Page 39

Sultry music plays from the speakers, the bass vibrating in my ears.

The central space is large, almost three times the size of the bullpen at Pietra, with the walls lit up in dark violet, just like her eyes.

Four lighted columns are at the corners of a rectangular stage, which is also backlit by the glass floor and punctuated by three silver poles, currently being occupied by three svelte women in glittering lingerie, contorting their bodies into impossible poses.

Groups of men sit at circular tables surrounding the stage, apparently mesmerized by the dancers twirling around the poles.

My dick doesn’t twitch at the half-dressed women, my blood doesn’t heat from the spicy, smoky fragrance lingering in the air, my loins don’t stir as I scan the surroundings, noting several private rooms on the right and a row of private, darkened stalls on the left where some men are groaning as they receive lap dances from the girls.

Sex and sin are in the air, but my mind is only focused on one thing—finding Grace, or Genevieve, and the desperate tugging renews in my gut.

Suddenly, the music changes to another sexy, jazz piece, a singer decked out in a sequin dress rasping sultry lyrics into the microphone, something about sirens and possession.

The three dancers disappear into the small crowds and giggles and hushed laughter fill the air.

My breath freezes in my lungs as a vixen appears on stage, her rich brown tresses curled into loose waves, falling over her chest and back.

She’s wearing a glittering, fitted jacket, which covers her entire torso, ending at the tops of her thighs, hiding everything, and yet showing swaths of skin and legs clad in fuck me, leather boots.

Grace.

She smiles coyly at the crowd, her hips swaying to the music, her fingers playing with the lone gold button keeping the blazer from falling open and revealing her charms. Her cleavage glimmers under the violet light, tempting anyone with a pair of functioning eyes.

She bites her luscious, blood-red pout and dips her torso toward the floor, thrusting out her round ass, still mostly hidden by the jacket.

Blood rushes straight to my cock as the chattering in the room quiets into the background, the pulsing in my ears matching the sultry thumps of the song.

My mind can’t reconcile the innocent intern who was temptation embodied in those early hours in the office and this sexual seductress on the stage.

My legs move of their own accord, my mind mucked with lust and heat, and I find an empty table in front of the stage and sit down, my hands grabbing the cool, marble table in a last-ditch effort to keep my wits about me.

Grace unleashes another deadly smile as she gyrates her hips to the music, her motions fluid and languid, her fingers trailing over the jacket to cup her breasts, giving them a thorough squeeze. Her lips part as if she’s moaning, and I almost come in my pants.

She flicks open the lone button on her jacket and the flimsy material pools on the floor, revealing her tight little body clad in a diamond-studded bra and thong, the lingerie barely concealing anything.

Her tits sway and shake with the music as she closes her eyes, her hands trailing down the slender column of her neck, graze her luscious, creamy tits, smooth over her the pale expanse of her belly, and cover the little scrap of fabric over her pussy.

My mouth waters as I curl my fingers around the edge of the table, the marble digging into my palms, but I don’t notice the pain.

She falls to the ground and humps the floor, her plump ass rising and falling in rapid succession, and a collective groan of torture reverberates in the room as everyone focuses on her sensual rhythm. It’s almost like she’s fucking an invisible person in full view of everyone.

My cock is rock hard, the boiling heat in my veins burning with a mixture of lust and anger.

My hands curl into fists as I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat, every muscle in my body fighting the impulse to rush up on the stage and pull her off it, to hide her from the leering glances of the men in the room.

I want to haul her to one of the private rooms, kiss the living daylights out of her as I tear the little scraps of clothing from her body, and pound into her tight pussy until she sees stars.

Her eyes flicker open as she scans the room, a teasing grin on her face, but the merriment doesn’t reach those violet pools. Somehow, that dimness is a blade to my chest, the scything agony so piercing, it shatters the mist of lust and I break out into a sweat.

Her eyes widen when they fall on me, and her rhythm falters.

She gnaws her lips—this time it’s not a ploy to be seductive—her legs trembling for a second before she twists her mouth into a smile, much more forced than before.

Her gaze flits away and a flush creeps up her pale skin and her body moves in a series of practiced moves, but now they seem more robotic.

The last chords of the music soon fade into silence with her last pose being her lying supine on the ground, her tits arched up in the air, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The room erupts into applause and hollers from the men.

She flies off the stage in a hurry, like she’s being chased by a monster.

I don’t think so, little Grace.

I follow suit, my legs carrying me as fast as I can toward the innocent vixen who has my heart in a twist, my dick as hard as a rock, my mind in a craze.

I ignore the pointed stares and hushed whispers as I run toward her, my hand tugging my tie loose from my neck, my lungs needing more air, more oxygen to clear this murderous rage scorching inside me like a volcanic eruption.

Reaching her in a few strides, I grab her arm and spin her around right before she darts into a door to the back rooms.

“Grace.” Her name comes out in a hoarse pant, my voice barely recognizable.

Her eyes flash in something unrecognizable as she wenches her arm free. “It’s Genevieve.”

“I don’t care. We’re leaving.”

My free hand flies over my torso, unbuttoning the double-breasted jacket—there are too many damn buttons—and I throw my jacket over her shoulders, wanting to hide her from the world.

I grip her wrist and tug her toward the front doors, not caring I’m causing a scene as she struggles half-heartedly before stomping on my feet with her shoes.

Pain flashes through me and I let go of her, the lava in my veins corroding my insides in an agonizing burn. Another refusal. Another rejection.

“Why?” That’s the only word I’m capable of at the moment. The ache shoots to my chest and I can’t breathe once again.

She swallows and wobbles back a few steps. Her large eyes glisten with unshed tears in the dim light and she shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Unable to comprehend, I close our distance and grab her hands again. Rational thought has pulverized into dust. I just need her to leave this place with me. Then we can figure everything else out.

I don’t know what happened all those months ago. I don’t know how she ended up here. I don’t know why she seems so despondent.

I just know I want—no, need—to take care of her, to get her out of here, to solve all her problems. For the first time in my life, I want to risk it all—my heart, my emotions, all the dead pieces of me I’ve accumulated in the darkness over the years.

I want to curl myself around her and surround myself with everything that’s her.

I know she’d take good care of all my broken shards, invisible scars, and ripping seams.

And I want to do the same for her.

And she wants me. I know she does. That scorching kiss. She has to want me back, right?

“We’re leaving. You’re miserable. You can’t work here,” I growl, renewed resolve lacing through me, pulling her beside me once more, the red haze from moments ago still clouding my senses.

“No!” She flings my hand away, her eyes flashing in anger. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life after everything. You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do. I’m doing fine. Leave me the hell alone.”

She whirls away and darts into the back rooms, leaving me with a bleeding wound in my chest, my tattered heart lying at her feet.