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And I want her to like it.
It’s an unfamiliar sensation, caring about the pleasure of a woman. I’m not some virgin boy who doesn’t know the ins and outs of women’s bodies, of what they like. It’s just not a priority for me. I have no interest in being with a woman unless she’s willing to accept a certain set of terms from me. I set the rules, I set the contact times, how often, and I always, always, tell her when she’s allowed to come.
I’m driving toward Cascade before I know it, my hands gripping the wheel firmly, my phone on the seat next to me, having already informed Heather to have Ashley at the backdoor of the club and ready to join me in my car.
She’d sounded confused, and a little annoyed.
"I’m not running a dating service, Luca," she’d huffed.
"You’ll do this," I’d told her, "or you’ll lose everything you’ve worked for, you got that?" She went silent in shock. But then I’ve never flexed my position over her before, not in all the years we’ve worked together. "Fuck you, Greco," she muttered, and hung up. But I knew she’d do it.
I never ask for anything for myself. I never take, always giving to my family, to everyone connected to the Greco name.
Now I want. I want her. Ashley Morrow.
She’ll come with me, and I’ll make her mine.
I drive past Cascade, the street crowded, and the valet parkers already having trouble keeping up with the demands. The back entrance, where the girls come and go, is quiet. No cars.
Good.
I pull into the alley and park the car. There’s a back-entrance, and it’s not locked. I’m about to text Heather again when the door opens, and a girl walks out. Not her.
I narrow my eyes, and the girl glances around, then back at me, her shoulders hunched.
"Looking for someone?" she asks, and her voice is low, a rasp, a little smoky.
"Heather sent you? Who the fuck are you?" I get out of my car, an unholy rage pulsing in my chest, making it hard to think. Is Heather playing with me? Sending me some blonde thing with big tits bursting out of her hoodie, thinking that would placate me?
"B-Beth," she says, and when I get up close, she’s pale under her makeup, afraid of me, like she’s worried I’m going to rough her up. I make a disgusted noise in the back of my throat, and push past her, ignoring the fact I’ve just left my car in the middle of the alley. Nobody around here is going to dare put a finger on it.
The hall inside is dark and shadowed, and I take the stairs up to the change room, not bothering to knock before I step inside. At first, no one notices I’m there, their eyes blinded and dazzled by their change-table lights, and the rest of the room thrown into darkness.
I see her before anyone else sees me. She’s half-dressed, her top off, and I get a good look at her bare back, the dimples above the line of her jeans, her brown hair falling down her back. And in the mirror— my breath catches. Her face, light, no fear there, relaxed confidence as she chats with her seat-mate, another brunette but this one with a short, slicked-back bob. I barely notice her.
Because Ashley’s half-nude, her breasts full and exposed, fully on display in the mirror as I watch her. My hand grips the doorknob behind me, squeezing it tightly. I could turn around, right now, and go.
Or, I could keep going, and fuck up everything.
But the image is seared into my brain, the sight of her, and I want to match it, meet it with the feel of her skin still under my hands. I fucking want her. I’m rock-hard in my suit pants, heat creeping up my stomach, a tightness inside of me that is desperate to feel hers.
Fuck.
I clear my throat, and she turns, her green eyes meeting mine.
It’s like a punch in the gut. She’s even prettier in the real world, no music, no smoke, no lights, nothing between us. The rest of the girls, the room, fades away, and it’s just us.
Her eyes widen, and her arm goes up, across her chest, covering her soft nipples, budding in the cool of the room.
"What the hell," a voice demands, "Luca, you can’t be in here, are you crazy?"
I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
Ashley Morrow, you are mine.
I turn, Heather’s enraged face glaring up at mine, and she grabs me by the arm, like I’m a child, dragging me out of the room before I can say anything.
Heather agreed. One dance. One private dance, in the upstairs lounge, and then I had to go. I might be the head of the Greco family, but Heather was furious at me for endangering the careful boundary between me and the staff and dancers of Cascade.
