Page 3 of The Mobster’s Secret

This is…unusual. To say the least.

As she reaches the top of the stairs, I motion to Chris to get the hell out. With a simple nod, he turns and gets his ass outta here, leaving me in a situation I haven’t been in for at least ten years: alone with a woman.

She looks like a timid little sparrow, but to my surprise, she doesn’t flinch when I walk up to her. She smells like fresh limes and coconut, a far cry from the cheap perfume I’m used to from girls like her.

Or at least, the girls that she’s pretending to be like.

If this girl’s a stripper, then I’m the goddamn pope.

I’m losing control of my body. My jaw clenches down, and my forearm muscles are so tight my right arm starts cramping. My cock is rock hard behind my zipper, thick and begging to be let loose. Christ, look at those plump pastel pink lips, that little button nose and innocent sky-blue eyes. The red lace brassiere barely covers her phenomenal rack, and as my eyes drift down between her milky white thighs, I can’t help but picture her pussy I’m just dying to pound.

She’s wearing makeup to try and make herself look older. Look like she belongs. But I see right through it. Just like the announcer said, Willow is new here. I’d bet everything I own she’s never been in a strip club before, let alone danced in one. Those heels she’s wearing are a size too big, which means she probably borrowed them from a friend.

Jesus, what is happening to me?

I don’t do women. I don’t let them in.

But I have to bury my cock in this one. There’s just no way I can’t.

She shifts her weight and places a hand on her hip, pursing her lips defiantly. “Listen, pal. You’re costing me money. I hope you know that. So either tell me what you want or I’m going back downstairs to dance.”

I actually chuckle. That’s rare for me.

She doesn’t know who I am. Everyone in this club knows, but she doesn’t. And that just turns me on even more.

My eyes scour the perfection that is her body. Her curvy, feminine hips send the urge to breed her ripping through me. It’s like being invaded by a feeling I should not have. Especially not for some random girl.

“You’re not going back downstairs to dance, Willow.”

Her eyes blaze back at me. So much sass. I love it.

“Excuse me?” she snaps. “Who do you think you are to tell me what to do? I’m here to dance. To make money, buddy. Not have a chat with you.”

My cock pulses as she turns to leave and I get a close-up view of the sweet curves of her plump ass cheeks. The way they move when she walks has me right on the edge. If I touched myself now, I’d fill my briefs with cum.

“And what if I buy you out for the night, Willow?” I ask. She stops in her tracks. “You dance only for me. What would you say to that?”

2

WILLOW

Before my dad bailed, he told me I needed to learn to think before I speak. And from the way this man is staring down at me now, I have a feeling Dad was right.

Whoever this suited bruiser is, he’s definitely not some random schlub with a wad of cash he’s looking to blow on a good time.

He’s tall, massive, and carries himself with a sense of status that seems to take up the entire club.

He’s also obnoxiously gorgeous in that older-guy, be-my-daddy kind of way.

I’d say he’s in his mid-thirties, maybe approaching forty, which is in itself embarrassingly attractive. I’m just not into guys my age and their annoying chatter about video games, which female celebrity is the hottest, or who’s the greatest rapper of all time.

I can’t picture the man before me discussing any of that. I bet he couldn’t name a single female pop star if his life depended on it.

He stands stoically like he rules the world. Like he created it. His dark hair is slicked back with tiny hints of gray by his temples, and his superhero-like jaw is sharp and bold like it was chiseled out of marble. The charcoal suit he’s wearing was definitely tailored to fit, and his blood-red tie adds a sense of danger that my lady parts were not prepared for.

I may be wearing lingerie, but I feel more exposed in front of this man than the whole crowd of drunken rabble downstairs.

His question still hangs in the air.