Page 2 of Seduced By the Billionaire
The dancer’s eyes tightened. She slunk back and crawled off toward the bearded man at the end.
Ronan watched her go, then dropped his eyes to the whiskey. Almost empty—it was time.
He raised the glass, downed it, then finally turned to the bar, his heart hammering against his breastbone. The woman working behind it had long blonde hair that ended in blue tips, an aqua hue that curled seductively over her tank top straps. Deliciously curvy in a way that always made his mouth go dry, made his cock stiffen despite his best efforts to control himself.
She didn’t take her clothes off for money—never walked around in less than that tank top and the short silver skirt that completed her uniform. But, oh, how he wanted to know what she looked like beneath her shimmery outfit.
Jenny lifted a glass from the bar, her slender fingers grabbing a towel to dry it. Graceful. Like a ballerina—everything a dance. She probably fucked like a ballerina, too, smooth and limber and agile.
Ronan swallowed hard. Though he was definitely an asshole for thinking it, those physical attributes were not the things that had drawn him to her. It was the darkly suspicious glint in her eyes, similar to the one he saw in the mirror. It was the way her full lips stayed tight when she was trying to figure out whether to trust you—and she never trusted anyone. It was the scar, deep and angry, that started at her shoulder and sliced down over her heart as if someone had tried to cut it out of her.
The latter was probably why she was a bartender instead of a dancer: Men didn’t like strippers with scars. It made them feel too real, like actual humans with pain and pasts and dreams.
In contrast, billionaires appeared more real when they were knocked down a peg or two. The public would love to see his scars—would love to see him in a place like this, two drinks deep, pretending not to be too interested in a bartender he’d never have.
She had shown no interest in him—he wasn’t an idiot, even if coming here week after week might make him a masochist. But whether he’d ever have her, Ronan’s gut was certain that she needed him. He just didn’t know exactly why.
Jenny froze, her fingertips unmoving on the rim of the glass. She turned her face his way, slowly, tensely. The light hit her high cheekbones, her large, hooded eyes.
Ronan’s breath caught. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to close the distance between them, to press his lips to hers, to trace the curve of her waist with his palm. He leaned back instead, masking the heat in his gaze with a lazy, practiced smirk as he raised his glass and tipped it her way—I’ll take one more. Just another smarmy customer, though more attractive than the rest of this brood.
Muscular and broad-shouldered, and though not as tall as his brothers, he had inherited his father’s strong jawline and his mother’s piercing blue eyes and straight aquiline nose. He spent an hour every morning in the gym sweating out last night’s booze so he could function on the measly four hours he usually slept.
Jenny turned to the back wall, where they kept the whiskey. He took full advantage of her divided attention, watching her pour his drink. But in his mind, she was looking right at him, lips slightly parted as he traced his fingers over her hip to the softness between her legs.
She stiffened, glancing over her shoulder toward his chair, but he turned away.
Ronan licked his dry lips, keeping his gaze on the stage, avoiding the bar. Avoiding her eyes. Pretending he was a good man.
His brother Charles was certain that the world was created for men like them—that power came with wealth, that they were above consequences. Ronan had never subscribed to that, which was probably why he’d ended up in this line of work.
His brother was half-right, though: the world was created for the rich. But it was also created for monsters. And a lot of people were both.
Ronan knew that better than anyone.
Chapter 2
Juliette
He’s here again.
Juliette’s lungs were too small, a fury she had no right to feel burning in her chest. Her throat had stayed tight until he’d waved Desire aside, but the pressure around her rib cage remained.
Desire was everything Juliette would never be again—confident, for one. Beautiful. Unblemished, her creamy skin shimmering in the pastel lights of the club. To think that she’d thought working here might help her build her self-esteem back up. What a fucking joke.
Juliette kept her gaze on the bar, the glass she was drying. She’d already dried it twice, but no one else could tell below the counter—he couldn’t tell.
But he was watching. He was always watching. Unlike the others here, he didn’t so much leer as glance, and every time he did it, her chest felt warm… warm in her lower belly, too, a subtle but insistent throb between her legs. That alone was a shock. She’d never felt anything close to desire for the men in here. Usually she just felt icky—skeeved out.
Or afraid.
He’d been no exception at first. The first month, she’d imagined he was there for her, marching in with way too much confidence, glowering at the room like he owned them all. But he hadn’t approached her once, had never so much as talked to her.
Three times a week, he was just… here. Never touching, never accepting a lap dance. Just watching.
While some of the girls here felt threatened by lecherous eyeballs alone, voyeurs never made a move to actually brush their fingers over your skin, never grabbed your ass. A voyeur had never tried to lift her skirt. The men who got enough out of watching didn’t hurt you. Their imaginations were enough to satisfy them.
But the hairs on her neck were prickling. That man… there was something dark about him—a brooding kind of intensity that felt as dangerous as it was magnetic. He was subtle about it, or at least he thought he was being subtle, but she knew when she was being studied. She’d spent a lifetime being examined.
