16. Max

‘You've seen me like this before,' she protests.

‘Yeah.' I take a step towards her. ‘Up on stage in a club full of people. And last night, in your dressing room, when you couldn't get rid of me fast enough.' I lick my lips. ‘But it's not every day I have a stunningly beautiful woman in my home, almost naked and prepared to give me my own private show.'

‘Glad to hear it,' she mutters. Her body language isn't self-conscious—she's far too comfortable in her own skin to feel anything like that—but her face is guarded. I shouldn't like it that she feels out of her depth here, alone with me, but honestly?

I fucking love it.

I suspect she's underestimated me until now, and I'd love nothing more than to teach her a lesson.

Be careful about strolling so nonchalantly into the lion's den, little girl.

This pathetic excuse for a costume is one half-hearted tug away from disintegrating in my hands. She's chosen to wear the nude version rather than last night's sheer black one. It's a bold move, because it's as see-through as the sheerest pair of stockings. She may as well have stuck those little crystals on her bare skin.

It ghosts over the heavy curves of her breasts and showcases every detail of her delights, from rosy nipples to golden landing strip. I can even see the outline of her pussy lips. The sight of her bared for me like this has my mouth watering.

I already know this is the best money I'll spend all year.

I jerk my head towards one of the small matching tables at either end of the sofa. ‘I've set out a glass of water for you, in case you work up a thirst. But you're the boss. I'm ready when you are.'

I'm being disingenuous, obviously.

There's only one boss in this room, and it's not Darcy.

I glance down. ‘Why don't you take off your heels? I want you comfortable.'

What I really mean is that I intend this dance to feel intimate. Don't get me wrong—a beautiful woman in nothing but a pair of heels is hot as fuck, but I want her unconstrained and unabashed, and if she's barefoot she can move more freely. Contort herself for me more fully.

‘Whatever you want,' she says smoothly. She steps right up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder, dropping her head and going to bend one leg, but I stop her with a steadying hand on her waist.

‘Wait. Allow me.'

I'm not some earnest, wholesome Prince Charming. I'm sweet little Cinders' worst fucking nightmare, so it feels perversely right that I perform this anti-Charming move of removing the glass slippers. Once she's righted herself, I sink to one knee before her. My face is six inches from her cunt, and I can smell the faintest musk of her scent.

This time, it's me who dips my head. I resist the temptation to trail my fingertips down her calf, because she hasn't agreed to my touching her tonight, and instead focus on the tiny, delicate buckle at her ankle. I undo it and its twin before sitting back on my heels and smiling up at her. She's staring down at me, lips parted, like she doesn't know what to make of this man who pays a woman to dance for him like a true cad and then stoops to unbuckle her shoes like a gent.

With a wink, I get to my feet, grab my tumbler of whisky from the table and take my seat in the middle of the sofa. It's situated to enjoy an uninterrupted view of the terrace, which means that I can now enjoy an uninterrupted view of this enchanting creature dancing just for me.

Let the show begin.