Craving the stripper

Chapter 4

I told myself I was just going to talk to him.

I got dressed and decided to meet him today

Set boundaries. Tell him to back off. Make it clear that whatever fantasy he’d built around me—I wasn’t going to live in it.

But then I saw the building.

Tall. Cold. Clean white marble like a monument to power. The kind of place that didn’t just hold secrets… it created them.

The elevator didn’t have buttons. Just a fingerprint scanner. I didn’t even ask how he got my print.

By the time I reached the top floor, my legs were shaking—not from fear, but from that damn flutter again. That low ache in my belly that had been growing since the first time he said I belonged to him.

The doors opened to a penthouse that could’ve been a palace.

And there he was.

Funny how no guards stopped me,did he know I was coming

Standing by the window, city lights painting his silhouette. Hands in his pockets. Suit jacket off. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the hard muscle beneath.

I didn’t speak. Just stormed in like I had a right to.

“You need to stop,” I snapped. “The flowers, the contract, the driver—you can’t just buy your way into my life.”

He didn’t turn.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not yours.”

That made him look at me.

Slow. Sharp. Like I’d just challenged a king in his own court.

“You walked into my world the second you danced for me.”

“That wasn’t for you.”

“No?” His voice dropped. “Then why were your thighs shaking when I looked at you?”

I swallowed. My face burned. But I held my ground.

“You don’t get to control me.”

He started walking.

One step. Two. Smooth and slow like a predator who knew I couldn’t outrun him.

“I don’t want to control you, Nyah…”

He reached me. Cupped my chin in one large, steady hand. “I want to own you.”

I slapped his hand away.

But it was too late. My breath was uneven. My thighs pressed tight. My body already leaning toward him like a slave to gravity.

He grabbed my wrists—not rough, but firm. Possessive.

“You don’t get to lie to me. Not when your body’s screaming the truth.”

His mouth crashed against mine.

And I broke.

I hated how fast I opened for him. How easily my lips parted, my back arched, my hips pressed into his. He walked me backward, never breaking the kiss, until my back hit the wall and his thigh slipped between mine.

“You’re not allowed to want me,” I whispered, breathless. “I’m not yours.”

He growled.

“You’ll say it soon. You’ll beg to be mine.”

His hands were everywhere—thighs, waist, chest. Possessive and worshipful. When he palmed my breast over my dress, I moaned against his mouth, and his grip tightened, teeth scraping my lip.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “You’ve been starving for touch. For someone who doesn’t treat you like a dirty little fantasy, but like something precious.”

“I’m not precious,” I gasped. “I’m a stripper.”

“You’re mine.” His hand slipped between my thighs, cupping me through the thin lace of my panties. “And I don’t give a f**k who you were before me.”

I clenched.

He felt it. Smirked.

“Wet for me already.”

His fingers slid beneath the fabric, and I gasped—knees buckling as he found my center.

“I should make you beg,” he murmured. “But you’re not ready yet. You still think you have choices.”

His fingers teased me. Slow. Deep. Steady.

And I hated how badly I needed it.

“Say it,” he growled, mouth at my neck. “Say you want me.”

I couldn’t.

But my body did. Loud and clear. I came against his hand—biting my lip, trembling, drowning in him.

And when it was over, when I sagged against the wall, breathless and dazed, he leaned down and whispered:

“You’re going to fall, Nyah. And when you do…”

His lips brushed mine.

“I’ll be the only thing left to catch you.”