“Well, let me bring Mr. Savage in here to go over your résumé.”

I stared at the woman whose name was Poppy or Pippy or something equally fake sounding. I just nodded, not about to be a smart-ass and ask why I needed to speak with the owner of the club when I was applying to strip for them. Did he need to know where I’d gone to school before I took my clothes off?

Pippy or Poppy, or whatever the hell her name was, got up and left me in the swanky office alone. I had to give the place credit; it was high-class, like men had to fork over a shitload of money just to get into the VIP room.

I started picking at lint on my shirt. Although there probably was nothing there, I felt my nerves grow higher. The seconds moved at an agonizing rate. And then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The room became hotter, the air thicker. My skin felt tight, and despite facing the desk and not hearing anyone enter, I knew someone had come into the room.

I turned around in my chair, and there he was, this imposing figure over six feet tall, wearing a dark three-piece suit, and having authority written all over him. His hair was coal colored, short. His eyes were this deep blue, so dark they almost could've been black. And I could see tattoos peeking out from under the collar of his shirt and jacket and creeping down his hands.

But it was his expression, his focus on me that had me sitting up straighter.

He walked closer, not saying anything, never taking his gaze off me. He sat behind the desk, finally looking away from me and staring down at the folder with my résumé.

For long moments he did nothing but look at those forms, at my qualifications. I didn't know what he was trying to figure out, seeing as I was here to take my clothes off.

“I’m Cole Savage, the owner of the club. Tell me, Miss Banks, why would you want to work here?”

Was he serious? Did he want some long, drawn-out explanation of why I wanted to stand in front of a roomful of men, their gazes raking over my partially nude body, right before I twisted around on a silver pole?

Instead of lying and making up some excuse on why I needed the money, I just told him the truth.

“I used to dance.” When all he did was stare at me, I continued. “I did ballet, but I hurt my ankle and wasn't able to do it anymore. Instead of working a dead-end job, cleaning tables or serving people their food, I figured the fastest way for me to pay off my debts is to strip.”

He didn't say anything, just leaned back in the leather chair, his arms folded over his broad chest, his gaze intense.

I shifted on my seat, feeling this uncomfortable tightness in my whole body. I didn’t know what it was about this man. Having him only five feet from me, his expression making me feel like he could see right through me, knew my every secret, made me feel unhinged.

He closed the folder, blocking out my résumé, making me feel like this was the end of the story. Maybe he didn't like what he saw? I wasn't well-endowed in the chest department, didn't have curves that went on for miles. I certainly wasn’t made like the women I saw dancing at his club.

I was a ballet dancer down to my very core, even if I was sitting in front of a strip club owner asking him to give me a job to get naked in front of strangers. I was graceful, thin. But I knew I danced beautifully.

If he wanted me to demonstrate what I had to offer, I'd be more than willing to give him a show he’d never forget.

He leaned forward then, his hands clasped on the table. I stared at his fingers, how long and strong they were. The backs of his hands had tattoos, his knuckles sporting the same ink. How much of this man was covered? How much of his golden, hard skin was painted in abstract, seemingly dangerous lines of black?

Strangely enough, I wanted to know that. I wanted to see for myself.

I don't know what it was about him, but he made me feel like I walked on a tightrope, the ground beneath me an endless void of the unknown.

But I felt like falling off that rope into the abyss wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me.

* * *

She’d left the office only five minutes ago, yet my entire body was still on fire. My cock was still a lead pipe between my thighs, aching, needing to be buried deep in her pussy.

The moment I saw her sitting there, her long black hair this wave of spilled ink along her shoulders and back, this possessiveness slammed into me. Never had I felt my body grow so hard, so tight. I hadn't even seen her face yet, but I knew she would be mine.

I’d fucking make that a reality.

And then I walked around the desk and stared at her delicate features: big blue eyes staring up at me, wide, unsure, unknowing. She seemed a little hesitant, almost afraid.

Good.

She was smart.

I was a man who was used to seeing fear in people's eyes the moment they saw me. It was who I was, how I've lived my life. I never claimed to be a good man. I made my living on what others saw as taboo, wrong even.

Jana Banks.

Even her name got my dick hard.

Although she was gorgeous, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, the very idea of having her get naked in front of a bunch of horny bastards made me furious.

I was surrounded by superficial beauty daily. I had tits and asses all up in my face. But this was a business, and I looked at it as such. I didn’t fuck my employees, no matter how much they came on to me.

But for Jana I’d bend the rules until they fucking broke in two.

I had no doubt she'd make me a lot of money stripping, grinding her glorious body along that silver pole. But in the five minutes I’d been in her presence, she was all I wanted.

I knew, without a doubt, that I would make her mine.

I held on to that possessiveness, that domineering nature that had gotten me through life. If Jana wanted to work here, I'd hire her. But what she'd soon come to realize was the only person she'd be stripping for was me.