"It’s a damn shame," he muttered finally. "You would’ve been outstanding." And he meant it.
"Now," she said briskly, as if shaking off the vulnerability of her story. She picked up his blazer and set it neatly over his chair. "Go home. Take a break. I’ll look into the property first thing in the morning. "
His brows rose. "Are you...telling me what to do, Morales? Issuing orders now?" He stepped closer, his tall frame suddenly filling the space between them.
"Uh—no." She fumbled, heat rushing to her cheeks. "I just...think you need rest. That’s all." Her throat went dry as he closed the distance, his presence intoxicating.
Winn simply looked down at her, eyes glittering. When he finally moved, it was reaching for his bag. At the same time, Ivy bent forward to grab it herself. Their hands brushed.
The spark was immediate, a current that zipped through her skin and made her stomach clench. She froze, breath caught in her throat, while his hand lingered an extra second longer than necessary.
"Sorry," she stammered, pulling her hand back from Winn’s. Her cheeks burned. Before Winn could say a word—she bolted.
Later that night, Winn found himself exactly where he had been every Friday night for the past two weeks—slipping into Commissioned to watch Beyonce.
The sequined half-mask hid her face. Tonight, she wore an outfit that barely deserved to be called clothing—a strip of glittering silver fabric, heels that stretched her legs to impossible lengths, and nothing else but raw confidence.
And Winn was nothing more than her prisoner. He sat in the shadows of his usual booth, his drink untouched, watching her climb the pole with feline grace, watching her arch and slide with an artistry that made his throat tight. His cock strained against his trousers with every twirl, every flick of her hair, every teasing glance she cast to the audience.
Kelvin made his routine stop by Winn’s table. "Same answer as last time, Mr. Kane," he said, adjusting his tie. "She doesn’t do private meetings. Not for anyone."
Every Friday night he heard the same thing. Every night he sat there, wanting her with a hunger that bordered on madness. He had half a mind to slam a suitcase full of cash on Kelvin’s desk, kick down the damn dressing room door, and drag her out with his own hands. To rip that mask off and finally see her. To finally have her.
But instead, he sat there, knuckles white around his glass, his self-control unraveling thread by thread. His cock throbbed with urgency, demanding release, demanding her. He couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep punishing himself with the sight of her body dancing inches from his reach.
So he thought of the next best thing.
She’d given him an invitation to dinner, her tone making it clear she wasn’t talking about food.
His obsession with the masked dancer left him strung tight, and Sharona’s invitation suddenly seemed less like a nuisance and more like a solution.
He checked his watch. Eleven p.m. already. Late, far later than a polite man should arrive—but then, he was not polite. He was desperate.
He stood abruptly, tossing a thousand dollars on the table. If he couldn’t have the woman he wanted, then maybe he could at least silence the gnawing hunger in his veins with Sharona’s willing body.
What was the worst that could happen?
So he left Commissioned. He slid into his car. He didn’t think too long about the decision—he just drove. To SoHo. To Sharona’s.
When he knocked, he almost expected her not to answer, half-prepared to turn back. But after a few long minutes, the locks clicked and the door creaked open.
Sharona stood there—barefoot, hair loose.
"Am I too late?" he asked.
Her lips curved upward in quiet triumph, the smile of a woman who had been waiting, expecting this exact moment. "For dinner? Yes," she purred, one brow lifting. "For conversation, no." With a deliberate sweep of her arm, she stepped aside, the silk of her nightdress brushing against his shoulder as he passed.
"I came to pick up my tie," Winn said.
Sharona’s laugh was low and sultry. She moved with feline grace, closing the door behind him. "If I hand that to you," she said, "what excuse will I have to invite you over once more?"
"Do you need an excuse?" he countered, watching her move through her space. The penthouse reflected her personality: polished, controlled, sharp around the edges. Official source is novel[f]ire.net
"I’m trying to save some of my dignity," she replied as she crossed to the bar. She reached for a decanter, poured liquor into two glasses with steady hands. "Throwing myself at you isn’t exactly the best way to do that."
He followed her with his eyes, aware that she was both confessing and performing.
"Thanks," he muttered when she passed him the glass. He tossed the drink back in a single gulp, the burn scorching his throat. He set the glass down harder than intended, his restraint cracking under the weight of his own need.
"I made dinner for two," Sharona said, leaning one hip against the bar, glass dangling between her fingers. Her gaze flicked over him—his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the tension coiled in his stance, the hunger he didn’t bother hiding. "But I had to throw it out when I thought you really wouldn’t be coming."
The disappointment in her tone was real.
"I didn’t think I would," Winn admitted.
"Why? Are you allergic to women?" she teased, arching one perfectly shaped brow. The smirk that curved her lips carried a dual edge—playful yet daring him to answer wrong.
Winn chuckled. "I am very picky." The truth was less flattering. Picky wasn’t the word—obsessed, maybe. He wasn’t searching for women. He was fixated on one, and she wasn’t here in this penthouse. She was in a mask, in a club, driving him insane. Still, it was easier to let Sharona think it was about preference.