Almost too soft to be heard, I mutter, “Arrogant asshole…”
“I’m pretty sure you have a set in a few minutes, and I don’t think your boss will take kindly to you being late.” Cillian flicks his finger under my chin and winks at me. Slowly turning on his heel, he walks away from me. He makes it a fewfeet before calling over his shoulder, “And, Madison, if you’re trying out cute names for me, I much prefer Daddy over asshole.”
“Smug fucker,” I mumble under my breath, hating how badly I still want him, even when I fucking despise him. Back in the dressing room, I ignore the grumblings from the other girls. I quickly retouch my makeup with calm, deliberate precision, making sure every line is sharp and every detail is perfect.
If that cocky fucker is going to watch everything I do, I’m going to give him something to see.
I strut onto the stage with my over-the-knee stiletto boots clicking against the shiny surface, wearing nothing but a sheer black mini dress and a G-string—leaving nearly all of me on display. The spotlight falls on me as the music rises, and the room stills the way it always does, but I don’t dance for them. I dance for myself. If I’m being honest with myself, I dance for him, too, defiantly showing him whatdoesn’tbelong to him.
Cillian is exactly where I expect him to be—in the owners’ booth, half-shadowed by the lights of the club and swirling a drink on the table. I grip the pole above my head and slide my ass down the length of it. His eyes don’t leave me—not for a second.Good. Dropping to my knees, I hold his gaze and crawl across the stage until I’m leaning over the edge. I daintily wrap my fingers around the tie of the man sitting before me and abruptly yank him toward the stage. Holding the silk firmly, I roll onto my back and seductively thrust my hips. The man leans over me as I pull at him harder, his face only inches from mine as I lift my feet into the air and slowly spread my legs into a wide V.
Watching me, Cillian’s fingers tighten around the glass with such force I expect it to explode in his hand. His jaw clenches,and his knuckles grow white. He stands from his seat hastily—ire filling his eyes and flaring his nostrils—only to be dragged back by Nikolai’s firm hand. Angered words pass between them as I place the man’s hands on my hips. Cillian’s heated gaze sears through me as I drag the client’s hands along my skin. Defying him should be satisfying, but it isn’t. He’s raging with anger, but seeing how desperate he is to keep me to himself has me burning with desire.
Fuck… This man is going to ruin my life.
It’s been three nights since I’ve gotten any sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Madison on that stage, that sheer black dress clinging to her perfect body like a second skin. What Madison did up there wasn’t dancing. It was a fucking torturous declaration of war. Her eyes found me in the crowd like she was aiming a loaded gun at my restraint as she defied me like the little brat she is. She held my stare as a dare, putting that asshole’s hands on her and punishing me with every sway of her hips, letting him touch what’smine.It was her way of punishing me for sidelining her, and fuck if it didn’t work.
I pull my phone from my pocket again, checking for a reply. Still nothing. Not even the courtesy of a read receipt. She’s ignoring every damn message I’ve sent since our confrontationthe other night. That does nothing to stop me from sending another.
As much as I dislike your public display of defiance, you have no idea what being ignored is doing to me.
Still nothing from her. I’m so consumed by thoughts of correcting her behavior that I’ve been sipping the same drink for the past hour, which is now warm and watered down. I’m too busy replaying every second of our last encounter. Every insult, her palms on my chest as she shoved me away, and the infuriating glare from her chocolate-brown eyes that burn brighter when she’s furious.
She drives me fucking insane.
Yet, Madison was so fucking adorable when she was angry with me—all attitude and fire. I wanted to grab her and kiss her until she forgot why she was mad. I wanted to shove her against that wall and show her how wrong she was about me, about this. About us. Soon enough, she’ll realize that every time she pushes me away, all she’s doing is daring me to claim her for real. I don’t want to control her. I want toclaimandprotecther.
I spot her at the bar, wearing a deep crimson number that I love on her—one with the low back and thin gold chains that frame the curves of her hips. She’s with one of our VIP guests—a high-paying, low-mannered drunk who is one strike from being banned from our club. He’s flush with old money and feels entitled to the attention he buys with it. His hand grazes her hip, and she might not flinch, but I can see the subtle shift in her posture. She nods with a polite smile—that well-rehearsed one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Her eyes wander from him and flit to me for a second with a flicker of a smile. I’ve been starved for her attention for days, and that tiny gesture stuns me like a sucker-punch to the gut.
“Jesus Christ,” Nikolai snarks from beside me, shaking his head. “Is that all it fucking takes?”
I drag my gaze off her long enough to glare. “What?”
He swallows back a gulp of his vodka, giving me a knowing stare. “You’ve been walking around like a moody fucking bastard for days. She shoots a half-smile at you for two seconds, and you’re grinning like a fucking fool.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, watching Enzo chuckle into his glass.
“He’s not wrong,” Enzo adds. “You’ve been unbearable since she left you in the backroom with blue balls.”
I really need to stop telling these assholes everything.
“Just take the fucking invitation and go talk to her,” Nikolai encourages.
I finish my drink and cross the floor with slow, measured steps. She sees me coming and excuses herself from the suit she was talking to. I follow her through the crowd and toward the back of the club. By the time I reach her, she’s in the back hallway, alone, near the dressing rooms, tying the sash of her robe around her waist.
“Following me now?” she asks, barely glancing up from the knot she’s tying.
“I need to talk to you.”
Lifting her face, she cocks a brow and sassily asks, “To apologize?”
I shake my head in response; I can’t apologize for something I’m not sorry for. “You look good tonight.” I fumble through the words like a fucking teenager.
“Don’t flatter me, Mr. King. I’m not in the mood.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I correct her. “It’s Cillian. Or Daddy. And I’m not flattering you. I’m being honest.”
