My Secret Lover Is My Father In Law

Clothes Off

Nessa stopped walking.

The black car idled at the curb, engine quiet, rear window still down. Streetlight caught the edge of his face—same sharp lines, same unreadable eyes from the private room. The taste of him was still on her tongue. The thick fold of bills pressed against her skin under her top.

She should have kept walking. That was the rule. Take the money. Leave. Don’t give them a second chance to decide they own more than the hour they paid for.

Instead she opened the door and slid in.

The door shut with a soft, expensive click. Leather seats. Cool air. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with something darker. He didn’t look at her right away. Just spoke to the driver without raising his voice.

“Drive.”

The car pulled into traffic. Nessa kept her hands in her lap, spine straight, heart beating too hard against her ribs. She waited. Men like this always wanted to talk first when they thought they had leverage.

“You live in a walk-up six blocks from the club,” he said. “Third floor. Lock on the door is s**t. You count your money on the bed before you shower. You send half of it somewhere every month and pretend the rest is enough.”

Her stomach tightened. “You had me followed.”

“I had you looked into the moment you walked off that stage.” He finally turned his head. The wedding band caught the passing lights. “The club is a dead end. The men in there are temporary. The money is temporary. You’re better than the way you’re living.”

Nessa let out a short, dry laugh. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. You’re going to leave that place. Tonight was the last time.”

She stared at him. “And do what? Wait tables? You saw the stack I walked out with. That’s more than most people make in a week.”

“I’ll cover it.” His voice stayed even, almost bored, like he was discussing a business acquisition. “Rent. Bills. Whatever you need. You don’t go back there. You don’t dance for anyone else. You answer when I call.”

The car turned onto a quieter street. Nessa felt the shift in the air between them—thicker, heavier. She should have told him to f**k off. Should have opened the door at the next light and disappeared.

Instead she heard herself ask, “And what do you get?”

Roman’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You.”

He reached over, slow, and hooked two fingers under the hem of her top where the money was still tucked. Pulled the bills free and set them on the seat between them like they no longer mattered. His hand stayed on her thigh, warm and certain, thumb stroking once over the denim.

“Second meeting,” he said. “Different terms.”

The car stopped in front of a dark glass building she didn’t recognize. Private entrance. No doorman in sight. Roman stepped out first, then held the door. Nessa hesitated only a second before following.

Upstairs the apartment was all clean lines and quiet money—floor-to-ceiling windows, low lighting, a bed that looked like it had never been slept in by anyone who needed to count tips. The door locked behind them with a soft electronic sound.

Roman shrugged off his jacket. Loosened his cuffs. Watched her the same way he had from the VIP section.

“Clothes off.”

It wasn’t a request. Nessa’s pulse kicked hard, but she didn’t look away. She pulled the top over her head, let the shorts drop, kicked off her shoes. Stood there in nothing while he looked his fill.

He crossed the space in three steps, backed her against the window, and kissed her like he already owned the taste. One hand in her hair, the other between her legs, fingers sliding through the wetness that had started the second the car door closed. She gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound and pushed two fingers inside her without warning.

“Already ready for me,” he muttered against her lips. “Good.”

He f****d her with his hand until her knees threatened to give, then turned her around, pressed her palms flat to the cool glass, and opened his pants. The first thrust was deep, controlled, stretching her open in one slow push that dragged a broken moan out of her throat. He didn’t rush. Just set a steady, punishing rhythm that made the window fog under her breath.

“You’re done with that club,” he said against her ear, voice rough now. “Say it.”

Nessa’s fingers curled against the glass. “I’m done.”

“Louder.”

“I’m done with the club.”

He drove into her harder, one hand sliding up to wrap lightly around her throat, not squeezing, just holding. “You belong here now. With me. When I want you.”

She came with a sharp cry she couldn’t hold back, walls clenching around him. He followed a few thrusts later, burying himself deep and groaning low against the back of her neck as he finished inside her.

For a moment the only sound was their breathing and the distant city below.

Roman pulled out slowly, turned her to face him, and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.

“I’ll have the rest of your things moved tomorrow. You don’t go back to that apartment either.”

Nessa’s legs still felt unsteady. The money from earlier sat forgotten on the car seat downstairs. Somewhere in her bag, her phone was probably lighting up with messages from Victor—soft, distant, completely unaware.

She looked at the man in front of her, still half-dressed, wedding band glinting, eyes already calm again.

“What exactly did I just agree to?” she asked.

Roman’s answer was quiet. Final.

“Everything.”