ROSA
I stepped into the private room, my heels clicking against the carpet, each sound swallowed by the plush fabric beneath me. Low, warm light wrapped around me, bouncing off leather and dark wood. The space seemed designed to make people feel small and drawn in. I hesitated, glancing around, and then I saw him.
Samson stood by the leather couch, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a glass of liquor, his dark, unreadable eyes fixed on me. The dim light accentuated the angles of his chiseled face, giving him a fierce intensity. His unwavering gaze made my pulse quicken; the silence in the room felt rare and unsettling. Men here usually laughed or made demands. Samson said nothing.
I played “I’m a Slave for You” by Britney Spears, and began dancing. Trailing my hands down my bo
