Chapter 1. Clara Asbet
1109 Words
“You don’t know what the f**k you’re playing with.”
I never planned to take my clothes off for money.
But plans don’t mean s**t when your mom’s coughing up blood and your rent is already three weeks late. I used to think I was too proud to strip. Too smart. Too educated. Too… good.
Turns out, desperation doesn’t care about pride.
My name is Clara Asbet. Full-time nursing student. Only child to a mother dying slowly in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. I used to work at a bookstore between classes — cash under the table, quiet shifts, and the occasional old lady asking for a recommendation. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe.
Then the hospital bills started rolling in. Insurance delays. One of her medications tripled in price overnight. I needed five thousand dollars fast, or the pharmacy would stop refilling her prescription.
Enter The Ruby Room.
Red lights, louder music, and names that weren’t real. I was “Lia” there — a stranger in six-inch heels and lingerie made of string. At first I shook on stage. My skin felt too tight. My body wasn’t mine.
But money is a powerful motivator. So is control.
I learned fast. I learned how to move like I wanted to be touched without letting anyone close. I learned how to keep my smile soft and my hips loose and how to drain a man’s wallet in five minutes flat. I paid off two semesters in one month. My mom got her meds. I slept better.
Almost.
And then he started showing up.
Jason Brown.
The billionaire bachelor who made Wall Street look like his playground. Tall. Clean-shaven. Sharp jaw. Expensive watch. Always in a suit that fit too well. He came in once a week like clockwork — Saturday nights, same booth in the back corner of the club. He never got dances. Never talked to the girls. Just drank whiskey with his equally rich, equally bored friends.
But he watched me.
Not with lust. Not with amusement. It was something else. Like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and it pissed him off that he even cared.
The other dancers laughed about him. Said he was gay. Or impotent. Said he hated women. One girl said he had a genetic disorder that made his d**k stay soft. Another claimed he had a dead fiancée and never recovered.
I didn’t care about the rumors. I cared about his eyes on me. The way they followed me every time I danced. Like he was trying not to want me. Like wanting me was some kind of personal weakness.
I started dancing just a little dirtier when I saw him in the room. Letting my fingertips trail down my stomach. Bending over a little deeper. My body became a weapon, and I aimed it at him.
But he never reacted. Not once.
Until tonight.
I was two shots deep from the bartender — staff privilege, birthday celebration, who cares — and the music was hitting me just right. Loose, slow, and dark. I felt reckless. I felt powerful.
And then I saw him again. Jason, sitting there in his fortress of glass and shadows, untouched and untouched by choice.
I didn’t think. I didn’t ask.
I walked straight across the club floor like the lights belonged to me. His friends nudged each other, snickering like frat boys. I ignored them.
He didn’t move when I straddled him. Didn’t stop me.
I smiled slow, leaning in so close I could taste the expensive cologne on his skin.
“You don’t touch, huh?” I whispered in his ear, grinding just enough to get his attention. “Or you just haven’t been touched right?”
Still nothing.
So I kissed him.
Hard. Filthy. Tongue and teeth and liquor. Not romantic. Not soft. A challenge. His mouth didn’t move, but his body did. And that’s when I felt it.
His c**k.
Hard. Solid. Pressing up against my soaked thong like a threat.
I gasped into his mouth. His hands clamped down on my waist. Big, strong, controlling.
Rumors? Dead.
Jason Brown was very much alive.
And hard.
He broke the kiss with a low growl that vibrated in his chest. “Get off.”
I didn’t.
I rolled my hips slow against him, watching his pupils dilate.
“Make me,” I whispered, biting his bottom lip.
The next moment happened fast. He stood up, took me with him like I weighed nothing, and carried me down a dark hallway behind the VIP section.
My back hit the wall. Not hard, but hard enough to make me feel it. His hand curled around my throat — not squeezing, just there.
“You don’t know what the f**k you’re playing with,” he muttered, eyes locked on mine.
“Then teach me,” I said, breathless.
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth crashed into mine, teeth and tongue and fury. His hand slid up under my skirt, dragging the fabric until it bunched around my waist. Then he found my thong.
I was soaked. I knew he’d feel it. That was the point.
His fingers slid against the fabric once, slow, testing.
“You’re dripping,” he said darkly. “This for me?”
“No,” I said, smiling. “Must’ve been one of the other guys.”
His eyes narrowed — then he shoved the fabric aside and slid two fingers inside me, deep, firm, unforgiving.
I nearly came right there.
“You’re a f*****g liar,” he growled, f*****g me slow, deep, knuckle-deep. “This p***y is begging for me.”
I moaned, clawing at his shirt, trying to get to skin. He didn’t stop me. Just kept working me from the inside, curling his fingers in a way that made my legs shake.
“Say it,” he whispered, hot against my lips. “Say you want me to f**k you.”
“I—Jason—”
“Say it.”
“I want you to f**k me,” I gasped. “Right here. Right now.”
He paused.
His fingers slipped out of me, slow. He stepped back, just enough to make the air feel cold between us.
“You’re not ready,” he said. “But you will be.”
And then he walked away.
Left me there with ruined panties, wet thighs, and my heart slamming in my chest like I’d just been hit by a truck.
I slid down the wall slowly, staring at the empty hallway, legs still shaking, core still pulsing.
God help me… I wanted him more now than ever.
- Writer
