by Sara Cate
“I’m not paying you to fuck me, Zara. One dance.”
My mind can barely process how bizarre this is. My almost brother-in-law shows up out of the blue after two years, and suddenly wants to pay me twenty grand for a lap dance. I can’t seem to wake up from whatever this is.
The bodyguard is still watching us with intensity. Looking around, I realize just how many people are staring. Enough of this crowd recognizes him that I know my face will be all over Instagram tonight, standing mostly naked, with a Wilde.
“You really don’t have a hotel?” I ask, but his drunk stupor interprets my words differently, and his face lights up.
“I can get one.”
I offer him with a harsh glare. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot. I can take you to my place to sober up.”
Spinning on my heels, I dash to the dressing room to grab my things. Once I reach the break room, I pull on my sweats over my thong and slip on a T-shirt, rushing to throw my phone and keys into my duffel bag and run for the back entrance so none of our patrons see me in these clothes. I stop by the manager’s office to let him know there was a family emergency and I have to run. He rolls his eyes at me as I bolt.
Once I’m behind the club, I find Nash waiting for me. He’s holding his phone and leaning against the building for support. “Let’s go.” I call to him as I huff past, and he staggers behind.
When I reach my car, I open the trunk and toss in my stuff. He grabs the passenger door handle, and I pause, staring at him for a moment. Nash Wilde, the man I considered an actual god for years, is sweaty and drunk. What happened to him? The man I knew was polished and exquisite in a way that made me painfully attracted to him. I wanted him so badly then I could hardly speak around him.
Now, he looks broken.
As soon as I climb into my car, him sitting in the passenger seat, I can smell him. His cologne is overwhelming but still I breathe it in, wanting to swim in it. His hand reaches around to rest on the back of my headrest. With his eyes focused on my face, I try to keep my hands from shaking as I drive. This last hour has been a blur, and I’m suddenly desperate for this day to end.
My apartment is a short drive from the club, so it doesn’t take long before we arrive.
“This is where you live?” he asks, judgement lacing his tone.
My complex isn’t that bad, but the valley is expensive, and I’d rather work a few days less a month than stress about something fancier. I feel safe enough here.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like me to drop you off at the Ritz?”
He laughs at my sarcasm as he climbs out of the car. Feeling Nash behind me as we walk toward my apartment, my instincts start to scream at me. What am I doing? I can’t have sex with Nash Wilde. First of all, he’s so drunk he’s hardly in the condition. Second, Nash is a manwhore. He fucks anything that moves, and I hate being a booty call.
Granted it’s been over a year since I’ve been laid, so maybe that’s why I’m unlocking my door with him hot on my heels.
No. That can’t happen. He’ll sleep on the couch. I’m just giving him a warm place to sleep tonight so he doesn’t get himself arrested. Emma would want me to do as much.
“How did you end up at the club so drunk in the first place?” I ask.
“I’ve been at the club all night. Waiting for you to come on.”
I spin around toward him. “Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
His heavy lidded stare sends bolts of lightning to my belly. Ignoring it, I toss my keys and phone on the table and point him toward the couch. “I’m going to go change. Have a seat.”
“I want to watch,” he replies, his voice deep and husky. The apartment is still dark, with only one small lamp illuminating the space. Nash is close behind me when I stop to look back at him.
“Nash,” I warn him, but his hands are on my hips.
“I’m paying for that dance, Zara.” Then, my feet are off the floor and I’m hanging over his shoulder as he carries me to my bedroom. Every siren in my head is going off. I can’t do this with him. I wanted Nash two years ago. But now, having him here in this place brings back every hurtful memory, and it cools my body like ice. His voice, his face, his touch are all constant reminders that I am splintered in two.
“Put me down,” I cry, my voice breaking with threatening emotion.
A moment later, he drops me abruptly to my feet as he falls backward onto my unmade bed. Kicking his feet out, he leans back against his elbows and watches me.
