Page 13 of Submitting to Daddy
Such a bratty mouth…
Damn him.He doesn’t miss a beat.
Since you like it, you’re going to love hearing me keep telling you no.
This time, he doesn’t reply right away. I sip my glass of water and find that suddenlyI’mthe one waiting impatiently for a response.
You danced for several men after me. If it’s a no, answer me this…
Why am I the one you’re texting at sunrise?
Because you watched me all night like you wanted to ruin me.
Because when you touched me, I didn’t feel bought—I felt seen.
Because, as much as I shouldn’t, I like the way you talk to me.
Because you have my number.
His dots appear. Stop. And appear again.
You know that brattiness of yours is going to get you in trouble, right?
With who?
Your Daddy.
I have it on good authority, he doesn’t like bratting.
I go still—the breath leaving my lungs. As I curl back up into the loveseat, I pull my knees to my chest and notice that my heart is hammering like I’ve just run a half marathon. My thumbs hover over the screen, but this time he’s actually left me speechless.
His dots appear, but his reply is much slower.He’s thinking…
I like watching you, Madison.
Though his words should be creepy, they’re not. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling.
Who is this man?
I won’t be at the club for a few nights, but be a good girl.
Because I WILL be watching.
I move through the low-ceilinged back corridors of the club with sweat-damp hair pinned loosely at my neck and my heart still racing from my last stage dance. The air here is stale, thick with the mixed scents of everyone’s perfumes and the deep echo of the bass that never stops. It’s already been a long shift, but at only ten, there are still quite a few hours to go. I pull my sheer halter top tighter and run a hand over the curve of my hip, feeling the fabric ride up slightly as I give my makeup a quick check in the mirror.
Pleased with my appearance, I head back into the club. My steps stutter slightly when I spot Cillian in the owners’ booth. He didn’t lie—it has been days since I’ve seen him. Actually, it’s been days since I’ve heard from him at all. He’s been completely silent since our sunrise text exchange after openingnight. With the complete lack of communication, I’ve been wondering if maybe he’d finally gotten the message and was backing off.
I was wrong…
His eyes lock on me as I step onto the stage for my third dance. Holding his stare, I strut toward the pole and grip it firmly. Pushing my ass out, I slide down the pole—slow and sensual. Cillian leans forward, his gaze is still—fixed and unblinking—as he watches me. He undoes the top buttons of his crisp navy shirt, loosening the collar, before rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. I’m so focused on him, I forget to engage with the men surrounding the stage. I dance for Cillian.
The music swells as I wrap my leg around the cool metal and slide my hands apart. After pushing from the floor, I ballerina-spin around the pole. My body moves without thought, arching as I gracefully place my toes onto the stage to stop my spin. My heart is pounding, but this time it isn’t solely from the effort I’m exerting. I’m so engrossed in Cillian that I barely notice my song coming to an end. It isn’t until Britney joins me on stage and reaches for the pole that I realize my set is over.
I step into the shadows and walk the long route toward the bar for a bottle of water. There’s a strange pressure in the air tonight, and it’s not just Cillian. The club feels tense. Security is much heavier than usual, positioned throughout the club and guarding doors that don’t typically require guarding. Enzo King passes through the crowd not far from me, grousing into his phone with a low, clipped voice.
When I’m walking past the owners’ booth, Cillian flashes me a quick smile before diverting his attention to Nikolai King and the men he’s approaching with. All of them are dressed a tadtoo tacky—cheap, flashy suits that are trying far too hard—to be the type of clientele this club draws. They slide into the seats of the owners’ booth. Almost immediately, a couple of girls provide bottle service and stay to sit on the laps of the King brothers’ guests.
One of the regulars demands my attention as I wait for the bartender to assist me. Painting my well-practiced faux smile on, I bat my eyelashes and give him what he wants. I promise him a private dance in VIP and excuse myself to change into the lacy outfit I know he likes—the one that results in a large enough tip to cover a month’s worth of rent. Toying with his tie as I turn away from him, I’m surprised to find the owners’ booth has emptied so suddenly.
