she straightens, not because I told her to, but because something in my voice made her want to.
I incline my head just a little, satisfied that she’ll do just fine for the night.
And I haven’t even gotten her out of that dress yet.
She moves like she’s been trained to please, slow and sinuous, fingers grazing her own thigh like she’s performing for me.
But I don’t want a performance. "Strip," I say.
She hesitates just long enough for me to take two steps forward and grip her chin between my fingers, not hard, but firm enough that her breath catches.
"I said," I repeat, "strip."
This time, she obeys me, her fingers moving quickly.
The dress pools at her ankles, leaving her in pale lace, trembling a little.
She doesn’t look at me, but I see the flush rising up her neck.
I shrug off my coat, toss it over the chair, unbutton my shirt slowly enough to make her squirm.
Her eyes flick to the outline of my belt, but I don’t undress fully.
I take my time, watching her stand there in her lingerie, waiting, her chest rising fast.
She’s used to men who grovel.
Who beg.
Who pay for the illusion of being wanted.
