Page 77 of The Contract

This girl has Handle With Care stamped all over her incredible body—so much so, it takes every goddamned ounce of my restraint to keep from doing something real fucking stupid.

“Why do you want to work here?” I finally ask.

She moves with the slow, seductive rhythm. “I need money. And a way to…disappear. Get off the grid.”

Off the grid?

This girl has no grid. Her social media is on life support; friends are non-existent. And Knox sure as hell isn’t a friend—not if he’s the asshole who shoved her into my lion’s den, auditioning as a dancer dressed in nothing but fucking cellophane.

I’ll make him pay for that.

Though if she’s trying to lay low from him, that I can do.

I can hide her from Kennedy too. For a while, at least.

For once, my evil core and I are in agreement. If Riley wants a high-paying job with an ironclad guarantee that no one will find her—done.

Because there’s something I want, too. Something that’s slipped through my fingers from the second she stepped into my path at Enzo’s wedding.

Control.

“Every dancer signs a contract.”

She sways closer, oblivious to just how dangerous her proximity is right now.

Not intentionally. Again, the blindfold. But she’s two moves shy of giving me a lap dance.

“Okay,” she murmurs, half-shrugging, her body moving with a siren’s seductive grace.

“There are rules,” I add, letting the booze seep deeper into my veins.

Her voice drops to a whisper, tinged with the innocent curiosity of a cat on its eighth life. “What rules?”

“Rule One: Tell no one.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone is about what I would expect since there’s no one to tell.

She sways closer, hips rolling seductively. So close, my fingers twitch, dangerously tempted to brush the delicate freckle high on her left thigh.

“Rule Two: I select your outfit.”

“With a blindfold?” she asks, adorably annoyed.

I smirk. “Call it a trust exercise.” For both of us. “Besides, clients enjoy a certain level of anonymity.”

“Clients,” she repeats, voice hesitant, momentarily forgetting what job she’s asking for.

As if I’d ever let another man near her and live.

“Rule Three: No other men in your life.”

Her steps close in, slow and deliberate. Another inch, and she’ll be straddling me.

“Other men?” she taunts softly. “Someone’s the jealous type?”

She has no fucking idea.

Am I a possessive prick?

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