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I t’s almost like leading a lamb to the slaughter, the way most men just turn into putty when a woman beckons them to follow her to a lair of pleasure. Many a time, I’ve wondered how difficult it would be to off a man when he’s in the throes of lust and passion. Break his too-hard dick with a snap, incapacitate him, then slam a hand onto his throat to choke him with his own Adam’s apple.

Sometimes, that might work. Other times, the man in question will give the appearance he’s complying, the beast in him just lurking under the surface. One wrong move, and he’ll come to the fore, his hand on the woman’s throat to choke the very life out of her.

A man like Stefano Beccario brings such an image to mind. Not only is he tall and big, his muscles rippling, his vitality at its peak because he’s young and very far from middle age, but there’s an unmistakable edge to him, a pulsing of power thrumming just beneath his golden olive skin.

As such, it’s not a lamb I’m leading to slaughter as I make my way to the smallest private room along the back corridor. I’m walking myself to the altar, the sacrificial virgin in this scenario. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for my freedom, meaning there’s nothing I wouldn’t surrender to Stefano Beccario because he’s my ticket out of Torino and this life I’ve been thrust into.

His energy pulsates behind me as he follows. The warmth from his broad frame is radiating out to me, and I can’t get the image of his big hands out of my mind. Will they be as hot as I’m imagining he is? Does passion remain bridled inside him, or does he unleash when he’s with a lover?

Heat suffuses my entire being, burning my cheeks when I push the door open and welcome him into the private room I decked out before going to find him in the booth. The lights are low with a soft focus, the cushions on the banquette plumped up, a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Brut champagne propped in a bucket full of ice.

“Sit,” I say quietly.

I don’t look to see how he lowers himself to the seat, whether he stays rigid or he sprawls out. I’m not here for an experience; I’m here for a job. The sooner I get it over with, the better, but I can’t seem too expedient. My future rests in Stefano’s hands.

“What kind of music do you like?” I ask, my hand hovering on the tablet connected to the sound system in the room.

“You choose.”

I’ve never really been one for lap dances, most of the time finding myself on my back or on my knees as a john fucks me. How would I do it, in a fantasy? I go with that flow and find the perfect track. It’s ironic that I’ve chosen The Weeknd’s “High For This” when I’m the most sober I’ve ever been in this moment. And Stefano Beccario’s body under me? I don’t want to be high for this because I want to feel every second of touching him and being with him even though this evening has been imposed on me.

The high whine of the track’s opening reverberates in the room. My hand goes to the pins holding my hair back—as a hostess, I get to keep it in an updo. The long locks flow over my shoulders and back, and I take a deep breath as the singer’s voice overlaps on the music.

Stefano isn’t slouching, nor is he sitting rigidly—just a man confident in his position, in his own skin. His deep-set eyes have narrowed on me, and I’d swear his nostrils flare as he hitches in a sharp inhale. The sound is audible when I place a hand on his knee and start running my fingers up his thigh.

Our eyes lock at some point, and a part of me frowns. It’s so intimate, giving a lap dance like this. It’s almost like he’s looking deep into me, seeing parts of me even I’m not privy to. And in his clear hazel eyes, all I can see is heat, fire, the flames of desire eating him up from the inside and on the verge of jumping over to ignite me like I’m dry tinder coming into contact with an all-consuming spark.

It's disorienting, this plunge into another, and had my knees not been straddling his legs, I would’ve tipped over. Bracing my core, I stay upright, but his hands have come up, clasping my hips in his strong grip, yet his touch is also light enough to just keep me in check.

The chorus is over by this point, the track launching into the second verse. The way Stefano is holding me, and spurred by the lyrics, I’m expecting him to lay me down as he moves along to hover over me, his groin pressed to my core. But he seems to be hesitating—I can see it in the shiftiness of his eyes, the furrowed line digging itself between his brows.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

Sometimes, even powerful men need a little urging.

“Kaya… You want this?”

I’d never have expected a man like him to ask. He’s Mafia, a future enforcer, the godson of the Don. It warms a part of me that he’s concerned enough to ensure my consent.

“Yes,” I breathe out.

He blinks. “Are you sure?”

I don’t know what I register first. Is it the wary tone, or the way his hands have tightened on my hips, no longer the sensual touch of a lover but that of a man staying me from doing something he doesn’t want.

“I…I’m sorry,” I blurt out, pulling away from him. Stefano drops his hands as I climb down from the banquette, my head lowered. “I must have misunderstood. Scusa. Mi dispiace. ”

He must figure out I’m apologizing, even though I’ve gone overboard. I was worried the cover-all scusa wasn’t gonna be enough to address my blunder.

“No, Kaya. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the bad impression.”

“Wrong.”

“ Scusa ?”

“You give someone the wrong impression, not the bad impression.”

“ Mi dispiace . See, that’s why it’s good to practice English with a native speaker.”

And suddenly, with this self-deprecating note and the smile in his tone, he disarms me so powerfully, I can’t help myself from laughing, the twinkle in his eye contagious.

