I sat motionless as she slid over me, her breath smelling like cinnamon, her hips grinding on my lap, hands pressed to my chest. So this is how it was going to go: I would remain blindfolded, she would dance over me, and then I would leave? I felt myself begin to relax incrementally. The woman moved above me, her hips shifting against my thighs, her hands moving gently over my chest. I could feel enough of her body that the blindfold didn’t seem completely absurd, but if I’d been the kind of man to enjoy this sort of thing, being robbed of my sight would have been a hindrance.

But maybe Max knew this would be the only way this experience wouldn’t be unbearable to me. The thought made me want to kick his ass just slightly less.

The dancer rolled over me, hips rocking rhythmically with the music, undulating in small, suggestive circles. She leaned away, gripping my shoulders to anchor herself, and I felt the press of her ass on my thighs, the suggestion of her sex so close to my dick that I tried as carefully as I could to inch away, to push my body deeper into the chaise. And then she sat upright again, and I could feel the shape of her breasts as she brushed against my chest. Her breath was warm and soft on my neck, and although it wasn’t unpleasant, per se, it quickly grew awkward. My initial fear that I would have to make eye contact, or smile, or appear to be here voluntarily dissolved, and instead I registered that this dance was for neither of us. Certainly she wasn’t getting anything but money out of it, and because of my blindfold, I didn’t even need to fake my enjoyment. I found myself straining to calculate how much was left of the song. It wasn’t one I knew, but the formula was clear and I exhaled the rest of my tension as the song started its predictable ramp-up to the end. Over me, the poor woman seemed to slow, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

When the song ended, the only sound remaining in the room was the stripper’s quickened breathing.

Is she going to leave? Should I say something?

With dread weighing down my stomach, I understood very clearly that maybe this was when the show really started. To my absolute horror, the stripper leaned forward and grazed her teeth across my jaw.

Then . . . I froze, a cloudy awareness starting to overtake my impatience.

“Hello, Mr. Ryan.” Her breath was hot in my ear and I startled at the sound, my entire body going stiff. What in the actual fuck? My hands curled into fists at my sides. “I really, really want to kiss that sexy, angry mouth of yours.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Chloe Fucking Mills.