ELENA'S POV
The air in the club was thick with anticipation, a low thrum of music vibrating through the floorboards and directly into my bones. It wasn't the usual bass that rattled teeth; this was something deeper, more primal. A scent, a mix of expensive cologne, leather, and something undeniably carnal, clung to the velvet draped walls. I moved under the lights, the practiced sway of my hips a performance honed by a burning need for escape. This wasn't the life I craved, but it was a stage, a temporary one, that paid the bills and kept the dream flickering.
Eyes, sharp and assessing, tracked movements across the floor. Here, every glance held a question, every touch a potential promise or threat. Tonight, one gaze felt different.
I saw him.
He wasn't on the dance floor, wasn't mingling with the crowd. He was seated on a raised platform, observing. His presence was a gravity well, pulling the energy of the room. Dark suit, a single, heavy ring on his right hand caught the dim light. His face was a study in controlled power, sharp jawline, eyes that missed nothing. Draven Sterling. The name was whispered with reverence and fear in certain circles.
Our eyes met across the space. Mine, wide with a mixture of apprehension and a forbidden curiosity I hadn't known I possessed. His, narrowing slightly, made my breath catch. It felt less like being seen and more like being claimed.
He didn't smile. He didn't beckon. He simply lifted that right hand, the one with the heavy ring, and crooked a single finger.
A silent command. An undeniable pull.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a bird in a cage. Every instinct screamed at me to turn and flee back into the anonymity of the night. But another part, a deeper, more reckless part I'd kept hidden even from myself, stirred. It whispered of the unknown, of boundaries blurred and desires unleashed.
My set ended, the music fading. Instead of heading backstage, my feet moved before my mind could process the decision. One step, then another, drawn across the room by that silent, potent command. The crowd parted slightly as I approached his platform.
When I reached him, I stopped. He rose and led me away from the main floor, through discreet corridors, to a private VIP section. The music was softer here, the lighting even more subdued, creating an intimate, charged space. He settled onto a plush sofa, gesturing for me to stand before him.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice a low, private rumble.
"Elena," I replied, my voice a little breathless.
"Elena," he repeated, the sound of my name on his lips sending a fresh jolt through me.
He studied me for a moment, his dark eyes assessing. "Would you dance for me, Elena?"
I looked at him, meeting his intense gaze. "It's my job, sir."
A flicker, something unreadable, crossed his face. Then, the first notes of a slower, more sensual track drifted into the room.
My breath hitched. This was it. The part of the job that felt most exposing, most vulnerable. But looking into his eyes, I saw not just expectation, but a potent, focused desire that ignited a strange heat deep within me. He wanted me.
Swallowing hard, I nodded. I began to move, my fingers going to the zipper of my simple black slip. The fabric slid down my body, revealing the curves beneath. I let it fall, watching his eyes as it pooled at my feet. I moved closer, the space between us shrinking. My hands traced the line of my waist, down to my hips. I tilted my head back, letting the soft light catch my throat, exposing my vulnerability. His gaze was locked on me, intense and possessive. I could feel the weight of it, a physical pressure that both intimidated and aroused me.
"Go on," he murmured, the command soft but absolute.
Then, I shifted, dropping to my knees before him, the plush carpet soft beneath me. I crawled closer, circling him slowly, my eyes never leaving his. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders. The air grew heavy with his desire. I moved between his spread legs. I lowered myself onto the sofa, positioning myself over his lap, straddling him.
I began to move, a slow, grinding sway of my hips. My body pressed against his, feeling the hard ridge beneath his expensive trousers. His breath hitched, coming out stronger, rougher now. A low sound, a rough, guttural moan, escaped his lips, barely audible above the music, but it sent a shiver through me. It was a sound of raw need, of pleasure taken and controlled.
"Bend," he instructed, his voice a low growl.
I leaned back, bracing one hand on the sofa cushion, arching my back slightly to emphasize the curve of my body. I dropped lower, my hips circling, the friction building. Then, I shifted again, turning on his lap, dropping to all fours on the sofa, my back still arched, deliberately presenting my backside to him. My "ass with pound of flesh," as I'd heard men describe it, was on full display. I wriggled and swayed my hips, slow and deliberate grind that I knew was driving him wild. I risked a glance back, seeing his eyes fixed on me, dark and consuming.
"Closer," he commanded, his voice tight with need.
I pushed up, planting one foot on the sofa cushion, rising slightly, bringing myself closer to his face. My hands ran over my body, the feel of my own skin under the dim light. I moved for him, showcasing every curve, every secret line, until the music faded and I remained kneeling before him, breathless, exposed, and acutely aware of the heavy silence and the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against me.
He reached out then, not to touch me, but to pick up the discarded slip dress at my feet. He held it for a moment, his fingers brushing the fabric, before looking back up at me. His eyes were darker now, filled with a smoldering intensity.
"You have talent, Elena," he said, his voice quiet, assessing.
"Thank you, sir," I managed, my voice still shaky from the performance.
"Tell me about yourself, Elena," he said, leaning back slightly. "Where are you from? Do you have family? Siblings?"
I hesitated, the questions unexpected after the raw intensity of the dance. "I'm from a small town, sir. Far from the city. Just my mother and two younger sisters. My father passed away a year ago."
"Do they know you work here?" His voice was low, probing.
I swallowed, the lie catching in my throat for a brief second. "No, sir. They think... they think I work as a waitress in a nice restaurant."
He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "And your dreams?
My heart pounded. This was the opening. More than anything. "I dream of performing. Not here, but on a real stage, under bright lights, where people come just to see my fashion show. I want to create beautiful things, own my fashion brand, build an empire. I want to be a CEO."
The words tumbled out, fueled by the desperate hope that he, of all people, might understand, might even hold the key.
He listened, his dark eyes sharp, missing nothing. The silence that followed was different this time, filled not just with tension, but with the weight of my confessions and his assessment.
"Ambition," he finally said, the word a soft echo in the quiet room. He leaned forward, his gaze challenging mine. "I understand ambition. But what makes you think you can achieve it? Tell me, Elena, what are you willing to do for this empire you dream of building?"
I was desperate. He wasn't just asking. He was demanding to know the depth of my hunger. And in that moment, looking at the man who held so much power, I knew the answer. I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper.
"I'm willing to work, sir. Harder than anyone. I just need an opportunity. Someone to see past... this." I gestured vaguely to myself, the club, the remnants of the dance. "I'll do anything, Mr. Sterling. Work for you. Clean your house, run your errands... even as... as a SLAVE, if that's what you needed, the word slave echoed in my mind. Just give me a chance. A real chance."
He listened, his dark eyes still fixed on mine. When I finished, the silence returned, thick with the weight of my words and his unspoken thoughts.
Finally, he rose. "You will come with me."
He didn't offer a hand. He simply turned and walked towards another door, assuming I would follow. And I did.
We got to his car where his guards were waiting, one opened the door for me and for a moment I felt my dream life was playing before me.
We got to his penthouse, it was everything the club hinted at and more vast, silent, overlooking the glittering city lights. He didn't touch me, didn't make demands. He simply showed me to a luxurious guest room, larger than my entire apartment, and told me to rest. It was disorienting, this unexpected gentleness from a man who radiated such potent control. I fell asleep in crisp, clean sheets, the image of his commanding gaze the last thing in my mind.