“You look even more beautiful when you smile, ama .”

Slowly, the smile dies. It’s not often I’ve had reason to rejoice lately.

“And now I’ve gone and done it. Merda . The light, it has died from your eyes.”

The sincerity and the dejection in his voice are so palpable, it breaks my heart to hear him berating himself this way.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

He shrugs. “Still, allow me to make it up to you? Please?”

This evening is supposed to be his, after all. And I can’t run the risk of him going to Don Rossi and telling him I haven’t upheld my end of the deal. Too much runs on keeping him happy tonight.

“Okay.”

“ Va bene! ” he crows. “Sit. Let me take care of everything.”

I find myself in the love seat across from the banquette, his hands pushing gently on my shoulders so I’m landing on my butt on the fat cushions. I’ve hardly settled down when the pop of the champagne bottle goes off and pale gold liquid is frothing in the flutes, one of which is pressed into my hand.

“Can I change the music?” he asks.

“Sure.”

The slow RnB playlist is just too sensual now. It will be a relief to listen to anything else.

But my surprise is strong when strings of violin reverberate in the closed room.

“Is that… The Four Seasons ?”

Stefano beams as he turns back to me. “By Vivaldi, yes. This is Spring .”

“Classical music is your thing?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

More than miffed, he sounds hurt.

“No! I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…”

How to get out of this without putting my foot even more into my mouth?

“I look like a hooligan gym bro meat head who seems more into hard rock?”

“Uhm, yes?”

Again, his glib manner is so disarming, I’m getting all flustered and discombobulated again.

Stefano laughs. “No offense taken.”

He’s got such a beautiful laugh, rich and deep and silky, I’m finding myself having the inane thought that I should bottle this sound and replay it to my heart’s content for the rest of time.

He sits down and takes a long sip of champagne. Then his intense gaze alights on me, and instead of making me want to squirm, it’s making me blush. Imagine if this is how he looks at a lover in the bedroom…

“Whose idea was it to give me a lap dance tonight?”

I can’t throw the Don under the bus. Plus he never did say this expressly.

“Mine.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He’s smiling as he says this, though. “Don Giacomo put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He means well.”

Stefano’s hauntingly beautiful face goes somber for a second. “I suppose so.”

I can’t let bad blood settle between these two because of me. “It was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. When a woman comes to me, Kaya, she does it of her own free will.”

My eyelids flutter at the conviction in his words. He’s right—he doesn’t need to coerce or bribe or pay anyone to be with him. Any other man in his position earlier would’ve had his cock buried inside my pussy and pounding away without a care before that song had been over. Not Stefano. He requested my consent then didn’t go further when he wasn’t convinced.

Now I understand why he’s got a reputation as such a lady-killer. Respecting a woman is super-hot.

“So you don’t like classical music, Kaya.”

The change in topics is welcome. “I never said that. I don’t know classical music enough to have an opinion.”

“Hmm. Do you waltz?”

My eyes must be about to boggle so wide they’re now open. “Uh, I don’t even know classical, remember?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He’s up in a flash, the music changing to a pitter-patter rhythm that gets a little familiar a few beats in. He’s pulling me out of my seat next, placing one of my hands on his shoulder, the other clasped in his grip. His right palm finds its way onto my left shoulder blade.

“Elbows wide and shoulders up. Follow my lead.”

He steps in one direction, and it’s not hard to flow along with him. Back and forth, a bit to the side each time, until we’re cruising around the small expanse without either of us stepping on the other’s toes. I don’t know for how long we dance—it feels like a long time—but time seems to suspend itself during this track.

When it comes to an end, I’m breathing a tad heavily. Even in my heels, and I’m not petite or short by any definition, I still have to tilt my head back a little to peer into Stefano’s eyes.

Our gazes lock, then his travels to my slightly open mouth and down onto my heaving chest. His lips part, the tip of his tongue coming out to wet the smooth flesh of his full lower lip. I’m suddenly dying to feel that wetness on my own mouth, to have his tongue caress along the seam of my lips while seeking entry to then plunder my depths.

“This won’t do,” he breathes out.

“What?”

“We broke the rules.”

“We did?”

He nods. “Less than a hand’s breadth between us. This is a no-no.”

I can’t detect the slightest hint of humor in his tone. “Seriously?”

My breasts are tight and hurting, my nipples pebbled peaks straining against the leather of my bustier in their bid to be pressed against the expanse of his strong chest which is right there just an inch or so away. Pure torture.

When Stefano hitches in a breath, I inhale sharply, too. His gaze has tracked back to mine before returning to the heaving mounds above the line of my corset. I can almost see temptation warring over his taut features as he seems to debate whether to sink his lips and teeth into my willing flesh or stay put.

“Stefano,” I gasp out softly.

He shakes his head. “We’re going to break all the rules, you and me.”

“Yes.”

There’s nothing else I can think of or want more right now.

“Come on a date with me, Kaya.”