We sit in silence as he waits. “Take off your clothes, Zara.”
I want to tell him to get out. To fuck off. To leave my life and never come back, but it’s Nash, and I’ve been caught in his orbit. I couldn’t get away if I tried.
“Make it twenty-five,” I counter, feeling ballsy. There’s not even so much as a flinch in his expression.
“Fine.”
Fuck. This is really happening. Walking back to my dresser, I flip on my bluetooth speaker and wait for it to connect to my phone. Setting to my favorite playlist, I turn it up loud enough that it will drown out my thoughts while I do this.
In my head, I’m in a private room, and this is a client. Putting on a show is what I do, no emotions involved. For twenty-five thousand, I can do this.
But as I look up, I see his eyes watching me, and he doesn’t look so drunk anymore. He looks sober and ready to devour me. I’m just another girl to him. I know that.
Turning away, I peel my shirt off, letting my long dyed-black hair cascade down my back. Bending at the hips I slide my pants down, hearing his growl at the sight of my ass.
“Come here.”
Warmth pools in my belly. As I step out of the pants, I turn toward him.
This isn’t a regular lap dance. That much is obvious. This is my home, not my work, and he’s not just any client. So while I would usually dance for a while by myself, I can’t seem to keep myself from striding toward him.
Dancing for someone like this is all about chemistry. Without it, it’s too stiff and awkward. But there is so much fire in Nash’s eyes as I saunter up to him that I can feel it lick through every inch of my body. My blood boils, thrumming in my ears when I assume the position, hovering over him and placing one knee on the bed so I’m almost straddling him.
Like in the club, he keeps his hands back as I rub my chest against him, sliding up slowly. Music moves me as I grind, and for a moment, it feels right. I can’t shut my brain off from the warning signs that keep blaring, but I’m able to at least drown them out long enough to do the job that will earn me six months’ worth of tips.
But then when I pull his face to my breasts, just like I would in the club, everything changes. It’s like something snaps in him. He lets out a hearty growl as his hands take hold of my hips and pull me down so I’m lying on top of him. Without his elbows holding him up, we’re horizontal on the bed, and I try to push myself back.
“Nash,” I cry before his mouth latches onto the flesh of my breast, his teeth gnashing at my skin and sending bolts of heat to my core. He only squeezes me tighter, rolling my body until he’s above me, dwarfing my frame on the bed.
“Open up for me,” he whispers into my neck. His knee is pressed between my legs, and for a moment, I consider fighting him. But my mind knows it’s futile. My body is just waiting for my brain to get on board.
“It was just supposed to be a dance,” I argue. His weight on my body is such a welcome sensation that I realize I don’t actually want him to move off of me.
“Open up,” he repeats, this time lower and harsher in a way that makes my toes curl. Finally, my knees fall open and he grinds his hips against me, forcing his rock hard erection against my clit with so much force it hurts.
When his lips reach mine, I crumble. My fight dissolves. Having his tongue in my mouth makes everything so much more intimate and collides two images of Nash into one—my almost brother-in-law who once ignored me, and this wild, broken man
who feels as if he’s crawling into my body for a sense of comfort.
And my body welcomes it.
Touching his face, I run my fingers through his hair as he starts to fumble with the zipper of his pants. Everything happens so fast, we move in a fury. Suddenly I feel his bare cock, against my core, pushing my panties aside.
I barely get my next breath out before he’s inside me. I let out a gasp, overwhelmed with the force of his thrust and how good it feels to be filled again.
But I didn’t want it like this. He’s still clothed, while I’m almost fully naked beneath him. I’m so eager to enjoy it, but he’s stopped looking me in the eye, and he fucks me with his face buried in my neck. Not to mention, he didn’t even bother with a condom. I’m on the pill, but with what I’ve seen in his behavior lately, I have no guarantee that he’s clean.
