DARLA

"What the hell were you thinking, going into a place like that?"

Donomie's voice cut through the apartment the second the door closed behind us. I flinched because it almost caught my shoulder.

So much for any gentleman act. I still remembered our first meeting.

"I could ask you the same thing," I said while I dropped onto the sofa.

"Thought your days were just pouring coffee."

"You sound quick to judge for a man who pays for sex." A sarcastic smile tugged at my lips.

He smirked faintly, as if I'd said something amusing.

"I'd rather pay than sell myself."

"Same thing," I murmured, letting the words hang. "But I've been paid now. You can walk out that door anytime, Mr. Lawson."

He didn't budge.

Anger and hunger twisted in his stare until the space between us felt charged.

"What are you really after?" His voice dropped low.

I shifted closer.

His breath brushed my lips, whiskey and heat.

"I came for something good," I said quietly. "Not sure you can deliver."

His jaw flexed once.

In a single motion, he shrugged off his jacket, revealing a broad chest with dark hair trailing downward, and my pulse kicked hard against my ribs, betraying every ounce of composure I was pretending to have.

"Want to test that?"

Before I could answer, he caught my wrist and guided my palm to the thick heat straining behind his zipper. The contact sent a sharp rush through my veins, stealing the air from my lungs.

My fingers curled instinctively, stroking once, slow and deliberate, then firmer, hungrier, even as every sensible thought in my head urged me to pull away.

My body ignored it.

This was reckless. It was messy. And yet the ache between my legs overrode everything else.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his mouth as he stepped back just enough to loosen his tie and let it fall. He unbuttoned his shirt gradually, one piece at a time, until muscle and faint scars caught the dim light.

I swallowed, unable to look anywhere else.

He turned me gently, but with unmistakable purpose, and slid my zipper down in one smooth motion. The dress slipped over my skin and pooled at my feet. My panties followed, his thumbs hooking into the fabric and dragging them down slowly enough that cool air brushed my thighs before his hands returned, warm and certain.

His fingers moved between my folds and discovered how wet I already was. A sharp breath escaped me as my hips tilted toward him without permission.

He rolled the condom on with quick, practiced ease before sinking onto the sofa and drawing me over him in a single, deliberate motion. I straddled his lap, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other guided him to my entrance.

His grip tightened at my hip just before he thrust upward in a long, stretching glide that filled me completely and scattered my thoughts.

"Oh... fuck." The words slipped out on a shaky exhale as fullness blurred the line between ache and bliss.

Our eyes locked, and for a single breath, the rest of the world disappeared.

I leaned down and kissed him, tentative at first, then desperate. He groaned low against my mouth as my body tightened around him, release crashing through me. I muffled the cry against his lips while tremors rippled down my spine.

Without breaking rhythm, he lifted me and turned me, positioning me on my knees at the sofa's edge. When he slid back in, the deeper angle sent sparks racing through me. My breath caught with each thrust. My nails scraped the leather beneath us.

Shame coiled tight in my chest. He had paid for this, and yet I pushed back against him, greedy for every inch, like I couldn't get enough of the man who had bought me.

"I'm close again," I gasped.

"Come for me." His voice was rough. Fingers slipped into my hair, tilting my head back. "Let go completely."

One final deep thrust. He held there, buried inside me, and the heat of him sent my climax soaring. I shook through it, vision blurring as the wave crashed over me.

Sweat clung to our skin. My limbs went heavy and loose as the tension finally drained away.

He eased out slowly. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, chest rising and falling hard.

"Shower." He reached for my hand.

Steam filled the bathroom as hot water ran. He peeled off the condom and tossed it aside, then unhooked my bra with careful fingers. The mirror reflected us both, his sharp edges and control, my flushed skin and tangled hair.

Fifteen minutes in his space, and every line I had sworn I wouldn't cross had disappeared.

He brushed my hair from my neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin there. "You were unreal," he breathed against my ear.

I lifted my hand to his cheek, meeting his eyes in the glass. Then I turned and kissed him slowly. The kiss deepened fast, heat, tongues, urgency. He pressed me against the tile, body hardening again as it slid against my stomach.

My legs wrapped around his waist. He lifted me easily and sank back inside, smooth, perfect, devastatingly precise. Something twisted painfully in my chest, as if this was exactly where we were supposed to be.

"Fuck," he whispered into my mouth.

Then he stilled.

He pulled out abruptly, lowering me to my feet with hands that trembled.

"What's wrong?" My voice came out thin.

He dragged a hand over his face, eyes dark and distant. "I can't do this. Not like this."

"Donomie-"

He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and walked out without another word.

He's probably grabbing a condom...

I twisted the knob and let the hot water run, stepping beneath the spray. Steam rose around me, warm against my skin. A shaky, confused smile spread across my lips, even as my thoughts whirled.

This night didn't make sense.

When he returned, he was fully dressed, shirt tucked in, jacket slung over his arm.

"I've got to go," he said.

"What?"

His eyes locked on mine, but he didn't explain.

"What are you doing?" I frowned. "We have all night together."

"I'll see you later."

Without another word, he rushed out of the room.

I shut off the shower and grabbed a towel from the rack, running after him.

