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All men are babys or honeys or sugars. You’ve never seen a man grin like a fool until you call them a term of endearment.

Heels clacking, I move to the minibar in the corner of the room. Bottles of liquor, a bottle of lube, and muscle relaxants. I glance over my shoulder. “Drink?”

“Whiskey. Bring the bottle.”

I pour one for him, one for me. Sammy takes his whiskey on the rocks. Two ice cubes. On the audio app, I select the music. The Darkness’s “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” fills the room with an electric energy.

On the couch, Sammy shifts. “How are you, Lady?”

Drinks in hand, I head his way. “I’m perfectly peachy, Sammy.”

I hand him the drink, set my glass and the whiskey bottle on the side table, then slip off my robe. Sammy reclines into the leather couch. His olive-toned face has pockmarks, and his hair is dark and slicked into a comb-over. He’s dressed sharply in a navy suit, with an expensive gold watch and a gold chain around his neck.

I sit on his lap, my thighs across his. “How are you doing, baby?”

Sammy sighs. There’s a story written all over his face.

Everyone thinks sex happens in the back rooms. And it can.

But I don’t fuck clients.

Most men want someone to talk to. And Sammy excels at it. He’s been coming to see me for the last six months. He drops in. I dance. He talks. I listen. He pays.

I pick up on things in the club. I pick up on people. I can read them like nobody’s business. Sammy works hard, and he’s tormented by it. Luckily, I can make his night better.

I adjust his silk tie. Purr, “Have a good day or a bad one?”

He rolls his neck out. Gulps his whiskey. “Slimy.”

“Sorry,” I breathe and reach for my drink. The harsh bite of whiskey hits my tongue as I swallow it down. Good, but I prefer champagne.

“I’m in town for this work thing…”

It’s always a work thing with Sammy. Though he hasn’t told me what profession he’s in, he looks like a banker. Or a politician. I don’t ask questions. That’s not why my clients pay me.

I lift my hips, straddle his lap. I hum happily to the music as I gyrate against his crotch. His dick remains limp in his pants.

In all the times I’ve danced for him, he’s never gotten hard under my touch. Strange, but it makes no difference to me. Limp dick or gay, it’s not my business.

“It’s getting out of control.” Sammy’s breath hitches. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

I bat my lashes, wing up a brow. “Can you quit?”

His eyebrow quirks at my suggestion. “No. You don’t just leave a job like this. They keep you in until the very end.”

Fear and longing linger in his voice. I tilt my head and against my better judgment, ask, “They?”

With a pained face, he sips his whiskey. “I’m here because I have to do something, Lady. I have to escape.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” I plaster a honey-sweet smile on my face. Give him a solution all the men like. “Relax and let Lady Lawless take all your problems away.”

“Can’t fix this.” His pockmarked chin tips down as he looks at me. “I like you too much to do it to you. But they want you as an asset. No more delay. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m already in too deep.”

A chill creeps up my spine at his ramblings, but I keep my voice, my face, neutral. “I don’t mean to be rude, baby, but are you drunk?” I slide a hand up his chest and over his shoulder.

“Dance,” he barks sharply. His stony expression sinks my stomach.

“Pony” by Ginuwine pumps through the speakers. The levity, the energy from moments ago suddenly vanishes.