In a quick motion, he pulls out and flips me around until I’m on my hands and knees. Then he’s back inside me, and I hate the way my body purrs in response. I let out a moan, gripping the sheets between my fingers and silencing every thought in my brain.
Even over the music, I can hear his grunts and the sound of our bodies pounding together. Why am I getting off on this? The way he’s fucking me is something carnal. No foreplay, no connection, but I’m close, so close. The buzz of pleasure steals my breath as my climax comes crashing through me.
Nash thrusts harder, and I know he’s close too.
He grunts as he slams one last time, holding my body tight and spilling himself inside me. We stay that way for a moment, still fused and panting. It all feels so raw, the intimacy gone. My dreams of sleeping with Nash Wilde suddenly seem so trivial now. He’s still in his black slacks and navy blue button-up shirt with the zipper open and his erection hanging out. He couldn’t even get fully undressed. This was never about me. I was an easy fuck and I didn’t put up much of a fight.
I don’t know if this means I want my twenty-five-grand or not.
Quickly, he zips himself up, and I move to face him.
“You couldn’t even bother with a condom? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He groans. “You’re on the pill, right?”
“Of course, but do you have any idea how fucked up that is? This isn’t like you.”
I try to stomp away to the bathroom, but he latches an arm around my waist and pulls me back to his lap.
“I’m clean,” he mutters against my neck. I huff, pulling away. My anger is growing with each passing second, and if I don’t get away from him, I know he’ll see me cry, and I’m not ready for that.
“Bullshit,” I snap, shoving away again. I grab my clothes off the floor and pull them on. Just as I’m about to tell him to leave, he stands up and walks to the door.
“I’m sorry, Zara,” he mutters, and I barely got a word out before he’s gone.
Just like that, I’m alone. Before my emotions take over, I rush to the bathroom. Once I have to face myself in the mirror, I don’t stare too long at the girl in the reflection.
There is no recognition anymore. Shortly after Emma died, I bought a box of store-brand black dye and I erased her from my appearance. Because this wasted girl in the mirror doesn’t deserve to look like my sister.
2
It’s been two weeks since Nash Wilde came in like a storm. I haven’t heard from him since, except for the twenty-five thousand dollar deposit in my bank account the next day. I should be more excited about that, but the whole thing left me feeling used. I knew I was only a pit stop on his little road trip through town. And yet, it still took me days to mentally accept it even fucking happened.
I slept with Nash.
No, I was fucked by Nash.
Now it feels like a dream. Our picture at the club made its rounds on social media just like I knew it would, but I went mostly unnamed. A few people speculated about my identity, but not one person figured out I was his dead brother’s girlfriend’s twin. Preston didn’t live in the limelight the way Nash does. When they died, it was a blip on the radar.
The club is empty for a Thursday night. Still, I find myself searching the faces for a familiar one. He came in so abruptly I expected him to be around every corner now.
“You have a request,” one of the girls says to me as I pass her on the floor. “In number four.”
I don’t bother asking who it is, expecting one of my regulars. I sulk quietly over to the last room on the right, quickly fixing my hair and adjusting my corset before I walk in. There’s a dark figure standing by the window. He’s alone, staring out toward the city lights nestled around the mountain in the horizon. I don’t recognize him by his figure alone, so I cross the room slowly, letting the click-click of my heels against the floor alert him of my presence. He doesn’t turn around.
The music is softer in here than on the floor so it allows for a little more conversation before the dance. As I approach him, I run my hand along the back of his suit. The material is thick and has the hefty feel of luxury.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say in a low, husky tone as I come around to see his face.
My heart plummets to the floor as my eyes adjust to the dim light.
Alistair Wilde.
Alistair-fucking-Wilde is standing in my club, waiting for a private lap dance. My mind feels like a broken record that can only utter one word over and over again. No, no, no, no.
“Hello, Zara,” he says quietly with that deep tone and those fierce eyes that always look so cool and confident.
