“What’s your name, darlin?” he asks finally, apparently satisfied with my looks. He is still just as blatantly attractive as he was six years ago. Black hair. Wide, sensual lips. Three days growth on his face that makes him look tough and rugged, but not unattractively so. My stomach sinks as I realize that I was wrong, that he and Jase are actually strikingly similar in looks.

 “Astrid,” I answer, feeling like my heart is about to pound out of my chest.

 “Not your stage name,” he says, looking irritated. “Your real name.”

 “Samantha. Sammi.”

 He looks unimpressed. “You twenty-one?”

 I nod. “Twenty-two, actually.”

 “You got ID to prove that?”

 I nod, sliding my fake ID out of my back pocket and handing it to him. I fight back the urge to flee as my fingers brush against his.

 He leans back in his chair and studies the small rectangular card. I know he is looking for signs it’s a fake. He holds it up to the light, turns it over in his palm, and scrapes his thumbnail along the edge.

 “It’s real,” I say. He doesn’t respond.

 “What’d you say your name was, again?”

 “Sammi. Samantha Peyton.”

 “Two first names?” he says dubiously. “Who has two first names?”

 I smile. “I don’t know, Mr. Ross. It is a little strange.”

 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.

He can see my hesitation and steps back.

“You sure you can handle this kind of work?” he asks me, obviously unimpressed.

I smile tightly. “Of course. I just wasn’t expecting it to be today.”

“You gonna fuck better next week?” he asks impatiently.

“No,” I say quickly. I turn around, shimmy out of my shorts and panties so that I am completely naked, and place my palms flat against the desk. I turn my head to see Dornan watching me with what appears to be a mixture of lust and intrigue.

“I was just thinking,” I shrug, flashing him a wicked grin, “I should show you my best stuff straight off the bat.”

He laughs and slaps my bare ass with his open hand, squeezing a handful of flesh.

He leans close to my ear, tugging a handful of my long brown hair, forcing my head back. “What do you want from me?” he asks quietly.

I think of how he ruined my life, how he ripped my father from me, how he took my virginity and shared it with his equally sick bastard offspring. I think of the past six years, of staying hidden, of fearing for my life, and I set my jaw squarely.

I want to make you suffer.

“I want you to make me a star,” I say sweetly. I want to bury you alive, you murdering fucking asshole.

He grins. “Now that I can do.”

I turn back to the desk and take a deep breath.

“Well, come on, then,” I say, grinding myself against his hardness. “Before I change my mind.”

I hear a zipper, and feel his fingers as they explore my pussy. “You don’t get to change your mind with me.”

 I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my lip, tasting blood as he spits on his hand, using it to lube his cock. I tense as I feel the tip of his shaft press against my opening.

 I moan in pain as he shoves his cock deep inside my ass and groans loudly.

“Thought you liked it this way, sweetheart,” he says, his balls slapping against skin as he gains speed with his strokes. Each time he pulls out, he thrusts back in with such force, I want to cry.

“I love it,” I whisper, hating every second of it.

 I force myself to keep up the act, thankful that he won’t see my tell-tale branding, and vow to get a tattoo to cover my stupid fucking scars first thing tomorrow morning.

 I gasp as I feel a finger press against my clit, and despite my hatred, my traitorous body responds, melting like butter in the midday sun. I suck in a breath as he continues to pleasure me, and I feel my inner resistance fraying and weakening with every swirl of his fingertip. My ass is a cataclysm of pleasure and pain, and the way he is thrumming his fingers against my clit is making me dangerously close to coming.

I am defenceless against his skilled hands as he brings me to the crest of climax, a bitter war waging within me.

Because it shouldn’t feel this good.

I moan, bucking my hips against his as my body betrays me completely, greedy for that climax, eager for release.

“Baby girl,” Dornan moans, as I explode into a million pieces underneath his deft fingers. That must turn him on, because just as my core clenches and I come, Dornan pulls out of me, stays completely still for a moment, and then groans that groan, pushing my face against the desk and spilling hot cum all over my lower back.

 I force myself to stay perfectly still, my legs shaking slightly because I’ve been on my tiptoes, my cheek pressed against the cool desk, because if I don’t, I’ll scream. I’ll scream and claw at his eyes and try to rip them out.

 And I can’t. I can’t just end it all, especially now that I’ve let him inside me again.

 He puffs, catching his breath, his hands still loose around my hips. I lean awkwardly over the desk, mindful that if I stand up straight I’ll make a mess on the floor. Dornan reaches for a box of tissues on the desk and wipes his sticky fluid from my skin.

 “Thanks,” I murmur, turning around to face him, my arm precariously covering my hip. He definitely looks more relaxed than when I first arrived, though he looks tired, too. Too many late nights. Too much blood on his hands. Too many innocent lives, ended at his will.

 He strokes my breasts, seemingly absent-minded. I want to push him away, to grab the silver letter-opener from his desk and jam it straight into the family crest on the back of his neck.

 “You can clean up in there,” he says, pointing to the bathroom that adjoins the office. “Take a shower if you want.”

 I’ll be taking a shower. The hottest fucking shower ever to burn your touch off my skin.

 “I’ll be quick,” I say, high-tailing it into the bathroom with my clothes still held over my torso, covering my scars. I close the door, fighting an inner battle as to whether I should lock the door or not. In the end I don’t, but I pull my shorts on immediately, not bothering with the shower. I immediately feel better once they’re zipped up and the marred flesh on my hipbone is covered. I grab a towel from the shelf and run it under the faucet until the water is warm, adding a squirt of soap to the material. I wash my back as best I can. I just need to be presentable enough to get back to my hotel before I give myself third-degree burns in the privacy of my own shower.