Page 5 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)
He smirks, the closest thing to a smile he’s cracked since he called me up here. “Well, Sammi two-first-names Peyton, what kind of job are you looking for?”
I can’t believe I’m saying this. “What kind of job do you want me to do?”
He drops the smile. “I’m a busy man. Let’s cut to the chase. You dance?”
I nod.
“You do private dances?”
I nod.
“You do anything else that sets you apart from the other hundred girls who come here each week looking for a job?”
I smile wickedly. “I can dislocate my jaw so my mouth opens real wide.”
He laughs and slaps the desk in front of him, sending the papers spilling over the side.
“I like you,” he decides. “So why here? I mean, I’m sure you know about our… reputation.”
I try to look young and helpless. “I just got out of a bad relationship,” I say. “Back home in Texas. I could use the protection you offer your employees.”
He sucks on his lip, mulling that over.
“Your ex,” he says. “Is he a member of any rival motorcycle clubs? A cop? Links to anyone I should be aware of?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“You positive about that?”
I nod. “Yeah. He’s just an asshole who thinks he owns me.”
He nods, apparently satisfied with my act. “You wanna dance first or fuck first?” he asks casually.
I grin from ear to ear, because I’m in. And I know it.
“Mr Ross,” I say, leaning over the desk so that my tits are inches from his face, “after I fuck you, it won’t matter how well I dance.”
Dornan slides past me as he shuts and locks the door, making sure to brush his hardness against my ass as he squeezes past. There is plenty of room behind me and it’s completely unnecessary that he even needs to touch me as he walks past, but he obviously feels the need to assert his domination over me. He stands behind me as I face the desk and I can feel his warm breath on my shoulder.
“Turn around,” he commands, and I do. He’s standing so close to me, I can feel the heat radiating from him in the already stuffy room. His pupils are dilated and he’s clearly excited by me.
“Shirt off,” he commands, and I oblige, whipping it over my head so that I am wearing nothing but my tiny cut-off shorts and a scrap of lace that cost way more than a bra of that size should. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the ground between us.
“Nice,” he says, cupping a breast in each hand. “Not real, though.”
I shrug. “I doubt any of your dancers have real ones.”
He smirks, and I shudder inwardly. I’m going to make you a star.
“Shorts,” he says, tugging at the frayed denim that hugs my thighs. It is at this moment that I panic.
Oh, fuck.
My hip bone. The scars. I really hadn’t been expecting to have to screw him right here in the office, not today. I had expected to come in, talk business, and come back to audition at night when the stage was set for the rest of the dancers. I know what will happen if he sees it.
He’ll kill me.
And this will all be for nothing.