As one of the richest men in America, he’s intimidated me from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Now, he’s standing in my club, and I have nothing on except for a corset with my breasts spilling out the top and a pair of see-through panties. This isn’t fucking happening.
Unlike his son, he’s not staring at my body. Aside from a quick glance to my face, he keeps his eyes on the window. Is he here for a dance? Or did Nash tell him how easy it was to get between my legs so now he’s here to get a piece for himself?
I’m swept away with this feeling of being in trouble even though I’ve never done anything wrong. If he did find out about Nash and me, is he angry? He’s probably here to buy my silence so I don’t tell anyone what a hot mess his son has turned into.
“Hello,” I reply, trying to look as confident as I can, keeping my hand on my hip and my tits pressed upward. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to stay in character, but the way he greeted me makes me think he’s here to talk to me, not get a lap dance.
He raises a glass full of amber liquid to his lips. Silently I wait for his next words. When he finally looks my way, he lets out a sigh and sets down his drink on the table. Then, he quickly shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, keeping his gaze over my head. My eyes dance over to the cameras in the corners. I should be dancing. I could get in trouble for this, and after the incident with Nash, I’m already on my boss’s bad side.
“Don’t worry. I spoke to your manager.”
“Is this about Nash?” I ask. I’m starting to feel restless and ready to get him out of here.
This time when he turns toward me, he looks me in the eye. For a moment, I’m struck speechless. I’m back at the house, standing by the pool, watching one of the most powerful men I’ve ever met crumble like ash.
“Yes, it is.” Then, he turns and walks to the low velvet couch and sits down, knees wide, putting his arm along the back. In the low light, I can only see his eyes and the silhouette of his features. Nash didn’t inherit much from his father except for his heavy brow and harsh, cold expression. They don’t look much alike, but they are both attractive in their own ways. What I wouldn’t give to have clients like Alistair Wilde all the time. Rich and handsome.
He gestures to the couch on the other side of the platform with the pole in the middle. Obediently, I walk over and have a seat, still holding his jacket over my shoulders.
“I know Nash came to see you.”
I assume he knows this from social media, but I still feel the s
corch under my skin when I think about Nash in my apartment, pulling my panties aside and owning my body so roughly. I avert my gaze.
“I’m sorry for the trouble he caused,” he says before taking another drink. Did he just apologize to me? The Wildes don’t apologize, and now I see the slightest shift in his behavior, how he’s a little different now. His shoulders hang a bit lower, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. When I saw him at the funeral he looked so unfeeling and cold, but now I can tell the pain has been literally spoiling him from the inside.
That stare of his is intense, and it’s settled on me. I feel like a child in front of him, constantly glancing away because I don’t have the nerve to stare at someone the way he’s looking at me.
“It’s fine,” I say instead of telling him how pissed I was at Nash for almost getting me fired and so clearly using me. It’s not Alistair’s apology I want. But then again...what the fuck is an apology worth? Nothing.
But I understand what this is now. He’s making a proper apology, so I don’t cause any trouble. It seems a little late for that, but I shrug it off anyway. The next few moments pass in silence, and there are so many questions floating around my mind, but I don’t have the nerve to ask them.
After Emma died and we laid her in the ground at a funeral far more extravagant than I could have afforded, I assumed I would never hear from the Wilde family again. There was nothing tying us together anymore.
He takes another drink, still watching me. He dwarfs that tiny couch, and I find myself squeezing my thighs together under his gaze. I never bothered lusting after Alistair before. He’s miles out of my league, but fuck, he’s still nice to look at.
“Nash seems to like you.” His eyes narrow a bit as he says it and I feel like he’s scrutinizing me, wondering what on earth his son would see in me. In my chest, my heart is knocking against my ribcage, sending bolts of heat to my face, and it’s filling my head with fog.
Nash likes me? As what...a pet? A quick fuck? Someone willing to shake her ass in his face for money?
