Page 34 of Dark Prince

They scurry behind the curtain and then I hear a stool scrape across the concrete floor. That’s the next demo job that needs to be dealt with. The floors need to be black marble to complete the expensive vibe the Caputos are striving for, what I’m hoping the establishment will turn out to be.

Untangling my legs, I let my heels meet the stage floor and then I push up until I’m standing. When I turn, my eyes connect with Ren’s dark, hooded gaze. I’m familiar with that look. He needs to fuck, among other things that likely involve a blade he has stashed someplace on his lean, muscular body.

Stepping in front of the pole, I lift my arms over my head and wrap my hands around the pole, then I drop my ass inches from the floor and spread my legs. The blue jean shorts are cut high enough that I know Ren can see my hot pink thong if he looked, but his intense gaze is still locked with mine.

“Get over here.”

“Tell me how hard you are first.” I close my legs and kick upward, arching my back. With my hands in a viselike grip around the pole, I hoist my body around the pole upside down again. Now that I know he’s basically my benefactor guy, I know all the things he likes to watch. They just usually involve me being in sheer black stockings and nothing else rather than the getup I’m wearing now.

“So hard that only your pussy can sate it.”

“I want to see you jerk it first.” There were rules back at the club I danced for. The patrons weren’t allowed to touch themselves or pull their junk out, but the guy that I always found behind the glass in my booth did—and I never reported him. He didn’t jerk himself off during every one of my performances, but I could see the bulge in his pants.

So why didn’t I know it was Ren?

Shouldn’t I have been able to recognize the man I pledged my life to even knowing it would one day come to an end? We didn’t have a fighting chance to begin with, and I was a foolish girl in love with a boy from the wrong family.

“Get your fine ass over here, Sasha.” Ren lifts his jacket-covered arms at his sides, and in one swift motion, he produces a nine-inch blade in both hands. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Lorenzo would never hurt me, at least not in any lethal way. I have scars all over my body that are hard to see unless you were the one that put them there in the first place that might tell a different story to anyone that isn’t us. He gets off on making me bleed and I get off on watching him get off.

Without prolonging the inevitable, I right myself by flipping to the stage floor and then saunter toward him in the most seductive way I can display, both in the movement of my hips and the raw need in my ice-blue eyes.

Stopping shy of a couple of feet from the edge of the stage, I sit with my six-inch booted feet as far apart as they’ll comfortably spread, granting him all the viewing pleasure he wants to soak up. My boots hang off the edge, hovering above his table. Ren’s eyes finally dip, and as his pupils dilate, I force the smile trying to form on my lips to stay neutral.

“Like what you see, baby?” I can’t help asking, needing and wanting to hear the affirmation from his already open mouth. His tongue juts out and he licks those lips that know how to worship a woman’s body in all the right ways.

His eyelids snap up, his gaze coming back to mine once again. He places both knives on the table far apart. “I wouldn’t own something I didn’t like, Sash.”

Standing, he reaches his long arms toward me, and I’m shocked when he hooks his fingers between the crotch of my jean shorts and my panties, then yanks me onto the table in front of him. If I’d thought he could reach me, I would have sat farther back.

Looking up to him, I see Ren snatch one of the blades off the table from the corner of my eye. He brings the razor-sharp steel to my neck and runs the sharp side of the knife along the column, over the material of my cropped long sleeve, crossing over to the other side and repeating the process, his gaze fixed on his slow movements. When he moves down between my breasts, his eyes flick to mine, a smirk forming on his beautiful lips.

I know what he’s about to do before the knife slices up the middle of my top. I give him an annoyed look. “This was my favorite top.”

“I trust you were smart and bought multiples.” I did, but that’s not the point. “Why are you really mad at me?”

“You know why, Ren. It’s fucking obvious.” He should have told me he owned the New York strip club. We don’t tell each other everything, but I thought we shared enough of our lives with each other.

“No, I’m not talking about keeping the club ownership from you or that I was the only one that ever watched you dance. I’m not even talking about technically being your boss back in New York. You’re mad for another reason and I want to know why, Sash.” He pulls the sheer material from my arms, exposing my breasts. My boobs aren’t as big as the typical stripper or even as big as Sienna’s, but they’re enough for me. I like them and Ren seems to enjoy them if the look in his eyes is any indication.

“Just drop it. Let it go,” I stress. I don’t want to have the conversation he’s pulling at.

“No. I want to know why my fucking wife is pissed.” I lean back against the edge of the stage, done with his questioning. “Sasha,” he says my name in a way that’s laced with a warning.

Setting the blade down, his hands move to my shorts. The top button is already undone and folded over, creating a sexy, partially undressed look I was going for. Reaching for the zipper, he slides it down, and then with both hands he fists the material and pulls the sides of the opening apart with so much force it rips. But I bought more than one pair of shorts too and he knows it. This is us: knife play and destroying perfectly good clothing. Brand-fucking-new clothing at that. It was his credit card, so why I’m complaining I don’t know.

“You should have told me it was you. At least that it was you in my booth instead of some rando.”

“Did you like the thought of a random guy watching you, jerking off to the way you moved your body?”

“What if I did?” I counter instead of answering him.

“Did you?” There’s an edge to his question, his tone low but thick as his voice coats my exposed skin.

He sits back down in his seat, and it’s barely a second before I’m jerked forward in front of him, closer to the edge of the table. Picking up both blades, he swipes under the satin material of my thong on both sides, ridding me of the last bit of covering I was wearing besides my thigh-high boots.

“That’s better,” he says in a hushed tone, as if speaking to himself. Glancing up and meeting my stare, he arches an eyebrow when I’ve yet to respond.

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