"What? Why?" I called out.

"I have to go."

"Where?"

"Home."

My stomach dropped as the pieces clicked together.

"Are you kidding me?" I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.

He didn't answer.

"Are you... married?"

DARLA

Note to self: next time a hot rich guy pays you for sex and then ghosts mid-shower, maybe don't spend the next week replaying it like it's your favorite porno...

Who was I kidding? I'd already done that. Twice today.

Jamal, my friend, had texted last night, asking if I was okay because I looked "dead inside" at football practice. Typical Jamal, he always noticed when I was spiraling, always offered food or his couch, and never pried. Sweet. Wish I could say the same about anyone else in my life right now.

After washing my hands in the basin, I caught my reflection in the mirror, tired eyes, smudged mascara, hair fighting the ponytail. I smoothed it down and straightened my apron while anxiety coiled in my stomach. Tonight's shift at the club loomed, but first I had to survive that morning at the café and two lectures. Then I'd be halfway to my financial goal.

"Focus," I mouthed at the mirror. "Ten thousand dollars."

My brain betrayed me anyway. Images from that pathetic late-night Google session flashed uninvited: Donomie Lawson, rock-star architect, divorced two years, worth millions, never photographed without some breathtaking woman draped on his arm black-tie galas, charity golf, cigars, effortless charm. Player stamped across every headline.

Why was I even thinking about him?

He was gone. He had made that crystal clear when he walked out after ignoring me.

I fixed my hair one last time and stepped up the laneway beside the café.

Turning the corner, I glanced across the congested street. Same chaos as every day. And there he was, Donomie, hands shoved in his pockets, staring straight at the café.

My heart slammed into my ribs. He froze for a moment, caught off guard, then turned and started walking away.

No. What the hell. He was just leaving?

Panic surged. I darted across the street, weaving between cars, dodging curses. "Donomie!" I called, but he kept going. "Mr. Lawson!"

Finally, he stopped and turned. His face fell the moment he saw me, a flicker of regret crossing before it vanished behind his usual guarded expression.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, throwing my hands up. "You're just walking past without even coming in?"

He pressed his lips together, eyes locked on mine. Dark hair, tanned skin against that crisp white shirt under the navy suit. Goddamn, no man should wear a suit like that. It should be illegal.

Heat crawled up my neck. I hated that I cared what he thought. I hated that I was standing there in my apron, hair a mess, desperate to prove I wasn't some cheap fling he could forget, even though he was the one who paid. Even though he was the one who ran. I didn't even understand what I was feeling or why.

"I'm only doing four shifts there," I shrugged. "At the club, I mean." His jaw clenched.

"I need the money so I can move out of my university dorm. I'm here on a scholarship, and I can't live there anymore. There are parties every night, and I'm going crazy. You don't know how bad it is," I rushed out.

I was being open and vulnerable, and he still had his hands in his pockets, cold and guarded.

"I'm working the next three Thursday nights, and then I'm resigning."

After a pause, he finally said, "Why would I care?"

"Because I..." My heart hammered. What the hell was I doing? "I don't want to do a shift there without you. I can't stand the thought of it."

His brow furrowed. "I'm not who you think I am, Donomie." His lips twisted as if he was holding something back.

"If it wasn't you, I wouldn't have had sex that night. It was only because I liked you before I even worked there."

He stayed silent.

"Is that it? Is that all you've got to say? I'm begging to see you, and you can't say a single word?" I threw my hands up in frustration.

"You know what?" I shook my head. "Forget what I said. I beg for nobody. Don't bother coming."

More silence.

"You're not the only one who's disappointed," I snapped.

He frowned. "Meaning?"

"You're not who I thought you were either."

"Who did you think I was?"

I glanced around at the people surrounding us, lost in their routines, completely unaware of us. I turned back to him and shrugged. "Someone who was worth it." I smiled, though it was sad. "Guess not."

I stared at the girl in the mirror. She wore a full face of makeup and a black lace strapless dress that hugged every curve as if it were stitched onto her skin. Her hair was perfect, her lips red, her eyes sharp. She looked nothing like how I felt.

The air backstage buzzed with excitement. The Velvet Roses practically vibrated with energy. Laughter, perfume, the click of heels against tile, and the hiss of hairspray filled the room.

The thought of entertaining a man that night twisted my stomach. I wasn't sleeping with anyone, not that night, not tomorrow, not ever again if I could help it. Even the idea of flirting felt exhausting.

Mr. Lawson well and truly tamed the tiger that was my libido. After taking in the size of him, I felt like a baby deer on rollerskates for days. But the physical ache was nothing compared to the humiliation. My ego was still bleeding. I had begged that morning when I saw him. Pathetic.

"Are you serious? He's actually back?" A squeal cut through the haze. Ivy with long dark hair, legs for days, peered through the slit in the velvet curtain that separated us from the catwalk below. "He's here. He hasn't been here for months." She danced back to her makeup chair.

"He's here." She fanned herself with a hand mirror. "I'd die a happy woman tonight."

"Who's here?" someone else asked.

"Mr. Silver."

"Lawson is here?" someone else whispered.

"You aren't supposed to know his real name,"