Page 10 of Submitting to Daddy
And then I walked away.
Because I had to.
I’m not about to ruin my life just to be another name he forgets by the morning.
Still, I haven’t been able to shake the warmth of his hands gripping my waist and yanking me back onto his lap. Or the way he grew—impressively—hard beneath me as I danced for him. And God help me, I liked it.
It’s been hours since the VIP suite, and I have some finance guy’s face practically buried in my tits as I ride his lap. But all I can think about is Cillian. I can feel him watching—his eyes burning through the crowd as I pretend to be interested in the man asking if I do “private parties.” Keeping my perfectly rehearsed smile in place, I laugh flirtatiously. I lean in and whisper the answer he wants to hear—something that sounds like a maybe, but definitely isn’t.
Mr. Finance slips a couple of hundreds and his business card a little too deep into my thong as I slide from his lap. I only make it a few feet before one of his friends requests the same attention. I wink at him and climb onto his lap. He rather overtly solicits me—with quite a striking amount of money—for an Eiffel Tower with his friend. Much like the raging erection beneath me, I try to ignore it. I focus on the job, making money, keeping boundaries, and staying professional.
My gaze wanders behind the man I’m dancing for, where I find Cillian’s heated stare on me. Still watching, his jaw is tight and only emphasizing his disapproving scowl. His eyes on meare impossible to ignore. Not pulling my stare from him, I ride the sleaze like I’m trying to earn a thousand-dollar tip.
It’s fine…I try to tell myself this is good. If he’s this interested in watching me, it means he wants something.Me.The more he wants me—and the less I give him—the more power I have to get what I want out of this job. So, I’ll flirt and tease, and keep him on the hook until I’m ready to play my card.
I spend the night keeping my distance from Cillian as I make the rounds—dances, drinks, and polite smiles as I am subjected to deplorable conversations and wandering hands. All the while, the heat of his eyes never leaves my body. And even worse? Part of me doesn’t want it to.
When I slip behind the velvet curtain that separates the performers from the customers, I’m pleased to find the dressing room finally quiet. Most of the girls are packing up—stuffing wads of cash into their purses and throwing on hoodies and sweats—or already halfway out the door. Some are still buzzing from the night, riding the high that comes with easy money. Others look straight-up exhausted.
I drop into the chair at my station. Being careful of my lash extensions, I start ridding myself of Raven—the glitter on my cheeks, the red lipstick I reapplied more times than I can count, and the thick black liner that makes my eyes look sharper. Bit by bit, she disappears beneath the makeup remover and the soft scratch of the cotton rounds, until what’s left in the mirror is just me. Madison Roark. A very tired, wired, and deeply unsettled Madison Roark. Less than a week in this city, and I don’t recognize myself already. Not fully, anyway.
After throwing on joggers and an oversized hoodie, I shove the last of my cash and essentials into my duffel bag.Most of the girls have already gone, and the building is relatively quiet when I slip out the back.
Stepping into the alley, the city feels still, uncomfortably so. Still feeling eyes on me, I anxiously glance over my shoulder as I hastily make my way toward the subway station down the block. I make it just in time to hop into a car before the train pulls away from the station. Keeping my hooded head down, I pretend to be enthralled in the music playing softly on my AirPods.
There are only a few others in the car with me—a sleeping couple, a man muttering to himself, and a girl scrolling on her phone. Not one of them looks at me twice. I’m invisible again, and maybe that should feel safe. But it doesn’t.
Swiping through my messages, I read through the texts from Mom.
Mom
Haven’t heard from you in a couple of days? Everything good?
I know… But I’m your mother, it’s my job to worry about you.
Just let me know you’re okay. I love you.
Just getting used to the new apartment and the new job. Totally not an upcoming episode of Forensic Files. I love you.
I don’t wait for a response before closing out the text messaging app. At this time in the morning, I’m certain she’s asleep—and probably has been for at least a few hours. I pull up my Cillian King note app, and read the two bullet points I left myself before adding a third.
Don’t let him get the upper hand.
It’s just after three a.m. when I finally step into my apartment. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a second, letting the silence settle into my bones. I drop my bag by the wall and kick off my sneakers, then move toward the bathroom through the dim space.
I run the water—steaming, punishing hot—and the mirror fogs up almost instantly. Quickly, I strip from my clothes, letting the hoodie and joggers fall to the floor in a heap. When I sink into the tub, the heat stings at first, then soothes my aching muscles. I lower my body all the way in, until only my face is above the surface. It feels like a baptism, like maybe if I sit still long enough, I’ll sweat Cillian out of me.
But it doesn’t work. Alone with nothing but my thoughts, I can’t stop thinking about him. There was something different about the way he touched me—lightly, but with intent—like it meant something. And that’s what scares me.
I know men like him.Hell, at this point, I should have an honorary PhD in cocky alphahole.Born into power. Fed on privilege. Hardened by the weight of it. Men like him don’t ask. They take what they want. But Cillian… Something about him is different. Calculated, sure. Dangerous, definitely. But there was something in his eyes when I turned him down. Not anger. Not entitlement.Curiosity?Like I’d surprised him. Maybe not giving him what he wanted and was expecting only further grabbed his attention and fueled his interest.
The bathwater grows cool, and my resolve fades. I pull the drain and stand, wrapping myself in a towel. I’m beyond ready for bed, but my brain is still far too loud for sleep. Instead of climbing beneath the sheets, I slip into an old T-shirt and pour myself a glass of cheap white wine. I curl up on my small loveseat beneath the living room window, tucking my knees tomy chest and pulling the throw blanket up as I stare out at the city beyond my window.
I can’t help but wonder what Cillian is doing… I wonder if he’s home and still thinking about me.Fuck, Madison… What the hell is wrong with you?This isn’t who I am. I don’t get distracted. I don’t fantasize. I don’t wonderwhat ifabout men with sharp suits and smoother lies. Still, I can’t help but imagine his hands again—warm and strong, resting right where they shouldn’t be. The way he looked at me in that private room, like I was the only person who existed in his world.
I sigh and take another slow sip of wine from the glass sweating in my hand.
This is not going to end well.
