Caty’s eyebrows lift, and she gives me a pointed look. “Vincent, why don’t you show Mr. Orlov to the VIP room? I believe it’s available.”
“Cat, I really don’t think—”
“I’ll pay double the rate,” Alex cuts in. “Plus a generous tip for the establishment.” He gives Caty a wink.
Caty’s eyes light up. She places a hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Honey, why don’t you take care of this very nice customer? I’m sure you can make it worth his while.”
I want to say no. Hell no. But Caty has been good to me, took me in when I had nowhere else to go. I owe her. And Alex Orlov represents a lot of potential business—he and his rich friends who are currently making it rain all over the main stage.
I look between Caty’s expectant face and Alex’s satisfied smirk, trapped between a rock and a hard place of my own making.
“Fine,” I say finally, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “One dance.”
“Wonderful!” Caty beams and pats Alex on the arm. “Vincent is one of our very best, but he never does private dances. You’re in for a special treat.”
With that, she sashays back to the bar, leaving me alone with the devil I’ve been trying to avoid.
“After you,” Alex says, gesturing toward the hallway that leads to the private rooms.
I turn without a word, my steps leaden as I head toward what feels like an execution chamber. Behind me, I can feel Alexfollowing too close, his presence like a physical weight against my back. The hallway stretches before us, dim and lined with doors to various private rooms where fantasies are indulged for fifteen minutes at a time.
At the end of the hall waits the Champagne Room—the largest and most luxurious of The Siren’s private spaces. And I’ll be trapped in there with Alex. Alone.
My hand hovers over the door handle, reluctance making my fingers tremble. I know I should do anything but go into that room with him.
But what choice do I have? Where would I go? How would I survive?
I push the door open, stepping into the dimly lit room. The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds to my ears like the final nail in a coffin.
8
Alex
THE CHAMPAGNE ROOM SWALLOWS us into its dim embrace. Vincent steps away from me immediately, putting distance between us. His movement has a familiar grace to it—the same control I remember from watching him dance in the studio all those years ago. But now there’s something else there too. Something seductive, designed to provoke a response. I sink into the plush couch along the back wall, feigning a confidence I don’t feel.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Vincent says, his voice professional and detached.
He moves to the small control panel on the wall, adjusting the music. The beat that fills the room is slower than what plays in the main club, more sensual. I watch him move, taking in details I missed before. The black shirt he wears isn’t fully buttoned, and as he reaches up to the panel, it parts just enough to reveal something underneath—the edge of what looks like blacklace against his skin.
My throat goes dry. Lingerie? Vincent is wearing fucking lingerie?
He turns back to me, and under the neon lights, his eyes glow with an amber intensity. He begins to move to the music, his body language shifting, becoming fluid, hypnotic. Each step brings him closer to where I sit, but he maintains enough distance to stay just out of reach.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice pitched low. “To see what I do for money?”
I don’t answer. My brain has short-circuited at the sight of him moving like this up close—hips rolling with the beat, hands trailing up his own chest, fingers working at another button of his shirt.
The fabric parts further, revealing more of what lies beneath. Definitely lingerie—delicate black lace that contrasts with the hard planes of his pale chest. Gold glitter catches the light as he moves, dusted across his skin.
“Nothing to say now?” Vincent taunts, executing a slow spin that brings him tantalizingly close before he steps away again. “You’ve been following me for weeks, and now you’re speechless?”
I force myself to meet his gaze, to not let my eyes wander back to that hint of lace. “I’m just trying to figure out who the hell you are,” I manage.
Vincent smirks darkly and launches into his routine in earnest.
I’ve seen him perform on stage, but this is different. This is intimate, each movement designed to entice and provoke. His fingers slide up his thighs, across his abdomen, to the buttons of his shirt, which he unfastens one by one with excruciatingslowness. The music pulses around us, creating a world where only we exist.
As the shirt falls completely open, my breath catches. The lingerie is a black lace harness that crisscrosses his chest, framing his muscles in a way that’s both delicate and masculine. Gold glitter catches in the thin straps, making them shimmer as he moves.
